Spring, 5500th Year of the Undying Empire
The sun hung low on frost-laden branches, its pallid rays caressing the lingering snowdrifts with indolent grace. Beneath the thawing ice, hints of jade-green life tentatively breached the surface.
Along the bustling thoroughfare, a serpentine procession of opulent carriages stretched endlessly toward the distant metropolis. Amid this glittering parade, Dominic’s conveyance stood out like a mangy crow among peacocks—a creaking wagon pulled by a swaybacked mare, driven by an ancient coachman. The ramshackle vehicle, dispatched by the backwater hamlet of Tuck, became easy fodder for derisive laughter that rippled through the caravan. Though Dominic’s gut churned with each mocking chorus, years of practiced indifference kept his face impassive. He even mustered polite nods through the frayed curtains, met only with amplified scorn.
Born to a decaying knightly lineage, Dominic had grown up on tales of ancestral glory. His father—the clan’s patriarch and sole surviving male—insisted their blood traced back to a legendary Netherknight who once served the Undying Emperor Saint Tagath himself. Two millennia of decline hadn’t dulled the family’s delusions of grandeur.
“Praise the Eternal Sovereign, whose benevolence has granted Dominic Radcliffe his glorious destiny…”
Two weeks prior, under the envious gazes of Tuck’s villagers, the town ne’er-do-well had emerged from Danny Town’s Assessment Hall clutching his fate-altering verdict. For the first time in his nineteen years, Dominic offered genuine reverence to Saint Tagath’s legacy.
Established in the 3500th Year to bolster necromantic forces, the empire-wide Assessment Halls offered free magical aptitude tests to citizens upon their eighteenth birthday. Those rare souls bearing the Death-aligned affinity—fewer than a thousand annually—gained automatic admission to the Necromancy College of Saint Tagath’s Academy for three years of subsidized study.
The Academy itself stood as the crown jewel of arcane education. Founded five millennia ago through a coalition of merchant guilds, adventurer leagues, and the Undying Empire’s treasury, its sprawling campus had evolved into the continent’s premier institution. Over fifty centuries, it had birthed an entire satellite city—a thriving nexus of auxiliary schools, trade consortiums, and mercenary outposts. Graduates here were guaranteed prestige; enrollment itself amounted to lifelong security.
As the three-day journey concluded, Dominic gazed upon the Academy’s gates. Memories resurfaced—his father’s hollow exhortations, the village mayor’s wheedling request to “look after Millie.” He snorted. Tuck’s pride? When had the town’s most notorious layabout become its golden child? Still, the mayor’s loan of this rattletrap (and Millie’s doe-eyed farewell) warranted some courtesy. As for family honor? To the Abyss with that! They could barely afford gruel, let alone glory.
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The wagon jolted to a halt.
“Dominic… we’ve arrived. Will you disembark here?” quavered the mayor’s steward—a once-haughty functionary now hunched in deference.
Clutching a meager satchel containing his only spare tunic, Dominic leapt down. “Appreciate the ride, Old Luo.”
The codger bobbed like a fishing lure. “No trouble at all, young master!”
Ignoring the groveling, Dominic clapped the man’s shoulder. “I’ll handle enrollment. Head back.”
He strode toward the Academy gates, pulse quickening.
No one chooses to be a wastrel. Dominic Radcliffe least of all. But when life offers nothing but closed doors, one learns to kick them down. Now, with destiny’s key in hand, he’d pry open every vault in creation.
The Academy’s grandeur struck him dumb. Never having ventured beyond Danny Town’s borders, Dominic gaped at the colossal entrance—six steelgranite pillars, each two-and-a-half meters thick, supporting an archway spanning a hundred meters. The bluish stone, renowned for near-impervious durability and magic resistance, glimmered with latent power. This gate alone could bankrupt kingdoms, he mused. Melt it down, and the gold would bury a dragon! He swallowed a surge of avaricious drool.
Thirty Minutes Later
“Esteemed mentor, is this the necromancy special enrollment?”
After navigating the labyrinthine campus, Dominic finally located the registration office.
A female instructor—plain-faced but sharp-eyed, slightly older than Millie—nodded. “Recommendation letter first.”
Dominic produced the parchment he’d slept clutching for weeks. Under her guidance, he scrawled his name on the enrollment form.
“Take this placard to Hall C-12 for affinity verification,” she said, thrusting a wooden token at him. “Next!”
“Gratitude, mentor!”
The secondary screening—a precaution against forged documents—proved swift. Dominic soon returned with an embossed seal on his placard.
The registrar (the same woman) cross-referenced his documents. “Proceed to dormitory allocation. Ask seniors if lost.”
“Thank you, mento—”
She chuckled. “Just Lusiya from Advanced Necromancy I. Seek me if needed. Next!”
Dominic froze. Advanced class? She’s already a mid-tier mage?
In the Pantheon Continent, humanity’s average lifespan spanned 180 years. Magical ranks progressed thus:
1st level,Apprentice
2nd level,Novice
3rd and 4th level,Intermediate
5th and 6thlevel,Advanced
7thand 8th level,Archmage
9th level:Grand Archmage
10th level:Saint
11th level,Demigod
12th levelDivine Sovereign
Warrior classifications mirrored this hierarchy.
Among five hundred million citizens, fewer than 100,000 achieved Advanced rank. That this woman—barely twenty—had reached Intermediate tier in necromancy, the most perilous discipline, left Dominic’s jaw nearly dropped to the cobblestones.
