The wind howled as the wyvern descended, its vast wings spreading wide like the sails of a warship catching the tempest. Each beat sent ripples through the air, a thunderous rhythm echoing across the towering spires below. The moment stretched long—the city unfolding in breathtaking grandeur as the beast prepared to land.
With a final, powerful stroke, the wyvern slowed, angling its body. Its talons stretched forward, claws skimming against the stone landing platform with a piercing screech before digging deep into the ancient rock. And it wasn't alone—hundreds, perhaps thousands, of wyverns were landing and taking flight at the same time, their wings casting massive shifting shadows over the city.
The sheer scale of it was staggering.
The moment their wyvern touched down, a swarm of men—no, not men.
Half-men.
Short, stout creatures about Krenz's height, yet plump, wide-bellied, and waddling with unnatural speed. They wore garish, eye-offending cloaks draped from head to toe, only their round, eager faces peeking through the heavy hoods. Their colors—clashing hues of gold, crimson, violet, and sickly green—created a chaotic, feverish sight, as if a drunken artist had spilled every shade of madness onto them.
"Luggage! Luggage!" they shrieked, stretching their stubby hands like beggars at a feast.
Others scrambled to tie down the wyvern's leash, shoving, elbowing, snarling at each other, each one desperate to be the first to offer service.
"Good Sir, a Warden, I presume? Just 50 bronze coins to the guild, and I'll carry your luggage straight to the carriage—woosh, done!" a skinny ginger half-man exclaimed, scrambling halfway up the wyvern in an attempt to outpace his competitors.
Atlas jumped down without a word, utterly uninterested.
Maya leaped down as well—an extra inch higher than Atlas, purely for the satisfaction of outdoing him. She chuckled smugly at her triumphant landing.
Krenz, however, was far more careful. He unmounted slowly, searching for footholds like a man stepping onto a frozen lake.
The instant his boots touched the stone floor—
The swarm descended.
The cloak-draped half-men surrounded him in an instant, voices a tangled mess of desperate offers.
Their hands reached, pulled, tugged, gestured.
It was a battlefield of service, each man forcing his labor upon him as though employment were a matter of life and death.
"Keep coming, kid," Atlas called over his shoulder, already pushing through the crowd without sparing them a glance.
Maya followed, grinning at Krenz's misfortune.
Krenz, caught in a suffocating sea of hands and voices, uttered about a thousand "No thank you's" before finally breaking free. He rushed forward, panting, as the horde suddenly dispersed—
As if they had never been there at all.
Catching his breath, he glanced back at the colorful swarm, now preying on the next arrivals.
He turned to Atlas, bewildered.
"Who are these men?"
Atlas barely glanced back. "They are Peddlekins."
Krenz blinked. "What?"
"They're creatures from somewhere in the Null Continent," Atlas said, dragging his feet as he walked. "Boss immigrated them here years ago."
Krenz couldn't wrap his head around why someone would bring such chaotic creatures to there home place. But just as he was in thought, he was finally able to take a proper look at the city.
The current Floor they were in lay exposed beneath an open sky, unlike the levels below, which had been choked beneath the weight of stone ceilings and towering structures with some just amount of breathing gaps between the floating floors. Here, the heavens stretched wide, a boundless sea of blue and swirling white, where flocks of wyverns carved trails through the air like storm-driven arrows. The city beneath was a colossal hive of movement—streets teeming with people in distinct uniforms, different badges of rank, banners of all sorts and kingdoms, mercenary companies, noble houses, and merchant syndicates fluttering in the high winds.
Everywhere, the roar of life.
Cheers, laughter, the clang of armor, the neigh of beasts, the grind of wheels on stone. Carriages and carts lined the roads, their goods being thoroughly checked before passing through the massive iron-clad gates of the inner city. At its heart—a castle, an enormous monolithic beast of pale stone, standing far in the interior yet visible from every corner of the city. Its spires stabbed the heavens, banners of deep crimson and obsidian waving against the wind.
The towering gates loomed over them, wrought from dark iron and etched with bold letters that could be read from afar:
WELCOME TO THE HUNDREDTH FLOOR
Beneath it, scratched into the metal as if by an unseen hand, were the words:
THE WARDENS' ACCORD
Krenz's breath hitched, his eyes widening in awe at the sheer grandeur of the city.
"Wicked," he murmured, unable to contain his wonder.
Atlas, walking beside him with his usual measured stride, cast him a sidelong glance. "First time seeing something like this?"
"Yeah," Krenz admitted, his voice distant, his body moving on instinct as his gaze roamed every corner of the vast metropolis. He turned in circles, drinking in the sight of towering spires, hanging lanterns, and streets teeming with figures in rich garb and battle-worn armor alike. He nearly broke into a giddy twirl, feet light with excitement.
Then, like a hammer striking metal, realization hit him.
He had spoken too freely.
His hands clamped over his mouth as if he could take back the words. But it was too late. Atlas was already looking at him—his sharp eyes glinting, a smirk barely ghosting his lips.
Atlas said nothing. He simply kept walking.
Krenz swallowed hard. He had let something slip.
At the heart of the city stood a bar—weathered, sprawling, and covering the entire square like an unshaken sentinel. Though some planks gleamed with polish, others were cracked with age. The red-painted ceiling had faded in places, and above it sat a second floor, only half the length of the first.
It wasn't just any tavern.
Krenz knew the scent of it before he even stepped inside—the rich, heady aroma of oakwood and spirits, mingling in a familiar haze. People came and went, voices rising and falling in drunken merriment or hushed conspiracies.
This was the Guild.
The Wardens' Accord. The last outpost before the Null Continent. The one place in the world that held the line between the world and the beyond.
His heart pounded as they passed through the doors. The inside was as raucous as before—benches packed, tankards clashing, a barkeep polishing mugs with practiced ease. But they did not linger. This time, no words were exchanged with the patrons.
They moved straight for the stairs.
Even Maya, ever the chatterbox, carried an air of silent resolve. It was as though an unseen force pressed down upon them, commanding their quiet.
And as they ascended, the noise of the tavern faded.
The upper floor was eerily still. Golden lamps flickered along the corridor, their glow casting long shadows upon the walls. The wood beneath their feet did not creak. It was as if they walked upon the very air.
Krenz's breath caught when they reached the bench outside the room—the very spot where his memories of yesterday grew hazy. But even before they touched the door, murmurs drifted through the slight opening.
"They are not safe out there, and you know it," a voice hissed. "I must go. No matter what."
"And then what?" came another—steady, composed. Krenz recognized it instantly. Sobec. "Every Warden who has set foot upon the Null Continent in the past two weeks has vanished. Every single one."
A shudder ran through Krenz's spine. His hands instinctively flew to his mouth.
And then—
A bang.
The door swung open, revealing the figures within.
Sobec sat at his desk, the very picture of ease despite the weight in his words. A warm smile met them, though the tension in the air did not abate.
"Ah, Atlas, Maya, and… Krenz, if I recall?"
Krenz bowed quickly, unable to find his voice beneath the suffocating presence of the room. His eyes flickered to the others—the Guild members scattered about. One, however, stood apart.
Donovan.
The white-haired swordsman stood at Sobec's back, one hand resting upon the hilt of his blade. His grip was light, almost absentminded. And yet, a warning radiated from him like frost creeping along a blade's edge.
Krenz swallowed hard.
And then Atlas spoke—his voice calm but edged.
"And what is he doing here?"
Krenz followed Atlas's gaze to the man seated before Sobec. Something about him tugged at his memory. Pale green hair. A red sash.
It hit him.
This was the very man that had attacked them earlier that day.
The man rose, movements slow and deliberate. He unsheathed his sword just enough to press the tip to the ground before bending slightly at the knee.
"I am Raze Valkerion," he said, his voice as sharp as his strikes. "Of Olympia's Third Warden Band—the Vultures. Their Vice-Captain."
Everything about him—his stance, his tone, the weight of his presence—spoke of nobility, precision, and the kind of ruthlessness that came only with experience.
A long silence stretched between them.
And then—
"You talk too much for a loser who can't even apologize."
Atlas's words cut through the air like a dagger.
Raze's brows twitched. His grip tightened upon the hilt of his blade, his composure slipping. "You—"
A shift.
Not in movement. Not in words.
Something colder. Sharper.
The air itself turned frigid.
Even Krenz felt it—a presence like an iron gauntlet clenching around his lungs. His breath shallowed, sweat prickling along his spine.
It wasn't the atmosphere.
It was him.
Donovan.
His fingers curled around his sword, knuckles whitening, his once-warm smile now absent. And when he spoke, his voice carried an unmistakable weight.
"I must request that you maintain decorum in the king's presence."
Sobec sighed, almost flustered. "Hey, don't call me 'king.' Guildmaster is good enough."
Raze, though prideful, was no fool. He sheathed his blade, retreating without another word.
Across the room, Maya had already launched herself at the woman munching on crackers.
"Big sis! How could you eat without me?"
The woman barked a laugh, ruffling Maya's hair with unrestrained force. "Here," she said, shoving the crackers toward her. "I bet that good-for-nothing starves you."
"Yeah, shut up," Atlas retorted, making a face.
He strode toward Sobec's desk and with a flick of his wrist, tossed something onto the table. It was a badge—small, unassuming, yet unmistakable.
Sobec caught it in a single, fluid motion.
"Hm," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "I figured as much."
And then—silence.
Krenz stiffened as every gaze in the room shifted.
To him.
A leaden weight settled in his stomach. Even Raze, moments ago lost in his own temper, was staring now. Atlas himself, normally unreadable, had widened his pupils—if only for a second.
The Guildmaster leaned forward, voice gentle, but his words cut deep.
"Krenz, we are willing to help you. But these are uncertain times. So tell us—truthfully. Who are you, and where do you come from?"
Krenz hesitated. But he knew—there was no more running.
"My name is Krenz Vangard," he said at last.
A pause. He took in the room once more. Some faces had already changed.
He inhaled, steadying himself before meeting their gazes. "And I have the blood of the Vangard Family of Gol Den."
Silence.
Even the ever-composed Atlas exhaled sharply, a single bead of sweat trailing his temple.
"Oi, oi…" Atlas muttered, half in fascination, half in something else. "I expected some Olympian noble."
A wry chuckle.
"I didn't expect a pure-blood kid."
Krenz stood there, shoulders slumped, his head bowed low. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, and then, in a voice that trembled yet held steel, he spoke.
"Blood. That's all I share with those monsters."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Not a soul dared to speak. Even the air itself seemed to pause, waiting.
"I did not lie," Krenz continued, his voice unwavering now. "I have but one family. They may have been servants, but they were the ones who raised me, who held me when I cried, who loved me." His fingers loosened just slightly, only to clench again as he pressed on.
"A year ago, they were cast out like dust in the wind. No crime, no warning. Just banished. And so I ran. I ran from that wretched house, from that cursed name. I ran to find them, only to have them find me first."
His voice grew softer, yet every word was clear, cutting through the silence like a dagger. "I was nothing but a wretched, mud-covered child, my clothes in tatters, my feet bloodied from the road. And yet, they did not turn away. They did not scorn me, nor did they question why I had come. They wept—joyous tears, as if I had been lost to them for years. They took me in, held me close, and told me that nothing else mattered. That I was their son."
He drew in a shaking breath.
"They found work where they could—caravans, noble houses, traveling with the Wardens as hired hands. And still, every night, without fail, they wrote to me. And when they returned, they never came empty-handed, always bringing gifts, always telling me how proud they were."
Krenz's voice faltered, the weight of his next words threatening to crush him. "But two weeks ago… the letters stopped." His throat tightened. "I waited. I wrote. No reply. I kept waiting, but still—nothing."
He lifted his gaze at last, his eyes dark with sorrow but lit with the fire of resolve. "But I know they are out there. I know they are alive. They swore to me that they would never leave me. That they would always be there. And I believe them." He swallowed hard. "They are waiting for me. They just need help."
Silence.
Then Sobec spoke, his voice grave. "Krenz." His tone alone carried a weight that made the young boy's chest tighten. "I will not deceive you. Something is happening. We do not yet know what, but the winds bring whispers of calamity."
Krenz's breath hitched.
"And I fear your parents have been caught in its shadow."
The words landed like a hammer against his chest.
"As Guildmaster of the Wardens Accord, I cannot, in good conscience, send my men blindly into the unknown. Too many have ventured forth, and none have returned. Until we understand the danger, I cannot order another soul into that abyss."
Krenz felt himself sinking, the glimmer of hope he had carried like a flickering candle threatening to be snuffed out.
"But…"
His head snapped up.
Sobec's lips curled into a small smile as he reached for the badge Atlas had tossed at him. "I am not only a Guildmaster. I am also a man who keeps his word. I made a promise, and I have struck a deal."
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the badge back to Atlas. The Warden caught it effortlessly.
Krenz turned, heart pounding, eyes wide.
Atlas studied the badge in his palm before glancing at Krenz, a slow, lopsided grin stretching across his face.
"I am no Warden," he said, slipping the badge into his coat. "But I am a Wildflower. And kid, I promised you too, didn't I? " His grin softened into something else—something resolute, something certain.
"I'll find them for you."
"I'll come along too—" Raze began, stepping forward, but he barely got the words out before Atlas cut him off.
"No." Atlas's voice was firm, his gaze sharp. "I'd rather not drag along any extras."
Raze simply grinned, eyes gleaming like a wolf scenting prey. Atlas frowned and shot a glance at Sobec, but the Guildmaster only smirked, half amused, half apologetic.
"Too late," Sobec said with a shrug. "The deal was struck before you walked in."
Atlas exhaled sharply, a defeated chuckle escaping his lips.
"But don't sulk just yet," Sobec added with a smirk. "I'll let you have Munk and Ignaric for this one time."
At that, Atlas's annoyance melted into something else entirely—a delighted smirk, his eyes lighting up with mischief.
"Why me, sir?" came a deep, reluctant voice from the corner of the room.
A mountain of a man stepped forward, his sheer size making even Sobec seem small. His head gleamed under the light, so bald it reflected it with an almost unnatural brilliance. His belly, round and unshaken by shame, jiggled with every heavy step he took. A black robe, loosely tied with a white sash, did little to contain his imposing bulk. Beaded chains of deep crimson draped across his chest, and a massive flute—if it could even be called that—rested against his waist like a war drum.
"This Atlas always mocks me," Munk grumbled.
"Oh, come on, Munk," Atlas laughed, slapping the man's belly with a playful thump.
Munk frowned like an oversized child and turned to Sobec, as if pleading for mercy.
Sobec, however, remained unmoved. "I won't trust any other beast tamer with this, Munk. And they can't go on foot like they usually do. This time, they need a mount."
Munk's cheeks, round as plums, flushed red before a broad, toothy grin spread across his face. "Fine, sir."
"Good," Atlas stretched, exhaling as though already exhausted by the ordeal ahead. "Maya, let's move. And you—Gaze, or whatever your name is—you follow me. Munk, lead the way."
"It's Raze," the man muttered, clearly irritated. He gave Sobec a short bow before striding after them.
Krenz's heart pounded. This was it. This was his moment. Without hesitation, he stepped forward—only to be stopped by Atlas's voice, sharp as steel.
"And where do you think you're going?"
Krenz froze. "Huh?" He stared at Atlas, baffled. "What do you mean?"
"You're not coming."
The words struck like a slap. Krenz's mouth opened in disbelief. What? Had he misheard? How could they just leave him behind?
"You need me out there!" he argued, voice rising in desperation. "How will you know it's them? How will you know my parents?"
"It's too dangerous," Sobec said, his voice calm but firm. "And as for your parents, Atlas has all he needs. I gave him the official records—the only two servant travelers out there as of now. Franz and Katherine I suppose."
"Yes, but—"
"Kid."
Atlas's voice held no anger, no impatience. Just finality.
Krenz looked up and met his gaze. Atlas's expression was unlike anything he'd worn before—steady, resolute. A promise unspoken.
And Krenz understood.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave a single nod, his hands balling into fists at his sides—not in frustration, but in determination.
A soft, fleeting smile crossed Atlas's face.
"Boss, we're off," Atlas said, then turned, slamming the door behind him.
The echoes of his departure lingered in the silent room.
Krenz stood there, fists still clenched, but his heart no longer heavy with doubt. Only resolve remained.
He would wait.
And if the gods were just, Atlas would return—with them.