Atlas Lloyd was more than prepared for the events ahead.

  He had trained his body and mind to the point of collapse for this day. The raven-haired young man packed his final items with care—dried food, water flasks, a few worn spellbooks, and his specially brewed grassroot healing potions. His fingers pushed back his messy bangs, briefly twirling the white streak that cut through the dark strands of hair.

  “Do ya have everything, my boy?” a gruff voice echoed behind him.

  Atlas turned, his ice blue eyes rising to meet the mountain of a man who stood in the doorway. Though Atlas was tall, commandingly so. His grandfather, however, made him look almost average. Lloyd’s massive frame stretched the seams of his tunic, and his golden hair was braided neatly down his back.

  “More than ready. I’ll be a god by the time this event is over,” Atlas said with a smirk, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He locked his sword to his hip in one fluid motion.

  Lloyd studied him, arms crossed, the weight of decades behind his eyes. He had watched this boy grow, watched him split his knuckles on tree bark, watched him survive monster hunts others fled from, and master spells that many gave up on. Atlas had the raw potential, no doubt. But potential didn’t win wars.

  And this was a war of sorts.

  In the past four hundred years, not a single soul had succeeded in completing the Ascension Trials, let alone taken the place of a god. Mages, warriors, scholars—they had all tried, and they had all failed. The risks were so deadly, entire schools had stopped encouraging participation. Lloyd feared the day would come when no one tried at all.

  Still, his grandson stood defiant before him, heart blazing.

  “Ease up, old man,” Atlas said, flashing a crooked grin. “I’m gonna do just fine… well, I hope I do.”

  Lloyd frowned but placed a hand on his shoulder. “Promise me one thing, boy.”

  Atlas nodded, his smirk fading into something more serious.

  “Get along with your party. And don’t be rash when it comes to decisions. That’ll get you killed faster than any god.”

  “I promise.”

  With that, Atlas stepped outside the small cabin and began the long road toward Magnole. His heart beating with each step he took. He was doing it, and he would be damned if he failed.

  #####

  The first leg of the journey was quiet.

  Dirt roads snaked through the forest, the canopy above rustling with birds and insects. Occasionally, he passed wandering merchants or families heading in the opposite direction. None of them dared to look him in the eye for long. Anyone heading toward Magnole this week was either brave, insane, or desperate.

  Probably a little of all three, Atlas thought.

  He stopped at a small stream midway through the second day, letting the cold water soothe his feet as he watched fish dart through the current. Nights were spent beneath the stars, curled up in his cloak, one hand always resting on the hilt of his sword. He trained each evening before sleep, casting light spells into the air and slicing through invisible enemies.

  On the third day, as the hills began to flatten, he saw the gleam of towers on the horizon.

  Magnole. The ever so illustrious city. He made his way down the road and towards the gates, passing through with no problem. He removed the hood of his cloak as he began to marvel at the scene.

  The city was everything he imagined—and more.

  Massive white stone walls towered above him, carved with murals of ancient battles. Domes and spires stretched skyward, their golden tops catching the sunlight like fire. As he passed through the gate, his breath caught in his throat.

  Magnole pulsed with magic.

  The streets were wide and clean, paved in polished stone that reflected the morning light. Floating lanterns drifted lazily overhead. Enchanters held impromptu shows in the square, drawing crowds with illusions of dragons and gods. Musicians played flutes that sounded like birdsong. The scent of cinnamon, smoke, and fresh bread filled the air.

  Everywhere he turned, people bustled—some in armor, some in robes, others cloaked in mystery. They were competitors. Every single one.

  Four hundred mages. One hundred teams. Only four spots.

  Atlas kept his head down and moved with purpose, letting the city wash over him without losing his edge. He needed gear. Something that would make him look just as dangerous as he felt.

  A small shop caught his eye—a wooden sign swinging gently overhead, etched with the words: Vera’s Cloaks & Gear. It was modest, tucked between a potion vendor and a bakery, but something about it felt right.

  Inside, the shop smelled of leather and polished steel. Racks of cloaks, armor, belts, and boots lined the walls. A few other mages were browsing, whispering to themselves. He scanned the shop, his porch of gold coins bouncing on his palms. Other mages filled the shop, each other scanning items that they wanted for the event.

  Atlas found a dark leather armor set—sleek, reinforced, and built for flexibility. He grabbed a matching black cloak and stepped toward the counter to pay. The woman

  “Solid choice,” came a voice to his left.

  He turned and found a young woman examining him with a crooked smile. Her blonde hair was cropped just below her ears, with one long bang that fell neatly over her left eye. The other eye, green as fresh moss, sparkled with easy amusement. She wore a short brown dress over a white shirt, knee-high boots with golden embroidery, and a belt with a pouch that jingled softly when she shifted.

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  “Not bad yourself,” Atlas said, nodding toward her boots. “Custom?”

  “Hand-stitched by my sister. She’s the only reason I’m not broke.”

  She stepped beside him, holding a pair of fingerless gloves and a quiver of arrows.

  “Name’s Celeste. Are you here for the Trials?”

  Atlas gave her a once-over. Confident posture, calm eyes, and a bow slung casually over her shoulder.

  “Yeah. Atlas.” He

  “Well, Atlas, what are you running with? Fire? Ice? Screaming swords of death?”

  “Light magic and a bit of swordwork. You?”

  Celeste beamed. “Flame affinity. And I’m decent with a bow. I can even hit things sometimes.”

  He laughed, despite himself. “Good to know. You soloing it?”

  “Was planning to. But the crowds out there look like they eat first-years for breakfast. Not exactly inspiring.”

  Atlas rubbed his chin. “Well… I’m still building a party. Could use someone who lights things on fire.”

  “Oh? Are you recruiting or flirting?” she asked, smirking.

  “I don’t flirt. I form strategic alliances.”

  “Same thing, if you’re cute enough.”

  They shared a quick, companionable laugh. The kind that made something click.

  “Alright then,” Celeste said, holding out her hand. “Let’s see how far we get before one of us dies.”

  “You know we fail as a team if one of us dies, right? Atlas shook her hand, raising an eyebrow. The golden-haired girl chuckled, her eyes darting around sheepishly.

  “Kinda forgot.

  ####

  Together, they walked through the city toward the Trial Grounds.

  As they approached the colossal gate, a crowd began to swell around them. Hundreds of mages had already gathered—each one armed to the teeth and surrounded by teammates. Enchanted armor gleamed under the sun. Spells crackled in the air as people tested their limits or showed off.

  Atlas scanned the crowd, trying not to look intimidated. Celeste leaned close.

  “Gotta say, I feel a tiny bit underprepared.” She chuckled

  “We’ll manage,” he reassured. “We just need two more to complete our team. Healer and assassin.”

  They moved through the crowd, asking quietly, offering team-ups. Most people waved them off—they already had groups. Some scoffed. Others didn’t even bother replying.

  And then a soft voice stopped them.

  “I haven’t found a team yet… are you still looking?”

  They turned to see a tall woman standing slightly apart from the crowd.

  She had warm brown skin, her long, brown curly hair cascading past her back. A white dress and matching cloak flowed around her, and in her hand, she held a tall staff entwined with vines. At its top, a green crystal pulsed softly with magic. Elven ears peeked from beneath her hood, strands of her curly hair circling around it. Two large diamonds hung off her ears, glistening in the sunlight.

  “My name is Mirage,” she said. “I’m a healer. I use earth magic. I will be useful to your team.” Atlas could tell that she too, was rejected by most of the teams.

  Celeste lit up. “Oh, you are perfect. You hear that, Atlas? She’s ours.”

  Atlas offered a respectful nod. “We’d be lucky to have you.”

  “Then I am happy to be with you.” Mirage smiled shyly.

  With three of them now, it felt more real. They continued to look around their final and most needed member. It wouldn’t be long till they found him.

  The assassin came to them.

  He leaned against the wall near the back of the crowd, his eyes watching everyone but never lingering long. His long black hair was tied back, two thick strands cascading down his face. A scar running across the bridge of his nose. He wore a sleeveless compression shirt, loose black pants, and tai chi shoes. Black gloves. Two daggers at his hips. His sage green eyes landed on the group and stood up straight.

  “Looking for a fourth?” he asked.

  Celeste raised a brow. “You offering?”

  “I’m Haoyu. Shadow magic user. Clan-trained assassin. I’ll keep you alive—if you keep me interested.”

  Atlas tilted his head and smiled. He had what he needed. With a soft grin, he nodded his head—soft locks bounced around as he did.

  “Perfect.” He said.

  The group walked together, idle chatter bouncing around them, as they got to know each other. They found Mirage’s random stutters and whispered words amusing. Haoyu was a character himself. He was the opposite of what an assassin would usually be. He was kinda loud, and a little goofy. They had to reject his offer of alcohol multiple times. Atlas found himself laughing more than usual, and it was a great feeling.

  They finally reached a quiet corner.

  As they huddled near the side of the grounds, Celeste clapped her hands.

  “Alright! So who’s aiming for what? Might as well know what everyone’s gunning for.”

  Mirage spoke first. “Zaelen, the god of knowledge. He’s prideful. Too prideful. I honestly believe that his hoarding of knowledge and his inequality of distribution is sickening.”

  “I want Alinta,” Celeste said. “The flaming underworld’s my kind of place.”

  Haoyu cracked his neck. “Milone. God of magic. If I take his place, no one from my clan can say a word to me again.”

  They looked to Atlas.

  “Irdas,” he said. “The king of the gods.”

  Even Haoyu blinked at that.

  Mirage stared at him wide eyed.

  Celeste let out a low whistle. “Bold.”

  “I don’t do this to serve under anyone,” Atlas said frankly. “I’m going to the top.”

  And just as the words left his mouth, the air shifted.

  A sudden boom cracked overhead, and silence fell like a hammer.

  From the sky descended a radiant figure—gold and white, faceless and floating. Its voice echoed in every mind at once.

  “I am a Lazaran. Herald of the Pantheon.”

  The crowd fell deathly still.

  “The Ascension Trials begin now. Only four may claim divinity. Prove yourselves... or fall.”

  The gates opened with a roar.

  And the Trials began