Most stories in the world where this book takes place—and probably in yours too, dear reader—are a lot like taking a walk. At first, the hero just musters up the courage to step out of the house. They leave their comfort zone and head outside. The weather’s perfect, early summer, with the sun—or suns, since you’ve got three of them too, right?—shining down nice and warm. Why not go for a stroll?
The hero steps out of their yard and wanders wherever their heart desires, making sure to flash a smile to everyone they know in their town (or village? hamlet? shady hideout?). Or maybe not even to people at all. And, naturally, their path takes them through the most ordinary of places, the kind where you’d never expect any trouble. Maybe it’s a cursed forest, a graveyard at midnight, ancient burial mounds of long-gone civilizations, or the cozy castle of the oldest vampire in the county. Then, of course, the hero is genuinely shocked (sadly, not always fatally) when, in these charming spots, some overly friendly local decides to delicately nibble off a non-vital but dearly cherished body part, something they’ll remember forever.
After that, the hero—now wounded by an enemy (could be emotionally, doesn’t always have to involve biting)—starts to better themselves. They embark on a grueling journey from zero to hero, eventually becoming a king, and along the way, they chop up all their enemies into tiny breakfast-sized cubes. From loser to abuser, if you catch my drift.
But the story you’re about to read is a little different from the ones I just described. For starters, its main… well, let’s not call him a hero just yet. Let’s just say the main character hasn’t been a loser for a long, long time. To be precise, probably for about a hundred years or so. If anything, he’s more like that friendly resident of cursed forests and enchanted groves, the kind who can easily relieve any wandering hero of dangerous and harmful things—like thoughts. Along with the physical container that holds them. He just doesn’t take kindly to strangers traipsing through his woods. And so, poor souls tend to meet their end because of it…
I suppose I should clarify the situation a bit more. The main character of our story is a virtuoso Earth Mage, a High Magister of Magic, and just five minutes away from becoming the first official Archmage of Earth in the history of the Kingdom of Fridan. His name is Gregor of Nyuluz, or, as he’s formally known, His High Magicness Gregor Nyuluzian. Yes, as you might have noticed, there are no fancy noble titles like “Your Grace,” “Your Eminence,” or certainly not “Your Highness” attached to his name.
No, two hundred and twenty-three years ago, in the utterly unremarkable village of Nyulug, in an equally unremarkable peasant family, the eleventh child was born. The village was tiny and boring, as you can imagine. The folks there really had nothing better to do. But eleven kids? That was a bit much, even for them. At least, that’s what the head of the family thought. He nearly sold the boy—who was barely twelve at the time—to a pair of wandering necromancers for their experiments. But then, the village healer noticed a spark of magical talent in the kid and took pity on him. She recommended sending him to Fridan University, the only magical academy in the kingdom. And the best part? They taught magic there for free.
And so, here he is. A man with no lineage to speak of, but an extraordinarily gifted wizard who discovered an affinity for the most innocent of the Elements. Or at least, that’s what society believed until now. But as Gregor stood there, arms crossed over his chest, watching his Obsidian Golem tear apart an opponent’s Fire Giant into pieces, the spectators of this spectacle might just have started to rethink their opinions.