Dain Sorowyn, local relic merchant, lived and breathed by two rules.

  One: make every trade look fair.

  Two: if the relic doesn’t shine, sell its story instead.

  And gods, did his stories shine.

  “... Yet the Heroes of Ostravia still stand!” he declared. “Wounded as they may be, they rise and face the Serpent God again!”

  With a dramatic flourish, he waved a hand and poured more mana into the seven relics at his feet. A dozen children cheered around the street as the wooden figurines of the great heroes came to life once more, pushing off the ground and facing the eighth figurine they’d been fighting for the past ten minutes: the eight-headed serpent with eight eyes on each head.

  The kids were going to enjoy his puppet show, and he was going to get his time’s worth of money back.

  “The Void Serpent bellows ‘Flee, Heroes, or be devoured whole!’” Dain shouted. “But Orland the Everbright faces the serpent bravely. ‘Gods strike us down if we retreat now!’ he proclaims. ‘We shall end your relic-eating days, Serpent God, for to protect a relic is to protect the world!’”

  And so he made the figurines dance. Bear-headed Edrin slashed at the serpent with his claws. Fleet-footed Mirielle grabbed its tail from behind to slow its movements. Bunny-eared Nana bounced around its heads to distract it, while stag-horned Radomir rammed his horns into its eyes, wooden chips flying everywhere.

  “Through fire, through wind, through perilous doom, the Heroes of Ostravia press on!” he continued. “Edrin the Dawnbreaker leaps from the shattered wall, and Mirielle of Broken Crowns tumbles beneath the serpent’s coils! The serpent closes in—but look! Orland comes in with the steel throne!”

  The golden-haired man leaped off a little wooden ramp Dain had placed to the side—a doorstop he stole from the baker’s house—and bashed the serpent’s heads in with a miniature steel chair. The Serpent God collapsed, but it wasn’t dead yet. Far be it for the Serpent God to meet its end like this, so, one by one, the other figurines jumped in and started punching, kicking, and stomping the heads down.

  Eventually, the heads stopped hissing, and the Serpent God crumpled into a lifeless heap.

  The children became quiet—until the seven figurines stood atop the serpent’s carcass and raised their fists.

  “... And so the Heroes of Ostravia manage to defend the empire once more!” Dain declared. “But what adventures await them next? What foe shall they face next time?”

  With that, the children exploded in one more round of cheers, and a grin spread slowly across his face. This was his moment to remind them that fine puppet shows like this were not, in fact, purely for their entertainment.

  “Now then,” he rubbed his hands together, “if you wanna buy these active-type Puppeteer Figurines as an entire set, I'm willing to give you all a discounted price. Each of you toss thirty curons at my feet and I'll—”

  “Oi!”

  The roar broke through his prepared pitch. Old Hugo of Sorowyn Carpentry shoved his thick-bearded head through the window above and behind them, holding a clay cup and scowling so hard his brows nearly met. The townsfolk didn't also call him ‘Old Spoilsport’ for nothing. Nobody had seen him have fun in years.

  “You lot! Back to work!” he bellowed. “That furniture list won’t finish itself!”

  And that scattered the children like startled pigeons. All twelve of them shrieked as they darted back into the workshop behind them, carrying with them all their cheers and—most painfully—all their coins.

  “… Exhibit me damned,” Dain muttered. There goes my patrons for the day.

  While he sighed with an empty purse and a wagon full of useless relics by his side, he reached into his coat and retrieved a golden piece of paper: his Tag, which was arguably the only thing in his inventory he could consider a proper relic. Even his Puppeteer Figurines were just toys with no real functionality outside of entertainment for children.

  Can I maybe do another show at night?

  How much mana do I have left?

  He slapped his Tag onto his wrist and watched as the black letters washed over the piece of paper, soft like ink through water.

  ***

  Name: Dain Sorowyn

  Grade: Common-1

  Title: None

  Title Ability: None

  Acquired Skills: None

  Might: 14

  Swiftness: 11

  Resilience: 12

  Clarity: 15

  Mana: 9/20 (+1/hr)

  Relics: None

  ***

  Nine mana, he confirmed, peeling the Tag off. The Puppeteer Figurines cost one mana each to activate for twenty minutes, so eight figurines meant eight mana. His mana core was still brimming to go as well. Just in case, though, I should wait a few more hours before doing another quick show.

  Then the workshop door creaked open behind him, and out stepped Hugo himself with a frothing cup of ale still in hand. The Master of Sorowyn Carpentry leaned against the doorframe, watching Dain hop off the crate he was standing on so he could gather up his scattered figurines.

  “Still wasting mana on tavern tricks?” Hugo drawled. “Gods help me, you’ll drain yourself dry before you ever use a real relic.”

  Dain didn’t look up. He brushed dirt off the stag-horned figurine before tossing it onto his wagon. “You’ll drain yourself dry if you tried, old man. I bet you can’t make these toys dance even if you wanted to.”

  “Old, my ass.”

  “In human terms, old is what you’d call pushing sixty. Now, if you were an elf, I'd consider you young—”

  Hugo tossed a pebble at the back of his head. “What’s with the show, anyways? Lira and Layla looked really into it.”

  Dain chuckled, picking up another figurine. “They love this new story of mine. What, you didn’t come to watch any of the fourteen-and-a-half shows I’ve put on the past few weeks?”

  “Stupidest things you’ve ever done.”

  “Yeah, I agree.”

  “What working man’s got time to watch puppet shows? You at least getting paid for them?”

  “Not a single coin. And they never buy a relic either, though that’s on you for paying them dirt,” Dain muttered. “I’ve picked the wrong era to be a relic merchant, huh?”

  They both turned to look at his small wagon, its shelves, chests, and crates so old and rotten no one would think to rob him. The question didn't need to be answered, but Dain could just blame it on the piss-poor economy like everyone else.

  Travelers would be fools to come to a town with two armies looming over the hills.

  Hugo set his cup on the windowsill and bent down, sighing as he helped Dain clean up the street.

  “And to think you once swore you’d be the next great seeker as a boy. ‘Dain the Far-Treader’, first man strong enough to touch the stars,” Hugo said, shaking his head. “I bet my mead that haggling scraps and useless relics from traveling merchants wasn’t what you dreamed you’d be doing when you grew too old for my carpentry.”

  “Orland the Everbright also spent several childhood years working as a small relic merchant,” Dain countered, snatching Hugo’s cup for a gulp before handing it back, “but then he bought an Uncommon grade relic for dirt from an adventurer who didn’t know any better, and the whole world bent its knee to his glory as he swept south to north, conquering dungeon after dungeon. Look at him now. How’s that for the strongest man in the world?”

  “And that could happen to you?”

  “Could happen to me.” He shrugged, waving the figurine of Orland in front of the old man. “All it takes is one good relic to change a man’s life.”

  “You’re no Orland. You’re not even Marosa the Tombjackal.”

  “Well, no need to slander Marosa. I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

  “Leaving out the part where she’s wanted in seven different countries across three continents, sure, she’s doing fine.” Hugo sighed. “Gods help me understand why you love relics so much, but don’t you think it’s about time to give up on being a seeker? It’s a child’s dream, and you’re eighteen already. Don’t most seekers get their Title at thirteen or fourteen? If you don’t even have one now, maybe the things really worth looking for aren’t in dungeons and ruins.”

  “And I'm supposed to take that from an unwed, dreamless man pushing sixty?”

  “Go break a vault. You’ll be sixty before you know it too.”

  Dain looked at Hugo sternly.

  “... You know the motto of the Seeker’s Guild?”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “Ad Altiora, isn’t it?”

  “You know what that means?”

  “No.”

  “It means ‘unto higher things’,” Dain said, grinning from ear to ear. “Basically, it means I just can't stand the idea of living down here with the rest of you mortal plebeians.”

  Hugo snorted. Of course, this wasn't the first time the old man or someone else tried to talk him out of being a seeker. They'd come to him with facts and logic and good, honest ways for him to continue working with relics without having to risk his life adventuring, but they failed to see—each and every time—that Orland the Everbright once fought and slayed a sunmane lion at fourteen years old to defend a town in the Karskaya Valleys, and that was a sight Dain could simply never burn out of his eyes.

  And if they’d seen what he saw, they’d all want to be seekers too. They'd all want to be people who mattered in the annals of history, too.

  Ad Altiora, unto higher things.

  What a charming motto.

  Before Hugo could retort, though, the sky cracked like iron splitting, and both of them snapped their heads to the west.

  They couldn't see it, but Dain supposed the golden army was just a few hills over as always.

  “... The Auraline Border Army is still holding the forest line, I see.” Hugo grimaced. Then a deep, grinding rumble rolled in from the east, and dust shook loose from the roofs around them. “And there goes the Obric Border Army in retaliation. ‘Where lightning goes, the earth follows’, hm?”

  “Almost sounds like background music now,” Dain agreed, putting his satchel into an opened crate with a soft thump. “Speaking of music, I’ve got a Songeating Music Box that can store and play any song you hum into it. Any song. Polished brass casing, self-winding core, and the tunes will even stay sharp for years. Wanna buy it? I heard Lisa has been having trouble sleeping, so—”

  “What do you think?” Hugo gave him a long look as they hefted the box he'd been standing on onto the wagon. “Keep your relics to yourself... not that they’d be able to protect us if war does come to our doorstep.”

  Dain shrugged. Old Hugo was right. The relics in his inventory were—frankly speaking—amusing trinkets at their core. They were toys to play with. Toys were useful enough when it came to entertaining kids or helping the townsfolk out with menial tasks, but in a fight against real relic-holding soldiers from the Kingdom of Auraline or the Autonomous Land of Obric?

  Well, maybe he could have his Puppeteer Figurines stab a few soldiers’ heels. That'd show them who the real boss of the town was.

  Still, he cinched a strap tight over the crate and grunted.

  “Well, chin up. It could be worse.” He circled around to the front of the wagon. “The border armies won’t be coming here… not today, anyways.”

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  “And why’s that?”

  “Storm’s rolling in. No army’ll dare to move until it blows over.”

  Hugo squinted at the clear blue sky and frowned. “What storm?”

  “That storm.” Dain tilted his chin at the three-horned owl sitting on top of the distant town hall’s belltower. “Owls don’t roost like that unless they’re waiting for a storm to pass, and see how the clouds moving in from the south are dark as tarnished silver? It means the air’s drinking heavy. That’s storm-breath coming in at about… one or two hours away, give or take.”

  Hugo’s eyes traced his, flicking to the distant owls and clouds, and then—as if on cue—a strong gust of wind hit the street, flapping his coat and the old man’s robes.

  By the time he grinned back at Hugo with an ‘I told you so’ look, the old man was already shaking his head. “Guess you can’t hawk trinkets without knowing what’s worth what with a second’s glance.”

  “Or maybe you’re just old,” Dain offered, picking up the two wooden beams at the front of his wagon and hoisting them onto his shoulders. “I swear you were the one who taught me to look for both the forest and the trees.”

  “Call me old again and I’ll—”

  Dain was already trudging forward, his wagon groaning down the street.

  “Swing by later!” Hugo called after him. “The kids still need their table legs finished by tonight!”

  “They can handle it themselves—”

  “Since you saw fit to distract them all morning and afternoon with your toys!”

  “... Alright, sorry!” Dain shouted back. Hugo vanished inside his workshop with a huff, no doubt to herd his apprentices back to work.

  Of course, Dain had every intention of swinging back around in the evening even if he hadn't been asked. He owed Hugo more than he’d ever admit. Without the old man taking him—and the rest of the town’s twenty-one orphans—under the roofs of Sorowyn Carpentry after the war ended, he’d have nothing now but empty hands and an equally empty stomach.

  At the very least, having worked in the old man's carpentry since he was a boy had given him arms strong enough to drag his shitty wagon around town.

  He glanced back at the crooked wheels, sighing as the whole wagon rattled like a dying automaton. The moment he earned at least fifty thousand curons to afford a long trip out of town—and the moment the youngest orphan in the carpentry grew old enough to take care of themselves—he’d leave this town to go be a relic seeker. Never would he have to drag a wagon around selling second-hand trinkets ever again.

  Only the big towns and cities have Curator Churches where all the Altars to the gods actually are.

  Diving into dungeons, hunting magic beasts, and directly trading magic materials for powerful relics with the gods themselves…

  A man can dream, can’t he?

  Bordering two countries about to go to war with each other, Corvalenne may be a small town made up of only a thousand people—mostly in the carpentry, masonry, and tiling occupations—but there were more people here who knew him than not, and the townsfolk he passed by knew him too well to let him pass in peace.

  Not that he hated the attention. A merchant needed his customers, and he was only forty-nine thousand curons short of leaving town.

  “Dain! You selling miracles or mischief today?” Marna the baker called, flour to her elbows.

  “Mischief until miracles become affordable,” he said, pausing just long enough to flip open a crate and hold up a lily-shaped brooch. “Self-Polishing Brooch. Never tarnishes, never smudges. Look at it—ain’t it a beauty?”

  Marna leaned in, squinting. “How much?”

  “A hundred curons, can’t go any lower.”

  “Go break a vault,” she huffed, shooing him on.

  A few doors down, Rell the cobbler propped his foot on a stool. “Got anything to make laces tie themselves? These hands don’t love knots anymore.”

  Dain pulled out a Ring of Sentient Lace and poured mana into it to produce a thin thread of solidified reddish-purple mana. It immediately wriggled to Rell’s bench like a happy worm and tied itself into a neat bow.

  The man shivered. “You got anything less… creepy?”

  “Nope.”

  Rell threw a rag at him. Dain caught it and tossed it back without breaking stride.

  Half the town had something to say as he dragged his wares around. Jaime the butcher wanted a charm to keep flies off livers. Loreal the tailor asked about a needle that could find seams on its own. One of Hugo’s apprentices, Thomas, jogged alongside for a block begging to see the serpent figurine again. Dain obliged him with the figurine peeking over the wooden sideboards—just long enough to see his delighted grin—then tucked it away before the boy could beg for more.

  “How much?” Thomas asked, eyes shining.

  “Your entire wage and your firstborn son,” he said. “The figurines aren’t for sale anymore unless you pay double the price I paid for them. I like them a bit too much.”

  “How much did you pay for them?”

  “Three hundred curons for the whole set.” He lied. He’d paid two hundred and fifty for them. “So I’ll take six hundred.”

  “Can’t you drop it down to… mm, sixty? It’s not like you’ll ever earn enough to even start being a seeker, anyways.”

  “Hey, I swore I heard Hugo screaming your name five minutes ago—”

  The boy immediately groaned and peeled away, heading back towards the workshop.

  Thirty more minutes passed like a market song with no purchases from the townsfolk. As he’d predicted, the sky began to darken. He watched it carefully, then angled his wagon towards the small park on the other side of town where the townsfolk usually took their noon bread and gossip—and also where travellers, if they were smart, would cut through to save a few streets.

  Unfortunately, the park was empty now save for the bellchime trees rattling their metal leaves. Probably because of the incoming storm. He swung the wagon under the shade of a tree and kicked down the wooden pegs, propping the whole wagon upright in its storefront posture.

  Alright.

  I’ll hold out here for two more hours, see if I can't catch any traveling customers, and then call it a day—

  “Excuse me.”

  He whirled with a smile when three figures in plain black cloaks stepped up behind him. One man, one lady, and a little boy. Their hoods were down low, their faces hidden behind alabaster masks with only one black eye in the middle of their faces. He didn’t know if they could even see out of those masks, but… his attention slid to their right arms immediately.

  The antique, rustic smell of relics was unmistakable.

  Elementum-Class prosthetics.

  High grade relics, too. Maybe Uncommon? Maybe even Rare?

  These weren’t plain carpenter arms or hook-hands. Their black metal arms all had golden carvings and slightly different designs. The boy’s was inset with swirls of brilliant opal gemstones, the lady’s was made entirely out of black stone, and the man’s had glass tubes running up and down the arm, allowing some sort of translucent blue fluid to cycle and bubble through.

  “Which way to the town hall?” the man asked, his voice sand-papered by long roads.

  Dain didn’t answer immediately.

  Elementum-Class relics, concealed faces, no crest visible. They probably had Titles as well. ‘Mages’ or ‘Scouts’, most likely, but Auraline or Obric? The western kingdom was lightning and polish, while the eastern autonomous land was stone and grit. He couldn’t quite figure out where they were from—until he saw the little circular earring on the masked man’s left ear, tucked deep under his hood.

  The crest of the Ring of Seven Hands was unmistakable.

  He’s from the Curator Church.

  And the others were trying to hide their identities, too, but two things now struck him as odd: a tuft of short golden-white hair under the masked boy’s hood, and an ornate medallion dangling off a silver chain on the masked lady’s belt.

  The boy’s a noble from Auraline, and the lady’s a soldier from Obric?

  What’s up with this three-faction traveling party?

  Normally, he’d try to start a conversation just to break the ice and loosen them up for a potential sale, but he made a quick decision and pointed at the distant belltower instead.

  “Straight down the lane past the fountain. Turn left at the two-headed lamppost, and it'll be right at the end of the street.”

  The man dipped his head. “May your trades with the gods be fair and just.”

  “... May your trades with the gods be fair and just,” Dain replied.

  All three flowed on. Dain watched their backs until they turned a corner. Of course, he’d considered doing business with them, but selling amusing trinkets to people with Elementum-Class relics—or worse, people that might be affiliated with the Curator Church—was probably not the best idea.

  He was halfway through unloading his display crates around the wagon when he caught sight of another person wobbling into the park: a little blond-haired girl carrying two giant buckets on two skinny legs.

  Ah.

  She just turned eleven yesterday, didn't she?

  That meant today was little Serina’s first day as the town’s newest gardener after outgrowing… after graduating from Sorowyn Carpentry’s basic literacy education a few days ago.

  He watched as she wrestled her heavy tool buckets towards a tree on one side of the park with great effort, then set the buckets down to fish out a pair of shears.

  That's…

  It wasn’t an ordinary pair of shears by any means. The blades had ichor carvings on them as well, so he kept watching—fully amused—as she planted her feet, lifted the shears, and tried to squeeze the handles as a test.

  Nothing.

  Her elbows wobbled. Her mouth flattened with determination. She squeezed again.

  Still nothing.

  A third attempt resulted only in a frustrated squeak and an affronted tree behind her, so Dain sighed, strolled over, and gave a soft cough into his fist.

  Serina nearly jumped out of her boots. She spun, and her cheeks went redder than fresh paint, clutching the shears like he hadn’t just seen her losing a battle against shrubbery.

  “I-I was just about to cut it.”

  “Of course you were,” he said, deadpan. “Another hundred years of trying, and that hedge would’ve been begging for mercy.”

  Her blush deepened. “Shut up! I can do it.”

  “Oh, I believe you. I’ve just never seen shears so powerful they refuse to be used by mortals.” He tilted his head at her relic. “Trouble with the thing?”

  She sagged, glum. “Yeah. It’s stuck.” She gave the handles a demonstrative heave and nearly toppled over. “Like… ugh, but why is it so difficult—”

  “It’s not stuck.” He pulled out his Tag again. “Gimme your arm.”

  Before she could protest, he took her forearm and gently pressed the Tag into her skin.

  Serina sulked as she read her lack of abilities and skills, low attribute levels, and, most damning of all—

  “You only have six mana,” Dain said, tapping the word. “Like your other attributes, you’ll get more as you grow up until you hit your natural limit. I'm eighteen, and I only have twenty mana, so you’ll have to bear with six for now unless you get your sticky little hands on a Manabrew Potion.”

  “My hands aren’t sticky!”

  “Thomas said you stole his charred bread last night. I’m sure he’d beg to differ.” Then he peeled the Tag off and slapped it onto the shears. New words immediately surfaced, revealing the relic’s information.

  ***

  Name: Windborn Shears

  Type: Active Implement-Class Relic, Common-1

  Attribute Addition: None

  Ability Description: When mana is channelled through the shears, the blades can be snapped once to send out an air blade. The cost of each activation is 1 mana.

  ***

  “Common-1 grade relic, huh?” Dain tapped the words with his finger. “It says here that it’s an active-type relic. It's not a passive-type that constantly drains your mana regeneration in exchange for having the ability active all the time. If you don't pour mana into it, the ability won’t activate. In this case, the handles won't even budge.”

  Serina fidgeted, staring at the tag. “I… I don’t know how to move mana.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Hugo’s attic.” She shuffled her feet. “It was just there, so I… borrowed it.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “They say the best relics are always stolen first.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “No, but it sounds cool. Now hold the handles tight and close your eyes.”

  She obeyed, small fingers clamped around the shears.

  “Good,” he murmured. “Now, imagine a small, swirling whirlwind in your chest. It could be warm, it could be cool, but the thing about wind isn’t can you measure it, but can you feel it. Can you feel the wind churning inside you?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Guide that wind down. Imagine it swirling around your arms and sliding onto your fingertips—like rolling a coin down a rail—and then push that wind into the shears.”

  Her brows furrowed. Her lips pursed. The carvings on the blades shimmered faintly, then flared with a dull yellow glow.

  She snapped the shears.

  The blades suddenly extended with a sharp hiss, and Dain jerked his head back just in time to dodge, strands of his dark hair left floating in the air.

  “... Congratulations,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead to soothe his phantom pain. “You nearly improved my haircut. Thank the gods it wasn’t an Uncommon or Rare grade relic.”

  Serina’s eyes flew open, and her face broke into a delighted grin. “That was it?”

  “Yep. But you’ve only got five mana left, which means you’ve only got five more snaps in you. Drop below zero mana and you’ll learn what mana exhaustion feels like, so just use a normal pair of shears and finish your work before the storm blows in. I’m not carrying you home if you run out of mana.”

  Serina nodded quickly, but as she started climbing the tree to prune the higher branches, she looked back down at him, tilting her head. “How do you know it’s not just gonna be rain? Is it your title ability?”

  “As if anyone in this town has a Title.” He grinned and raised a finger. “Now, how about you sell me these shears once you’re done trimming?”

  “You want it?”

  “Seriously? It’s exhibit worthy, so yes, but taking into account the erosion on the god’s mark, the attic-grade storage conditions, the activation cost, and the inflation in hedge-trimming markets due to Auraline’s conscription of gardeners…” He trailed into mutters, tapping his chin theatrically. “It’s cool, but I’d say it’s only worth about fifty curons since it’s Common grade, so let’s make it forty curons and we’ll call it fair—”

  A thunderclap cracked across the horizon, drowning his words. Serina squeaked and hugged the shears to her chest as she sat on her branch, eyes darting up to the clouds thickening overhead.

  He paused as well when he caught a glint of light in the corner of his eye, and his gaze drifted over to the town hall’s belltower.

  “... What’s that?”

  Serina didn’t even turn to look. “Dunno.”

  “No, really. Look. The belltower.”

  She ignored him again at first, raising her shears and ready to cut a branch she couldn’t quite reach, but curiosity got the better of her as well. She turned to look—and there was a beat of silence.

  Then a frown.

  “Huh,” she said.

  Dain frowned. “Huh-bad or huh-interesting?”

  “Gimme your magnifying glasses,” she said, hand out, palm open. “The red one. I saw you showing it off to Leon. Gimme.”

  “That’s a hot item with several buyers lined up. I can’t dirty them and—”

  “Gimme.”

  “Alright, fine, but don’t drop it.”

  He pulled out the velvet-laced Farsight Glasses from the chest at the back of his wagon, then tossed it up. She caught it with both hands, slid them on, and the rims gave a mild, eager blue glow as she looked through the lenses. Thankfully, it was a passive-type relic that drained mana regeneration per hour, which meant she didn’t have to actively push mana into it to activate its effects.

  “They’re… people,” she said finally, squinting hard. “There’s three up on the belltower, and one of them’s… on the spire?”

  Dain narrowed his eyes. Sure enough, now that he knew what he was looking for, he could tell three people were on the belltower, and one of them—the masked man who’d spoken to him—was balanced one-legged on top of the spire.

  The wind around the town started swirling faster. Dain’s skin crawled. On the belltower, one of the lower figures turned—and pointed a black metal finger straight at Serina.

  It took Dain three seconds to realize they’d noticed her faintly glowing glasses.

  “They see you,” he said, whipping his head back up. “Take it off. The glasses.”

  She didn’t and scowled instead. “They’re wearing weird masks. They kinda look like… oh! They look like the ones from—”

  A bolt of golden lightning zipped across town and through her chest faster than he could blink.

  For a heartbeat, Serina remained upright on her branch—but then she toppled forward, shears and glasses slipping away as her body fell.

  “... In the name of the O???C???R???I???T???D???E???R???, we offer the mana cores of every soul in Corvalenne!” the man on the belltower shouted, clapping his hands together. “Sink the earth they rest upon and feast to your heart’s content!”

  And the ground rumbled as a colossal, prismatic portal swirled open in the sky.