"What I learn beyond the North will not be lost," he assured them, his voice firm, echoing slightly in the hushed chamber. "It will return, carried back through me, shaping the future of Divinants within this land."
A low hum of debate filled the council chambers. Councilors shifted in their ornate chairs, some leaning in to exchange whispers, others stroking their beards, expressions a mix of skepticism and intrigue as they processed his audacious words.
Finally, the Sovereign—the highest authority in the room, a figure draped in deep emerald robes with eyes that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom—raised a hand. Instantly, silence descended like a heavy cloak. He studied Emmet for a long moment, his gaze deep with thought, assessing every nuance of the young noble's posture and conviction.
"You seek more than personal growth," the Sovereign murmured, his voice resonating with ancient power that filled the vast space. "You seek legacy."
Emmet did not deny it, meeting the Sovereign's gaze steadily.
The Sovereign leaned back, a subtle shift in his posture that signaled a decision. "We will not deny you."
It was decided. Emmet's departure was sanctioned, his pilgrimage formally recognized. A path, once closed, now lay open. And now, nothing could hold him back.
The Sovereign stood, his eyes locking with Emmet's across the polished floor. "You are no longer bound to the North. But understand this—wherever you go, you do not simply carry your own name." He nodded slightly, his expression grave. "You carry the legacy of Drakenthar. Make sure the world remembers it."
Emmet smirked, a flash of confident fire in his eyes. "They will."
Emmet arrived at the Bureau, a grand, stoic building carved from grey stone, its interior hushed and reverent, smelling faintly of parchment and old magic. He was ready to formally register his pilgrimage. As a noble, and one recognized by the Sovereign himself, neglecting this tradition was unthinkable. Though formal registration wasn't strictly required, failing to officially validate his journey would invite doubt, criticism, and mockery from skeptical nobles and scholars.
He stepped forward to a long counter, where a registrar sat behind towering stacks of sacred documents and faded records. "Good day! I came here to formally register my pilgrimage application."
The registrar, a woman with weary eyes and ink-stained fingers, looked up slowly. "Oh. You know, formal registration isn't required. You can still walk the path without it." She sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "However, if you insist on validation, here are the official trials."
She handed Emmet a thick parchment detailing each test, the expectations, and their duration.
Trial of Endurance – Survive three months in the frozen tundra, walking the sacred path without shelter, relying solely on natural instincts and divine wisdom.
Trial of Devotion – Spend a full year in sacred worship, engaging in divine meditation, rituals, and spiritual contemplation, proving the depth of faith in the lost Elemental God.
Trial of Wisdom – Study sacred texts and unravel lost knowledge, spending years deciphering prophecies tied to divinity, civilization, and elemental power.
Trial of the Soul's Passage – Isolate oneself for five years, surviving in the forgotten ruins of the first pilgrim sanctuaries, proving one's ability to endure loneliness and spiritual burden.
Emmet scanned the document, his expression darkening with each line. He exhaled sharply. "Oh my gosh... I don't have time for this." His eyes flicked across each trial again: months, years, isolation, endless rituals. A knot tightened in his stomach.
He turned back to the registrar. "Most of these trials will take years! How am I supposed to complete this earlier?"
The registrar offered an apologetic smile, flipping through pages as if reconsidering his options. "Ah—my mistake, I forgot to include this." She pulled out another scroll, far older than the rest, its edges brittle with age. "Most pilgrims don't take this trial. In fact, almost no one does—it's the most difficult, and very few ever attempt it. But if you are willing..."
She slid the ancient document forward. Emmet read.
A direct challenge against an Elemental Divinant, a warrior infused with pure elemental force. Only one battle—but survival alone determines success. The goal is not to win, but to prove endurance, adaptation, and discipline against divine power. Approval from the test master will determine whether the pilgrim has earned the right to walk the sacred path.
Emmet exhaled, gripping the parchment, a thrill of anticipation shooting through him. For the first time, the weight of a divine challenge truly settled upon him—his first real battle against a Divinant, a force beyond ordinary warriors. A slow smile built on his face.
"So all I have to do is fight a divinant? Not win—just pass?"
The registrar hesitated, sensing the intensity behind his tone. "...Yes. But know this—Divinants are not like normal warriors. Their strength is beyond human limits."
A pause stretched between them. Then, Emmet straightened, his conviction solidified. "Fine. Let's do it."
The room stilled. No one ever chose combat over years of tradition. The registrar's weary eyes widened slightly.
But before she could finalize his request, she paused, tapping her fingers against the wooden desk. "Um... I'm sorry, but we can't accommodate that trial today. We need to coordinate with the Divinants and request approval from the council." She scanned a schedule document before continuing. "The earliest available trial is in three days. Would you be willing to wait?"
Emmet exhaled slowly. He'd already set his mind on this battle, and three days wouldn't hurt. At least it gave him time to prepare. "Fine. Three days—please register me. Thank you."
The registrar nodded, her pen scratching his name onto the official pilgrimage registry.
With that, Emmet turned and stepped out of the Bureau, the crisp air a welcome contrast to the musty interior. He whistled, and Ember, his magnificent dragon, descended from the skies in a rush of wind and leathery wings. With a single leap, Emmet mounted his companion, the wind whipping against his face as they soared back towards Drakenthar, his home territory.
The countdown to his first divine battle began.
Emmet had made his choice—Trial by Combat, the most difficult yet fastest path to formally validate his pilgrimage. The battle against an Elemental Divinant was now just three days away.
Returning to Drakenthar, the heart of his territory, he knew there was no time to waste. If he was going to step into the arena against divine power, his mastery over his Totems had to evolve.
Standing in the open training fields, the cold northern winds whipping across the land, making his cloak snap, Emmet gripped his Earth Totem, a rough, heavy stone imbued with power, its surface cool beneath his fingers. His eyes narrowed in focus. "I need to refine my control. The Totems are the only weapons in my arsenal—if I hesitate, I fail."
His Earth Totem was his specialty, and he had learned how to harden his body, creating the Iron Cloak technique. When activated, his flesh remained the same, but it became as durable as iron itself, allowing him to withstand powerful attacks effortlessly.
But the drawback was clear—it slowed him down, made him heavier, reducing his agility in battle. He swung the totem like a two-handed club, hammering into the ground. Each impact sent dull, vibrating tremors through the earth and up his arms, building control, power, and adaptability. He grunted with effort, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill.
From a distance, Ember lay stretched across the ground, a golden-scaled mountain watching with amusement. The great dragon's eyes gleamed with mischief—because whenever Emmet miscalculated a swing or lost balance, Ember made sure he knew it.
One strike—too much force—Emmet stumbled, nearly falling. Another—totem weight poorly distributed—his momentum was off, and he twisted awkwardly. And Ember let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, a sound like shifting earth.
Emmet paused, turning toward his dragon, rubbing a sore shoulder. "What's funny?"
Ember flicked his immense tail and, with surprising grace for his size, mimicked Emmet's movements—exaggerated and completely ridiculous. He pretended to stumble, twisted awkwardly, and then flopped onto his side with dramatic effort, his golden eyes sparkling with mirth.
Emmet blinked, then burst into laughter, a rare, uninhibited sound. "You—are you mocking me?!"
Ember let out another deep, pleased rumble, a puff of warm air escaping his nostrils.
"Okay, I get it! I looked ridiculous. But this is serious—stop distracting me!"
Ember snorted and tapped a claw against the ground where Emmet had lost his footing, as if silently reminding him exactly where he had messed up.
"Oh, great. Now you're my personal combat instructor?" Emmet grinned, shaking his head.
Ember huffed, then stretched his wings lazily, clearly enjoying the chaos far too much.
Emmet sighed but chuckled. "Fine. Watch closely. This time, you're not gonna have anything to laugh about."
Ember settled down, eyes locked onto him, eager to see if that was true. And so, the lesson continued—Emmet refining his techniques while Ember, his closest companion, ensured that even in the most serious moments, there was room for laughter.
Standing in the open training grounds, Emmet gripped the Fire Totem, a small, delicate crystal that pulsed with a soft, internal glow, barely the size of his palm. He felt its raw energy thrumming beneath his fingertips.
He activated its power. Heat surged through his body, burning intensely—not like pain, but like something uncontrollable, consuming from within. His breath quickened, a desperate gasp for air. The energy flooded his system too fast, causing a feeling akin to suffocation, as if the fire itself were consuming the air inside him. His vision swam at the edges. He forced himself to hold the activation for a few moments, gritting his teeth, before releasing it with a harsh exhalation, gripping his knees, gasping.
"Damn... this thing drains me fast."
After several tests, he realized its inherent benefits:
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Immunity to Fire – Flames could not harm him; they bent away from his skin rather than burn.
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Cold Resistance – The fire inside countered freezing temperatures, giving him an unnatural endurance against cold environments, allowing him to train longer in the biting northern air.
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Purging Poisons & Disease – When activated, it burned away impurities in his body, acting as an internal cleansing force.
But the cost was severe:
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His body overheated, causing rapid, debilitating exhaustion.
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His breath shortened, making prolonged use impossible in battle.
He exhaled, staring at the glowing ember-like form in his palm. "This isn't a combat totem. It's a survival tool."
As he pondered the totem's nature, a realization struck him—this wasn't just a random effect. The Fire Totem was created when he linked with Ember, and its properties mirrored the dragon's abilities exactly. It was Ember who had unknowingly taught him this power. Fire didn't just destroy—it protected, cleansed, and adapted. That was the essence of Ember, transferred into the totem itself.
Emmet chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. "So... I got your skills, huh?"
Ember, resting on the side, lifted his massive head, blinking lazily, tail flicking. The dragon tilted his head, considering the statement, then huffed—a clear sign of pride.
Emmet shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get cocky. I still can't even use this thing properly."
Ember let out a deep, low rumbling laugh, clearly enjoying Emmet's struggle way too much.
Emmet sighed, staring down at the tiny, powerful totem, before clenching his fist around it. "I can't rely on this in direct combat. It has to be used strategically—only when absolutely necessary."
With this realization, he solidified his battle plan: the Earth Totem would remain his primary weapon, used for direct combat and endurance. The Fire Totem would be his emergency tool, activated only when survival demanded it, a last resort against overwhelming cold or internal affliction.
Training continued. Emmet reset his stance, preparing to train more efficiently, while Ember—mocking yet ever-watchful—settled in to enjoy the show.
The Grand Ice Chamber, a colossal arena carved from shimmering blue ice, was usually a quiet sanctuary for formal trials. But today, it buzzed with an unprecedented crowd. Spectators lined the tiered stands, their hushed whispers filling the chilled air. Today, Emmet had drawn the attention of the capital itself.
The crowd was filled with curious nobles in furs, stoic scholars with scrolls tucked under their arms, and seasoned warriors with scarred faces, all murmuring amongst themselves.
"Isn't he a tool divinant? The weakest kind?"
"I heard he wrote books on magic theory. Why is he fighting? He can't even use those theories for himself!"
"Is he delusional? Does he think he can beat a high-level Divinant with just theories? What's he gonna do, throw books at her?"
Some laughed, openly mocking him, their breath misting in the cold air. Others watched with intrigue—curious about whether Emmet was truly arrogant or if there was something more to him, a hidden depth beneath the scholar's facade.
Then came Glacia. The Ice Elementalist Divinant, a towering presence, strode into the arena. Her silver hair flowed like a frost-wind, and her robes, shimmering with intricate ice patterns, carried an unmistakable aura of raw power. The temperature in the chamber dropped instantly, a palpable cold wave surging through the room as she stepped forward. She didn't need to speak for people to feel her authority; her mere presence was enough to command silence.
Her icy blue gaze, sharp and unreadable, locked onto Emmet, assessing every inch of him. Then, with smooth confidence that brooked no argument, she spoke, her voice like the crisp crack of ice. "No one has ever passed my trial. You're just unlucky that it is me who will test you."
The crowd murmured, some gasping softly. This wasn't just a combat trial. This was Glacia, the Divinant who had never let anyone pass, the noble of the north who carried absolute discipline and held no mercy for weaklings. And yet, she continued speaking with calm neutrality, almost a detached courtesy. "However, in consideration of your contributions to magic theory, I will grant you a handicap."
Without hesitation, Emmet suggested boldly, his voice ringing out clearly in the now silent chamber: "How about you don't use elemental magic?"
The entire room erupted with laughter. Mocking voices filled the air instantly, nobles and warriors alike shaking their heads, smirking at his supposed cowardice.
"He's afraid!"
"This is pathetic!"
"What kind of scholar says something that absurd?"
But Emmet? He ignored them completely, his gaze fixed on Glacia. Instead, he smirked slightly, watching her reaction. And to his amusement, she smiled—just a little, a rare curve of her lips.
Glacia: "If I do that, then this wouldn't be a trial."
Emmet: "Well... it was just a suggestion."
She folded her arms, considering his presence for a moment before giving her real offer. "Survive for ten minutes. I won't go full force, or I might accidentally kill you." The air grew heavier, the lingering laughter dying in throats. No one was laughing now. "But... accidents do happen. Are you willing to proceed?"
Her gaze sharpened, piercing and cold. "You already know that trials aren't required. They're only for image, for acknowledgment. You don't need to do this." And then, her tone shifted slightly, carrying an edge of mockery, cold as the ice she wielded. "Or perhaps you do know that? Are you just here for attention? A noble wanting validation?" She eyed him with a level of disdain, scanning his tall but seemingly weak figure, his scholar-like posture. "I honestly expected someone like you to show up just for the prestige. You don't look like you can fight. Are you sure you want this?"
But Emmet did not flinch. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening ever so slightly. "Ten minutes? I'll survive that."
Then, with mocking confidence that sent a ripple of shock through the crowd, he added: "But... you don't mind if I land a hit on you, right? You know... accidents might happen."
The crowd gasped at the sheer audacity. And for the first time, Glacia's gaze darkened, her presence sharpening into something far more dangerous, a subtle chill emanating from her.
An elder, draped in ceremonial robes of deep blue, raised his staff toward the heavens. His voice echoed through the Grand Ice Chamber, infused with ancient magic, carrying across the battlefield like a command from the gods themselves.
Elder: "BEGIN!"
The words reverberated through the air, a pulse of energy activating the frozen battleground. A shimmering barrier of ice light rose around the arena, sealing them in. Emmet tightened his stance, exhaling sharply, his breath misting. His thoughts raced—ten minutes, that's all I need. Survive, don't fight. Endure. He gripped his Earth Totem, its familiar weight a small comfort.
Across the field, Glacia stood unmoving, her presence alone chilling the arena. She extended her hands, spreading her influence across the battlefield—the very air thickened with frost, every breath laced with biting cold that stung Emmet's lungs. She wasn't trying to kill him, but she would make him suffer. This was her domain, her rule, her territory.
Though she maintained her cold, ruthless demeanor, deep down, Glacia admired Emmet's intellect. Not as a Divinant, but as a scholar, a builder, someone who could shape the future of the North in ways warriors never could. She wanted him to pass. But she also wanted to see what he was truly capable of.
Her fingers flicked upward, and with a crystalline shimmer, six icy swords materialized in the air, hovering like executioners preparing to strike. She flicked her wrist—and they launched toward Emmet in a precise, silent barrage.
She expected him to struggle—to stumble, to barely dodge, to scrape by. Yet, to her genuine surprise, he moved fast—faster than expected—darting between the icy spears, slipping through the gaps like a shadow dancing through a snowstorm. A flicker of surprise crossed Glacia's usually impassive face. The cold should have slowed him. The pressure should have weakened his reflexes. But he was surviving it, his movements fluid and quick.
Glacia narrowed her gaze—this was not normal. A lesser man would have collapsed by now, yet he continued, adapting with every motion, his light scholar's frame proving deceptively agile.
Glacia raised her palm, summoning orbs of ice, pulsing with dangerous elemental force. With a flick of her fingers, she hurled them across the battlefield—not aiming directly at Emmet, but around him, exploding on impact, creating lingering waves of biting frost meant to slow his movement over time. The air grew thick with a swirling, numbing mist.
This time, Emmet did not dodge normally.
He started moving erratically, twisting, turning, sprinting in unpredictable loops, flailing his arms like a man fighting off invisible spirits. He stumbled forward, abruptly spun, nearly tripping over his own feet, then lunged awkwardly to the side.
From the stands, the crowd erupted into laughter again—they saw a clown, not a warrior.
"He's panicking!"
"Look at him running like an idiot!"
"Lucky fool, nothing more!"
The mockery cut through the battlefield, but Emmet disregarded them completely. He heard only the hiss of frost, the thud of his own heart. Because this wasn't panic. This was tactical movement. Every ridiculous step, every exaggerated motion, was designed to force his body to produce more heat, to pump blood and fight the pervasive chill without activating his Fire Totem too early. He knew that if he activated it now, he wouldn't last ten minutes—his breath would shorten, his body would overheat, his endurance would crumble. The Earth Totem would slow him down—he needed speed, not weight. If he could endure without Totems, that was an even greater victory.
Watching him evade, adapt, and control his own bodily resistance, Glacia's surprise turned into an unbidden admiration. He wasn't simply a scholar trying to play warrior. He was a strategist. A survivor. A force that defied expectations. She had anticipated simple brute force or cunning, not this unorthodox, calculated resilience. And suddenly, she wanted to push him further, to see the true limits of this unexpected mind.
The Grand Ice Chamber held its breath. The crowd, once filled with mocking voices, now stood in stunned silence—watching, waiting, witnessing something they had never expected. Emmet, the scholar, the tool divinant, had just stood against Glacia, the ruthless Ice Divinant, for nearly ten minutes.
And yet, the battle was not over.
The frost coiled around his feet, creeping upward like the grasping fingers of an unrelenting force. His legs stiffened, muscles locking, frozen solid. His arms locked in place, held rigid at his sides. The ice crawled—up his torso, across his chest, over his shoulders, a transparent, inexorable shell. The transparent frozen barrier encased him completely, sealing him inside a perfect glacial tomb.
The spectators gasped. The cheers turned into choked whispers, a collective inhalation of dread.
Was this it? Had he finally been defeated? Emmet, his vision fading, could hear only the silence, the sharp, hollow echo of the ice. Even the air felt empty, as if the world itself had paused to watch his final, frozen seconds. Trapped, the cold seeping into his bones, he felt a desperate need to breathe, to move.
Though her face remained cold, her mind was pleading in secret. "Please... survive this, Emmet. Show them who you are." She had never given a challenger this much chance before. Never had she admired someone enough to truly want them to pass. This was her final test, a crucible of spirit.
10... 9... 8...
The elder's voice, now slow and measured, began the final countdown, each number a tolling bell of finality. The crowd knew—he was finished. There was no way out.
Then—a flicker. Deep within the ice, a small, defiant glow emerged. His hand. Buried within the frozen barrier.
The Fire Totem activated.
7... 6... 5...
The ice trembled, a faint hum radiating from within the prison. Cracks formed like lightning splitting across the surface of a storm, tiny spiderwebs expanding, deepening. Each pulse of fire from Emmet's palm forced the prison to shatter—pieces breaking away, cascading like falling shards of crystal onto the arena floor.
4... 3...
Then, in one final, explosive surge—Emmet burst from the frozen chains, roaring through the remnants of glacial force, his breath heavy, burning in his lungs, his body radiating raw, triumphant resilience. Steam billowed around him, melting the remaining ice into puddles.
2... 1...
The Elder, his eyes wide with awe, raised his hand, signaling the trial's end. The arena exploded into cheers, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the Ice Chamber.
The crowd was no longer mocking him—they were chanting his name, a thunderous ovation of respect. No longer laughing at his theories—but revering his strength, the undeniable proof of his will. No longer questioning why he chose combat—but understanding that he had earned his place among warriors, a scholar who could stand against a Divinant.
Emmet stumbled forward, approaching Glacia, his exhaustion etched into his stance, his shoulders heaving, yet his pride unshaken, a fierce light in his eyes. His body ached, but a primal exhilaration surged through him.
"Thanks for going easy on me," Emmet said, his voice a little hoarse, a genuine smirk now on his face. He meant it. Because if she had truly fought at full force, he would not be standing.
Glacia watched him carefully, her icy blue eyes now reflecting a newfound warmth. Then, for the first time in memory, she smiled—a rare, genuine expression, filled with profound admiration and respect. "You are strong. Show us more of what you will achieve. I'll be cheering for you."
And with that—Emmet was no longer just a scholar, a noble, a pilgrim. He was a force. A name carved into the history of the North.
Emmet stood at the heart of his territory, taking one last deep breath of the crisp northern air before his departure. Everything had been set in order—Lady Nina now held command, backed by a strong council, and Ember would remain as its guardian. His mother, ever the foundation of his resolve, had received his promise: I will return, but first, I need to chase my dream. A pang of fondness mixed with the burning thrill of adventure tightened his chest.
That dream, however, wasn't pilgrimage—it was the path of a Seeker. He knew the truth, even if others didn't. The pilgrimage was merely a veil, a sanctioned excuse for his true quest: to unravel the deepest secrets of elemental power, to find what was truly lost.
Riding Ember one last time, Emmet surveyed the lands he had fought to build. The ancient forests, the rushing rivers, the towering, snow-capped peaks—his domain, his legacy. He ran a hand over Ember's warm scales. As the wind rushed past him, he leaned forward and spoke, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his resolve. "Ember, protect this land. Guard my mother."
The dragon's vast, golden eyes gleamed with unwavering loyalty. "I swear it," Ember rumbled, a deep vibration in his chest.
A grin tugged at Emmet's lips. "I trust you, buddy. When I come back, I'll be stronger. Of course, I'll be a Seeker then—so I might keep coming and going." He laughed, letting the joy of the moment ease the weight of departure.
They spent the rest of the day in the sky, flying without urgency, just savoring the time, the freedom of the open air. And when the sun dipped below the distant mountains, painting the sky in fiery hues, Emmet descended—ready.
The Finders Guild? Check. Survival gear, meticulously packed? Check. The map for pilgrimage? Presented—just for show. He wasn't rushing toward his destination; instead, he would follow the route in appearance while truly carving out his own journey, veering off the path when the scent of forgotten lore called to him.
His totem—his burden and his mark—rested behind him, now securely fixed between his shoulder blades. It wasn't literally heavy, but it was a constant reminder of the raw power he wielded, a visible sign of his unusual mastery that set him apart. Yet, as he'd trained, he'd realized something even more fascinating: the totem wasn't fixed in place. He could now subtly shift its position anywhere on his body, a seamless dance controlled by nothing but his will, making it a natural extension of himself.
The journey had begun. The eastern border of the north lay ahead—his territory's edge, the gateway to the unknown. Beyond it, wild lands stretched vast and untamed, rumored to hold ancient ruins and creatures long thought mythical. He had read about the treacherous landscapes, the unpredictable weather, the annual Malice Bloom that unleashed monstrous plant life, and the brutal battles that raged in those territories, but knowledge only carried so far.
Experience would be different. And now, it was time to live it.