"In the beginning, there was nothing but the void and the energy source. The energy source birthed Arbitreya, Sovereign of Creation, and Liovandur, Sovereign of Destruction. From that moment onwards, the wall was breached and energy flooded the void. To give it form, Arbitreya and Liovandur created the Origin Dragons, entities that governed sub-aspects of their Sovereignties for eternity. First was Absendur, Sovereign of Spacetime. Then, Viol, Sovereign of Destiny. The twins, Joragu and Ragoa, Sovereigns of Hatred and Love, respectively. Followed by countless others. They are what makes up existence."
- The Origin, written by Absendur
***
Zyros sat up. He was surrounded by green, luscious grass. Lyria's plains were beautiful this time of year, not that Zyros would know. Not that he would care. He surveyed his surroundings while revising what his master asked of him.
'Reaching 20 in 15 years, establishing an enviable life. That's all. First aspect: feasibility. Is it possible? Yes, it must be. He wouldn't give me an impossible task. He never has.'
Classic miscalculation by predicting the future using past circumstances as an argument. Just because it never happened doesn't mean it never will. But in this case he was right.
'So how? How can it be achieved? Let's remember... Lesson 136: Ways to Power. A warrior's aura, a mage's magic, a mage warrior's essence. First one depends on the body. Mine is weak. Master said it'd improve quickly the moment I come into contact with any sort of energy. Second depends on the mind and spirit. Master told me their strong. Third needs both. All are equally strong. The third is most difficult but also more versatile. Which would he want me to pick? What would he pick?'
Zyros went through all his lessons, his interactions, with his master. And then he had it. It took him barely a second of reliving everything. His master had repeatedly stated that one must make the most of one's talents and must at all times be diligent, only through continuous effort does one attain true power. All three paths took continuous effort to excel in. But only one would be focused and lead him quickly to the knowledge of the world Zyros desired.
'Mage it is.'
Having decided on a path, Zyros reshuffled his priorities and stood up. Looking down at himself, he noticed his clothes still pristine but changed. No longer did he wear the uniform his master had given him. Instead he was clad in a pair of black suit trousers held in place by a black leather belt with a silver buckle, a pair of slim dress shoes and an ironed, white shirt. Beside his feet lay a black cloak. The Seven Realm's fashion wasn't as archaic as you might expect though certainly not modern. And naturally differed from caste to caste. For the males, nobles and rich commoners typically wore suits of differing quality depending on actual standing. Poor commoners wore what you might imagine a medieval peasant to look like. With some exceptions of course but generally the gap between rich and poor was insurmountable. Even visually. As for women, they were expected to wear dresses or skirts with a blouse. That is, save for some exceptions. Their clothes' quality also descended with standings down to poor women who wore what was essentially a cloth bag with three holes and an opening for the legs. It isn't enviable. Or so I'm told.
Then there are more customs like mages wearing robes and soldiers naturally uniforms and on and on it goes. Fashion obviously had a number of facets but this excursus should have given you a short overview. Zyros knew much on the topic. Not just regarding the fashion in the realms but also in other parts of the world. The Master had educated him on manners and customs as well. His reason had been the following: "I don't wish to be embarrassed by your appearance and conduct when you eventually travel Tirn Dulag. And if they were anything other than impeccable, I would be. So learn."
Zyros's current clothes very much mirrored this statement. Even though he had just been chucked through the void towards this world all alone with a difficult task, he was clothed flawlessly with an outfit heavily enchanted to be self-cleaning, durable as well as self-repairing. As an expert in craftsmanship, it would be my judgement that they were very close to indestructible. They couldn't even be stained. After spending time in his master's lessons, Zyros had developed a similar mindset so he was glad to be well-dressed.
Collecting his thoughts, Zyros put on the cloak and took his first step towards the silhouette of a massive city wall in the distance. After 2 years and 6 months Zyros Myrandur would return to Fayford, the capital of the first realm, Lyria. Not that he knew of his surname or heritage.
Zyros reached a dirt path. Soon, he encountered the first cart filled with grain as it passed him. Twenty minutes later, the next. Another. And another. Harvest season, it seemed. They all came from the surrounding towns and villages. None had been on the road for more than a day. Night was dangerous. As was the land outside a certain radius from the city. When the dirt path, Zyros followed, joined a proper cobblestone road, he could observe some long-distance transports in the distance. They were all convoys, guarded by warriors Tier 3-5 at least. Maybe he could hitch a ride if one passed him. Before he could entertain that idea some more, one of the dilapidated carts he had seen on the dirt path drew up next to him.
"Boy!", a gruff voice sounded.
Zyros turned to look at the middle-aged man who had hollered at him. The cart was filled with wheat and the driver's outfit suggested he was one of the poor peasants. Zyros, being still as mute as the day of his birth, just lifted his hood off his head.
"You wanna hop on?", the peasant asked.
Zyros simply nodded and jumped on the driver's bench as the man made some room for him.
"What? You can't thank me?", Zyros's new chauffeur sounded displeased.
Zyros nodded once more.
"You mean, you can't? Are you mute or something?" Now he sounded incredulous.
Having no alternative, Zyros nodded again.
"I see"
At this point, you may wonder if Lyria's language was the same as the Master's. It isn't. The Master spoke Elvish. In Lyria and most largely human regions Common was the preferred tongue. Zyros could currently fluently write, read and understand twelve languages, among them Elvish, Common, Dwarvish and Orcish. The Master had made sure of that following the same line of argument, I mentioned earlier regarding fashion. He added onto that that, in his opinion, the pursuit of knowledge, research in particular, is most efficient if one knows many languages. Therefore, Zyros spent maybe a month on learning the twelve most common languages of Tirn Dulag. His learning efficiency was quite above average. And during his ride to Fayford he could finally put his efforts to the test, at least in Common.
Marcus, the driver, could not keep his mouth shut, contrary to what first impressions might suggest. And it turns out Zyros was a really good listener. The conversation dealt with arrogant nobles, meddlesome housewives, the weather last week, a peasant's everyday toils and so on. Marcus let loose everything he thought of.
It was only a full five hours later, when the slow moving cart eventually arrived at the end of the long queue that formed every day in front of Fayfords West Gate, that Marcus finally calmed down. Nevertheless, Zyros's mind was still as energetic as ever. Five hours of conversation wouldn't be able to whittle down his peerless genius. He endured splendidly.
"Ah, I must have bored you... apologies. Anyways, it's best you go on on your own. There is a much shorter queue near the gate for pedestrians.", Marcus informed Zyros.
Following Marcus's advise, Zyros quickly fled from the talkative peasant towards the city gate. Just because he endured Marcus's monologue, didn't mean he enjoyed it.