Deep within the Spirit realm sat a flaming castle. Its undulating walls rose high into the bright sky, its keep, surrounded by a courtyard of igneous rock, the lava underneath still visible, stood proudly. Turrets and towers grew from and guarded it. Grand windows, bigger than whole house, glowed, projecting rays of heat.
The land around the castle was alight, fire waving in blazingly hot wind like crops in a field. A village stood across a river of plasma, a bridge of red-hot mettle connecting them. The houses, like the castle, we're undulating and waving, fire holding a solid form.
Far into the distance, tornadoes of flame rose in a sky made of fiery clouds. Forest of ignited trees made up vast swaths of land. And even beyond that was the realms of the other three main magics.
The realm of air, Calm and serene. The realm of water, vast and endless, its waves crashing, unstoppable. And the realm of earth, ever still and unmovable.
And seeing it all from the throne room of his castle was Ifirit, the Spirit King of fire. His flaming, mountainous, humanoid form sat upon his white glowing throne. Men-sized spirits scurried around his feet while others basked in his presence. His arms stretched out on the thrones rests, his head tilted to the side In a ever-present feeling of boredom.
Some spirits hung in the air around his head, playing in his blazing hair. They were his children, born of his power and will, and of the power of those that had come before him.
A group of young spirits played in his hand. They climbed up his fingers, floating to the ground once they reached his fingertips. They repeated this over and over, and Ifirit couldn't help but find their endless enjoyment amusing. But others, the older ones, were concerned. He could feel it through the link they all shared. He assured them they had nothing to worry about.
It was only a half lie.
He felt another pulse through his mind from two of the other Spirit kings. It was impossibly strong, dwarfing his own immense power. He began counting the minutes before the next pulse of magic was sent out.
One, two, three, four, five…
Each second, counted exactly at the right time. It took 10 minutes between each pulse.
Fifty nine, sixty.
Ten minutes later, the surge of magic came again. With the pulse came information. It told of each realm's condition, and the condition of the kings. Ifirit was acutely aware of the spirits of earth squabbling with those of wind. Another scuffle, he thought.
The beings of the physical realm were lucky. The battles in the Spirit realm were brutal in their standards. He would know. Fights between spirits on Phorina were far more tame as they didn't have millions of individual Spirits partaking in them.
He could feel what the other kings thought and felt. It made him embarrassed that they could do the same. While they sat on their thrones in contentment, fully aware of the fact that they were free, Ifirit was bored out of his mind.
The other Spirit Kings could leave the realm as they wished. They could create bodies for themselves and walk among the races of Phorina. But Ifirit was too young. Although he didn't feel it.
He often Thought bitterly of the day he was offered this position by the world. At the time, it had seemed such a simple decision. Why would he stay there when he could become something so great. It was too bad that he hadn't realized just how tedious the hundred or so years he would need to wait before freedom—true freedom—was his again.
And it wasn't just the endless passage of time. It was his very perception of the world. Within his realm, and the realms on Phorina that he controlled, he could see everything. Everything in every possible detail, from every direction and dimension. In the beginning, it had been an incredible change; he was no longer bound by the limitations of a mortal being. In his realm, he was truly king. But only in his realm.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn't leave the Spirit world. It wasn't because he wasn't powerful enough, although compared to the others, he was pitiably weak. It was a matter of will. The will to force his infinite potential into a body fit for the physical. It irked him to no end.
There were other possibilities, of course, but those were improbable. The need for even one Spirit King to come into the physical realm was not only unrealistic, but also catastrophic for those on Phorina. And the second option…well, that was simply unlikely.
Or, that's what he thought.
Ifirit stood quickly, the mere act of moving sent waves of power through his realm. He stared, bewildered, at what he saw.
Something that should have been impossible to see for him. Something that would take such an incredible level of potential that even the high races would be incapable of achieving.
A summoning spell calling his name.
—
Tay Mallor had only ever truly wished for one thing. It was the same wish many had made, whether it was the old, the young, or the crippled.
Power.
Not power to control, or to abuse. But power to change the stagnant world they found themselves in. Who you were, what you did, where you lived, and what you said were all born and changed through power, and Tay wanted change more than anything he had ever known.
He only wished he had been more prepared to fight for it. If only he hadn't run headlong into hell. The tower was no place for the naive and the impatient, no matter their level.
It had only been a few hours since he had entered the sky-scraping structure. He had only seen the weakest of monsters—which could hardly be called such. He wondered if because of how easy it had been, he had gotten arrogant.
Tay groaned as he sat on the stone of the ground, his side bleeding from a claw-shaped gash. The bodies of the few humanoid Fey he had killed lay around him, their grey skin had begun to tint a shade lighter as their blood drained from them, the mouths of their eyeless faces hung open, and a few had blood dripping from their fiendish claws—his blood. And then there were those tentacles; as thin as a finger, yet as long as an arm. Dozens of them attached to each of the monsters, protruding from all around their heads, almost like an eldritch crown. The blue light that had glowed from the tip of each one was now extinguished in those that lay motionless on the ground.
He could hear the tapping of the Fey that still lived around him on the stone. feet on the stone around him. The only thing that was keeping him alive was his complete stillness. He knew that if he moved, every one of the Fey would be on him like rats to trash.
He had nothing left to give. His body was sore, more sore than he had ever felt it. His short sword was drenched in the blood of the monsters on the other side of the cave, only visible in the dim light created by the dozens of yet still-living creatures.
He thought back for a moment. The world outside wasn't all that different from in there. In both places, Tay had fought for what he had. He had put his life on the line, holding it bare for everyone to see. But where had it gotten him? Lot of good that did him.
He laughed at it, at himself. It seemed like life would never stop throwing rench after rench at his goals. He looked around, seeing his short sword. Then, with whatever shreds of will he still had, he pushed himself to his feet. He could try to go for it, but there were a half dozen Fey between him and his weapon, and they had already heard the shuffling of him standing. He wouldn't make it.
A grin broke across his face as he started towards the nearest eyeless monster. His fist landed squarely in the face of it, the gash on his side gushed bright crimson blood, but he couldn't feel it anymore.
It had been a while since he had crawled with his bare hands, and it felt good.
The Fey had heard him as soon as he started moving and had all begun their uncertain jogging towards him. The monster he had engaged lashed its claws out, catching Tay's still outstretched arm. Tay reared back before leaping towards it, tackling it to the ground.
His hands grabbed anything they could, which mostly were the long appendages around its head. The monster screeched as he pulled, ripping them from its skin, one after the other. Its hands and feet clawed at the air wildly, unable to connect with Tay's flesh as he kept himself behind it.
He finally grabbed the Fey's forehead, putting his knees just below its neck, and then yanked as hard as he could. The neck of the monster let out a sickening crack before its body stilled, lying lifeless in Tay's grip. He felt a spark of triumph at his fifth kill, at gaining it without a weapon. The spark soon vanished as a horrible pain came from his back.
Another one of the Fey had reached him. Its presence had gone unnoticed by Tay, as occupied as he had been. The monster had clawed out a chunk of flesh from his upper back. Their claws were made to rip flesh from bone, rather than to slice it.
The Fey managed to graze another blow before he rolled away. It didn't remove flesh, but it caught the back of his left arm. As he recovered—getting back up to his feet, he examined himself. The glancing blow had done a number on him. He didn't think It would cause permanent damage, or he hoped it wouldn't, but he could feel odd sensations when he moved it.
But Tay was more than pleased with the outcome of his fight. He had rolled away to be clear of the Fey who had been blocking his path to his short sword.
Suddenly, Tay could feel warmth in his body, like that of a stove. He looked down and saw that he was glowing. It was faint, barely bright enough to see, but it was there. A jolt of excitement ran through him. He knew what this meant. If he could kill one more Fey, he would finally evolve. Tay grinned as he picked up his sword, the blood covering it went unnoticed behind his adrenaline.
One more. If he pushed one more time, he might very well gain the ability to leave there alive. The Fey were upon him. They could hear his quickened breaths and shuffling feet as he tried to get in a stance to fight the monsters.
Suddenly, two of them jumped at Tay, their claws coming down in narrowly missing arcs. Tay shot the blade out, catching the closest monster in the neck. The attack wasn't able to end it, so in desperation, he leaped forward, holding his sword in both hands in front of him as he tackled it.
Instantly, that warmth enveloping him surged as the life of the monster beneath him was snuffed out. Knowledge flooded his mind like he was reading a dozen books at once. Light surged from his body, illuminating the cave, but Tay could no longer see what was before him. He could feel his muscles tighten and his bones ache. The process of evolution was something that often took days, which usually were spent in the comfort of wherever one called home.
The flood of information slowed and he was able to make sense of what his eyes were showing him. The Fey had been temporarily flustered by the sudden surge of magic from their prey, but they had quickly recovered, and now Tay was like a torch in the night for the magic-sensitive monsters.
With evolution came power, both physical and magical. The physical side would often take days to be fully realized as your body adapted to and used the energy provided to it to enhance itself. The magical side however was near instant actualization.
With each evolution someone went through, they were given spells. These could vary drastically in effect and use, but no spell was ever useless. With these spells came a basic intrinsic understanding of how they worked. Although it was ever only basic.
A simple fireball spell for example was more easily understood than a spell that had the potential to create an elaborate structure. For someone's first evolution, they are given two spells. Tay instantly knew what the first spell was.
Closing his eyes, he felt for it. It was deep within the small pool of magic that he had. It was soaking it in like a sponge, attempting to be able to be used. He mentally grabbed it and activated it. Instantly, his blade began to exude heat, a faint glow starting to emanate from its edge.
Tay spun around as another chunk of flesh was ripped from his leg. The sword found the face of the monster and cut through it like butter. The blood on the blade started to bubble as the heat continued to increase. Tay could feel his reserve draining quickly. The cut had been deep, having carved through the flesh as if it wasn't even there.
The monster fell to the ground, unmoving. Tay receded into himself, looking for the second spell. This one was much harder to understand. It was like looking at a sheet of music that only had a quarter of it finished. He knew how it started, but he could never know what the end product would be. What he knew was that it was a summoning spell.
Summoning spells were on the rarer side, and often provided useful companions for combat. As the spell absorbed enough power—nearly taking everything he had, he activated it. Raising his hand, he could feel the magic leaving him, feel it forming into something at his wish. The heat from his sword faded as it ran out of power to sustain itself.
The room began to vibrate, the walls becoming hard to see in detail like there was a heat haze. Tay could feel the floor heating up through his boots, and the monsters who had no protection began to howl in pain as the skin on their bare feet began to melt and stick to the floor.
In the center of the room, growing from the ground—which now looked like lava, was a pillar of flame. It didn't lash about wildly as fire did, but rather created an effect that looked like water beneath a thin layer of ice. At the tip of the pillar formed a sphere. It grew and grew until it was only a little bit smaller than a human head.
Then, as if it was a drainway suddenly opening up at the bottom of a lake, the heat, the lava, and every trace of warmth was sucked into it. Then the room went still. The cries of the Fey stopped as their flesh was no longer being burnt. The only thing that moved now was the orb of flame. It twirled horizontally, a hundred different shades moving and fading into one another.
Tay instantly knew that what he saw was a spirit of fire. The incomplete sheet of music that it had been now slowly revealing itself.
Tay could feel the characteristics of fire. The same ones that he had felt in himself when he went to have his potential realized. Flame represented power. It was the force that moved the world forward via destruction. But it was also beautiful, and if used properly, could be a useful tool.
He was uncertain about the being. He knew very, very little about it, even as the sheet of music slowly unraveled before him. But it didn't matter. This was his ticket out.