The young man gazed upon the sprawling metropolis with a lingering, bitter-sweet nostalgia. In the fractured mirror of his memory, Arkpolis was a complex tapestry woven from both the vibrant laughter of his youth and the deep, suffocating shadows of his losses. Yet, Seraph did not allow himself to dwell within the sanctuary of the past, nor did he slacken his pace for even a singular heartbeat. He soared over the golden farmlands with the relentless, predatory velocity of a gale.

  [Whish!]

  This fertile region marked the outer reaches of Arkflame, a sprawling domain of rhythmic tilling and humble dwellings for the field-folk. Both sides of the dusty path were lined with verdant paddies and heavy-laden orchards, for the soil within Arkflame remained exceptionally fertile, blessed by ancient ley lines. Within these formidable capital walls, a precarious safety endured, guarded by titan barriers of weathered stone that seemed to reach for the heavens.

  As the young magis sprinted past, a sudden, violent gust swept through the fields. The tips of the ripening grain swayed in a synchronised dance under the sheer force of his passage. Farmers, labouring in their sun-drenched plots, straightened their aching backs and turned with startled, wide-eyed expressions. They caught only a fleeting, ghost-like glimpse of a grey cloak vanishing down the road with an impossible, blurring speed. Uncertain of what had just transpired, they soon lost interest, wiped the sweat from their brows, and returned to their eternal toil.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  Before long, Seraph sighted the massive city gates looming from a distance. Before him stretched a line of desperate humans so long that the front remained invisible, snaking alongside the bustling, loud customs checkpoints. This was the legendary high road that led toward the Northern Gate and out beyond the civilised reaches of Arkpolis into the wild unknown.

  Towering overhead like a mountain range was the Great Wall. In eras long past, it stood a mere twenty-five metres high—a formidable feat of masonry. However, a century ago, following the bloody onset of the Demon War, the walls of Arkpolis were reinforced and built upon until they reached a staggering height of fifty metres. It was a colossal, artificial precipice that severed the very light of the sun, casting the gatehouse into a permanent, cool twilight.

  The walls of Arkflame were not necessarily the tallest in the world of mageia, but they were hewn from fortified mageia stone, a substance that hummed with latent power. When fused with high-echelon defensive wards, these capital walls had successfully repelled the Demon Legion for over a hundred years of siege and strife.

  The great gate itself was forged from heavy, thick mageia metal, its surface etched with warding runes that glowed with a faint, rhythmic blue light. The gateway was so vast that a man had to crane his neck back until it ached just to behold its entirety. Yet, the most striking sight was not the wall or the metal gate, but the two Guardian Golems standing like silent gods outside the city walls, flanking the gates in all eight directions.

  The Colossal Guardian Golems were automatons as massive as the capital gates themselves. Standing forty metres tall, these giant mageia golems bore the appearance of ancient royal knights clad in shimmering golden armour. Crimson cloaks, woven from enchanted fibres, draped over their broad shoulders, while massive fire crystals were embedded in the centre of their chests as energia cores. Both stood with eyes closed in a terrifying silence, their colossal swords thrust deep into the earth before them, hands gripping the hilts as if ready to awaken at a moment's notice to strike down any foe who dared invade the Sanctus of Arkflame.

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  At the centre of the golems' breastplates, the radiant fire crystals acted as the dancing heart of a grand mageia circuitry. It was the undisputed masterpiece of the Grand Architect, a testament to the pinnacle of energia engineering that could bestow the illusion of breath upon silent, unyielding stone.

  The Colossal Guardian Golems seemed like lifeless titans, yet all of Laurasia knew well that they were the trump card weapons of the kingdom. Two of these titans stood guard at each of the eight gates, meaning sixteen Colossal Guardian Golems constantly watched the horizon beyond the metropolis, their unblinking vigil never wavering.

  The sheer scale of these machines made the common folk feel as though the gods themselves protected Arkflame. They exuded an aura both fearsome and profoundly reassuring—the primary reason Arkflame's commerce flourished while others fell, and why vast caravans of goods continuously flowed in and out of the city like blood through a healthy heart.

  Seraph gazed at the intricate traces of mageia glyphs etched upon the metal bodies of the giants. He realised well that these were not merely lumps of metal enchanted to move; they were the progeny of wondrous mageia blueprints designed by elite Rune Architects. Their frames were adorned with ancient runes, carved with a rigorous logical calculation that bordered on the divine. This precise arithmetic allowed the runes to weave into a persistent mageia circle. To the untrained eye, it appeared as though a shimmering veil of light enveloped the golden armour.

  Every line of circuitry was designed to facilitate synchronisation with a Rune Architect. These masters could command the golems from within, joining the fray of war as if the machine were their own body—a specialized, forbidden technique that pushed the golem's power to its absolute threshold. This was a secret of the high architects, accessible only to a chosen few who held the keys to the kingdom's defence.

  Entry and exit through Arkpolis always demanded a toll. For pedestrians, the cost was a single bronze coin. Across Laurasia, the price of a pound of brown bread hovered around one to five bronze coins, making the toll a minor but necessary burden. However, merchant wagons and noble carriages were subject to taxes at a significantly higher rate than the walking citizenry.

  When his turn arrived, Seraph prepared to retrieve a bronze coin from his cloak. But the moment the Arkflame soldiers glimpsed the Stormcloud Citadel sigil—the mark of the Sanctus Sanctum—embroidered upon his garment, they snapped into a disciplined, fearful salute and hurried him through without the slightest inspection.

  [Clang! Clang!]

  The sound of soldiers striking their spears in unison echoed through the stone passage. Metal spears impacted the hard floor, their resonance vibrating through the very bones of those standing nearby. The gaze of every soul present—from the wealthiest merchant to the poorest refugee—fixed upon the young magis, their heads bowing slightly in involuntary reverence.

  The social hierarchy of Arkflame was rigid. The nobles held the highest status, second only to the royal bloodlines. Yet, the magis occupied a unique echelon; though technically half a rank below the nobility in official scrolls, the folk bestowed upon them a measure of respect that surpassed any lord. It was often said that the masses respected the nobility out of societal obligation, but they honoured the magis with genuine hearts—a reverence born from the blood they spilled in the eternal war against the demons.

  Unrestrained by the sentries, Seraph cast a subtle spell and surged forward, vanishing beyond the gates of Arkpolis with blinding, supernatural speed. The denizens who watched his departure turned to one another, whispering in a fever of excitement and curiosity about the identity of the mysterious traveller.

  Within the Sanctus Sanctum, there dwelt approximately one hundred magis. When combined with the court specialists and military officers, a single kingdom rarely played host to more than a thousand magis at any given time. Their existence was shrouded in mystery and seldom encountered, making them perpetual figures of fascination.

  However, the magis were perpetually bound to mission scrolls for demon hunting, and the majority chose to reside strictly within the walls of the Sanctus, shunning interaction with the outside world. They remained elusive spirits to the common man, seen only as flashes of grey and gold against the horizon of a dying world.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?