Three month passed like a whispered spell—brief, cold, and mostly incomprehensible.
Everett Miracle had finally started adjusting to the rhythm of life at Nalanda Academy, where students casually conjured thunderstorms to do their homework and half the faculty could bench-press a small planet.
The academy's days were stitched with lectures, duels, summon training, tea breaks that turned into time loops, and the occasional emergency where a summoned beast escaped the simulation room. (Everett only had to run for his life twice that month. Progress!)
Every Tier-One student had to complete six missions before the end of the academic year, ideally before the realms reopened in December. Think of it as cosmic homework with a slight chance of death.
Missions ranged in absurdity: – Reorganizing the sentient library, which insulted your intelligence if you filed a book incorrectly.
– Catching dimensional squirrels that stole precious mana fruits in the campus forest.
– Escorting professors to the outer perimeter (spacewalks included) for "research purposes" that somehow always ended in laser blasts.
– Or just helping clean after an experiment involving gravity inversion.
Each mission rewarded credit points, which were basically galactic XP. You could spend credits to access: – Temporal Training Grounds (time flows slower, but your sore muscles still hurt),
– Simulated Realms for sparring,
– Mystery Mentors to whisper ancient truths into your ear (or slap you into enlightenment),
– And even opened realms, which cost a small fortune—and some pride.
During these months, Everett got a grip—literally—on his mysterious Frost powers, a gift or curse from the Frost Realm itself.
Once unstable and leaky (like a magical nosebleed), his Frost was now more refined. With focus and intent, he could conjure frost daggers from thin air—sharp, durable, and wonderfully cool to the touch.
Each blade carried traces of Frost-Rot: a cursed effect from the Frost Realm that didn't just freeze—it corrupted. When it struck, it drained heat, energy, and sometimes logic. Some said it fed on willpower. Others said it made you crave popsicles. No one really knew.
The best part? Everett no longer needed to rely on clunky alloy daggers. He was now armed in every sense of the word—and a little terrifying to spar with.
He also began understanding intention—a weapon wielder's invisible companion.
Intention wasn't mana, qi, or aura. It was will turned into effect.
A sword slash imbued with "sharpness." A spear thrust imbued with "piercing." A punch that really meant it.
For Everett, his first intention would be Frost—the stillness before collapse. His teacher had suggested this path after watching him accidentally freeze a training dummy and then solemnly apologize to it.
One uneventful morning (well, except for the sky turning purple for five minutes), Everett noticed Gloria pinning a new mission slip to the corkboard.
"Going somewhere?" Everett asked.
"Realm of the Fallen Dead," Gloria replied, casual as always. "It's one of the yearly realms."
Everett blinked. "Realm of what now?"
"Fallen Dead," she repeated. "You know, where you go to get your first weapon intention. Also where trees grow bigger than skyscrapers and the souls of the dead act like overprotective bodyguards."
"I'm sorry, WHAT?!"
Guruji Gopalan floated by sipping spicy tea. "Ah yes… lovely place. The rivers hum lullabies, the elves shoot arrows, and the spirits whisper bedtime secrets about your inevitable end. I already packed my sandals."
Everett looked between the two. "...Okay. But like, what is a yearly realm?"
Gloria sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Infodump time."
Yearly Realms vs. That Other Mess
"There are two types of realms," Gloria said, like a substitute teacher on her third coffee. "First: Yearly Realms. These pop up once a year. You go in, do a mission, maybe fight some ethereal raccoons, and if you do really well, you get a Realm Shard."
"What's a Realm Shard?" Everett asked.
"It's like a business card from the realm," Gloria said. "Except cosmic. It lets you track the realm's location next time it opens. Or brag. Mostly brag."
"And the other type?"
"The rare ones. Unique Realms. Like the Frost Realm you fell into. They don't open on a schedule. They just... exist. Somewhere. Frost Realm's even worse because no five humans have ever been spotted in it at once. It's that big. Or slippery. Or cursed."
"Wait," Everett said, "then how do people even find it?"
"They don't. They survive it. Occasionally. Maybe."
"And what's the Realm of the Fallen Dead?"
"Oh. Just a lovely little forest realm the size of a thousand Earths."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah. Big trees. Massive rivers. Home to forest elves—sword guys and bow girls. You'll like them. Pretty and deadly."
Everett didn't know whether to be terrified or intrigued. Possibly both. "So… why's it called Realm of the Fallen Dead?"
Guruji chimed in dreamily. "Because in that realm, your soul doesn't vanish. It guards your body when you're alive. And lingers when you die. A realm of intention, where even the dead refuse to let go."
"Cool cool cool," Everett muttered. "Totally not creepy at all."
"And our mission," Gloria added, "is to awaken our weapon intention. Any kind will do."
"So… soul-bound swords, living forests, and ghostly mentors?"
"Exactly," Gloria beamed. "Ready to go?"
Everett was about to say no. But instead, he found himself strapped into a bioship next to Guruji and Gloria, watching the sky tear open into a wormhole.
Destination: XN-3034765
Sector: Multi-Way Galaxy
Access: Wormhole – Class C Bombhole Entry Point
Visibility: Confidential
"Did that just say Bombhole?" Everett asked.
"Yup," Gloria said. "It's the name of the wormhole. It's perfectly safe. Probably."
The ship lurched.
And reality split open.