As the weakest kingdom on the entire continent of Aerion, Arcadia undoubtedly possessed the smallest territory. Located at the southeastern tip of the continent, it bordered the vast, boundless sea on its east and south sides, while the other two sides were hemmed in by two powerful empires. Had it not been for the intervention of that place called the Sanctum at the continent's heart, a kingdom like Arcadia would likely have perished long ago. Our story begins in Arcadia's capital, Lunaria.
The scorching sun blazed like fire, especially in the southern reaches of Aerion. The sun in the sky seemed precariously close, bringing waves of searing, scalding air. Everyone bathed in its light felt their bodies turn into burning coals, sweating profusely. Though it was still morning, the streets of Lunaria were permeated with an air of languor. No wonder some said the reason the mighty empires of Bludia and Poland hadn't carved up Arcadia wasn't just due to the Sanctum's interference, but also because this place was practically the continent's hottest furnace.
Of course, exceptions existed. At that moment, outside Lunaria's Mage Guild, an exceptionally spirited elder arrived.
His white mage robe was impeccably smooth, without a single wrinkle, much like the man himself – ramrod straight. Dense wrinkles mapped his advanced age. Silver-white hair was neatly combed back. The elder mage was tall, at least half a head taller than the average Arcadian. His right hand, equally wrinkled, gripped a slender staff. Though the staff currently rested on the ground, no one would mistake him for needing its support. The reason lay in his eyes – deep, abyss-like, yet astonishingly clear pools of black. The elder mage squinted slightly, yet faint, sharp glints would inadvertently leak out between his eyelids.
"Praise the Sanctum! Greetings, esteemed Mage. How may I assist you?" Piero had just stepped out of the Mage Guild when he spotted this elder mage. Though the elder bore no expensive adornments or magical items on his person, and even his robe and lack of elemental fluctuations made discerning his rank impossible, Piero trusted his instincts. As a Yellow-Rank Intermediate Mage who had trained at Lunaria's Mage Guild for over twenty years, he knew those who flaunted their rank through insignia were often mere show-offs. An elder mage appearing at least seventy years old couldn't possibly be a mere novice. Moreover, not a single drop of sweat marred his wrinkled forehead.
"Praise the Sanctum." The elder mage's voice was unexpectedly soft and melodious. Though somewhat deep, it gave listeners the feeling of being bathed in a spring breeze, as if even the scorching air had cooled slightly. "I come from the Sanctum. Please take me to see the Guild's acting head."
Piero's body instantly stiffened. His sharp eyes widened with shock and elation. From the Sanctum? He comes from the Sanctum. On the continent of Aerion, even the humblest commoner would understand the weight of those words. The head of Lunaria's Mage Guild had passed away over two years ago. As the headquarters of Arcadia's Mage Guild, the position of Guild Master had remained vacant since. He came from the Sanctum? What was the most revered profession on Aerion? It was the Mage. Perhaps some doubted the existence of gods, but none failed to revere mages. The Sanctum was a place of flat, fertile land on Aerion, roughly half the size of Arcadia. Yet, no nation dared covet it, for it was the sacred land of mages. The Sanctum was the faith of nearly all nations on Aerion, second only to the Northern Wastes.
The Sanctum was both the sacred land mages revered and the place they most feared. Apart from the Sanctum Guard protecting it, only mages could enter. Gaining entry wasn't overly difficult, but leaving the Sanctum was something almost no mage dared hope for. One wouldn't be permitted to leave without Blue-Rank strength or higher.
Mage ranks, from low to high, were: Mage, Intermediate Mage, Advanced Mage, Archmage, Magus, Archmagus, and Grand Magus. Regardless of the magic type, they shared the same color hierarchy, graded according to the rainbow's hues. The lowest rank, Mage, corresponded to the rainbow's first color: Crimson (Red), and so on. Blue represented the Archmagus. The first six rainbow colors were each divided into Lower, Middle, and Upper tiers. A Mage like Piero, a Yellow-Rank Intermediate Mage, was a Middle-Tier Advanced Mage. As for the rainbow's final color, Violet (Purple), it was divided into nine tiers. Even among Violet-Rank Grand Magi, different tiers represented vastly differing power.
The Sanctum earned its status as the mages' sacred land for another reason: it housed seven Mage Pagodas. Within each pagoda resided a mighty Violet Ninth-Tier Mage. They represented the pinnacle of existence on Aerion.
Therefore, on the continent of Aerion, discerning someone's strength was straightforward. Any magic or battle aura was distinguished by color. The color released during use clearly revealed the user's strength.
"Please, this way." Piero deferentially stepped aside, his voice tinged with awe and fluster.
A faint smile touched the elder mage's lips. He nodded slightly to Piero before following him into the Mage Guild.
The guild hall pulsed with immense elemental power. A magic hexagram inlaid with mithril on the floor emitted a soft silver glow. The interior felt spacious, largely due to the scarcity of mages. In a minor kingdom like Arcadia, the number of mages could only be described as pitifully small. Thus, despite the guild's high status within the kingdom, it remained desolate.
Piero didn't keep the elder mage waiting long. Soon, another aged mage emerged from the guild's inner chambers, ushered out by Piero. This mage wore a cyan robe, appearing roughly the same age as the visiting elder.
"Praise the Sanctum. Greetings, Mage from afar. I am Darius, acting head of the Arcadia Kingdom Mage Guild, a Fire Magus." As he spoke, Darius bowed slowly to the white-robed elder mage. Simultaneously, a wisp of pale cyan flame ignited in his right palm, clearly displaying his rank: Cyan Lower-Tier Magus. This was the highest form of respect among mages. Darius, given his status in Arcadia, wouldn't even bow to the king. His profound respect stemmed solely from one fact: the white-robed mage before him hailed from the Sanctum.
"Praise the Sanctum. I am Quentin Shaw, from the Sanctum. This is a letter from the Sanctum." Quentin shifted his wooden staff to his left hand, extending his right palm flatly towards Darius. A faint glimmer of light flashed, and a scroll of parchment appeared in his hand.
Both Piero and Darius were stunned. They had clearly seen that, though the light emanating from Quentin's hand was faint, its color was unmistakably Violet.
Darius's hands trembled slightly as he received the scroll. He unrolled it slowly. The parchment was blank, devoid of any writing. But Darius showed no surprise. His gaze instinctively shifted back to Quentin standing before him.