Xyrus City was beautiful.
Cael knew that immediately.
Sunlight spilled across pale stone streets, catching on glass windows and polished towers until the whole city seemed to glow. Bridges arched overhead, connecting buildings at odd angles, and mana lamps hummed softly even in daylight, woven into the city's rhythm like a second heartbeat.
People moved with purpose here. Students in neat uniforms. Adventurers with worn gear. Merchants calling out prices in voices practiced and confident.
It was alive.
Cael slowed his steps near the inner district, letting the crowd pull him along while he looked up, eyes wide in a way that felt almost genuine.
Almost.
Because he also knew what Xyrus would become.
He knew the streets that would crack.
The towers that would fall.
The screams that would replace laughter.
Dicathen's jewel.
Dicathen's graveyard.
Not yet, he reminded himself.
He took a quiet breath and grounded himself in the present. Right now, Xyrus was still whole. Still untouched. Still ignorant.
So was he, in their eyes.
An eight-year-old boy with a small pack, simple clothes, and no visible weapon.
Harmless.
The Adventurers Guild stood firm near the city's lower levels, broad and unadorned compared to the elegance surrounding it. It didn't try to impress.
It didn't need to.
Cael paused outside the doors for a moment, watching people enter and leave. A group of adventurers laughed as they stepped out, one of them clutching a bandaged arm. Inside, voices rose and fell in constant motion.
This was where stories started.
And ended.
Cael pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The noise hit him first.
Arguments near the request boards. The scrape of chairs. The clink of armor and weapons. Mana signatures brushed against his senses—unrefined, messy, emotional.
He kept his breathing steady and moved to the side, letting taller figures pass him without comment.
No one paid him much attention.
Good.
He waited.
Watched how people spoke to the clerks. How they stood. How they presented themselves. When his turn came, he stepped forward calmly.
The clerk looked down at him and blinked.
"…You lost?"
"No," Cael said. "I'd like to register."
That earned him a look that was more tired than surprised.
"Name?"
"Cael Ardyn."
The quill paused briefly, then continued.
"Age?"
"Eight."
The clerk sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Figures."
There was no hostility in it. Just routine.
He explained the restrictions—D-rank only, no high-risk missions, evaluations mandatory. Cael listened, nodded, and signed his name carefully.
When the badge slid across the counter, Cael took it with both hands.
It was simple. Unassuming.
Perfect.
Xyrus felt different once he was registered.
Not because anything had changed—but because he had.
Cael spent the rest of the day wandering the city, keeping close to main roads, committing routes to memory. He passed the academy gates once, slowing just long enough to look.
Not yet.
He knew how that story went.
Instead, he returned to the guild as evening settled, the building quieter but no less tense. Evaluation day. A handful of new adventurers waited near the side hall—teenagers mostly, a few young adults.
And him.
Cael sat on a bench with his feet not quite touching the floor, hands resting neatly in his lap. He looked like a child waiting for a parent.
He felt older than the building itself.
Across the room, a pair of adventurers whispered, glancing his way. One of them snorted.
"Eight years old," he muttered. "What are they letting kids do these days?"
Cael didn't react.
He'd learned long ago that reacting invited attention.
Instead, his gaze drifted to the far wall, where faint cracks ran through stone that would one day shatter completely. He wondered if anyone else could feel how fragile everything really was.
Probably not.
A clerk stepped into the hall and raised his voice. "Evaluations will be conducted individually. Names will be called."
One by one, people were summoned. Some returned flushed and smiling. Others left quiet, thoughtful, or visibly frustrated.
Time passed.
Cael waited.
He reviewed what he would show—and what he wouldn't. Wind and earth. Basic control. No embellishment. No efficiency that might raise questions.
Keep it normal.
Keep it boring.
That was the plan.
The clerk cleared his throat again and glanced at his list.
"Cael Ardyn."
The room went quiet.
Every eye turned toward him.
Cael slid off the bench, straightened his clothes, and stepped forward.
And just like that—
The next part of his life began.