'So darn obvious.' Valeri smacked her head. "We're losing daylight, kids." She hurried everyone along, constantly watching Orin--who kept changing their route under the guise of helping his classmates.
'I should be happy he isn't intrigued by Wanderers.' Valeri thanked Aurochs every time Orin thought he deciphered an emotion. 'Otherwise, predicting him would become nearly impossible. Should thank Aurochs the next chance I get.'
When it came to hammering out his flaws, Orin stayed true to himself, stepping out of his delusions of understanding those overflowing, uncontrollable chemicals called emotions.
Thankfully, like every other problem on Wanderlust, his solution lay with Mystica. In this case, a drink Wanderers were addicted to.
Co'he, BeeBuzz, Wiz, or the forbidden Medusa drink? Orin had a hard time figuring out Valeri's poison of choice.
Similar to mystica, their collection, essence, and in some cases, a curated blend of extracted essences, became the drink of choice for every occasion.
Co'he kept you active through the day, thanks to the mystical essence of caffeine.
BeeBuzz drained one's senses and defenses alike, turning even the most tight-lipped person into a prophet.
Wiz raised your status tenfold, not just for its rarity, but for the precision of mystica-blended mixing. A Wiz barrel was more than a beverage; it was a treasure chest to the lucky.
And last but never least: The forbidden Medusa drink—a term whispered when requesting the strongest brew an 'Essence Crafter' could concoct. Whether it was the purest form of one essence or a wild combination of many, only the most experienced Crafters knew how to balance Co'he's energy, BeeBuzz's hammer, and the peculiar magic of various Wiz.
These weren't just drinks. They were experiences. Statements. A risk—to—taste transcendence.
And when someone dared to order the Medusa, it was the essence crafter who decided if they were worthy of facing Wanderlust's most potent liquid legacy.
As it happened, Orin knew the perfect Crafter to get Valeri to loosen up.
Orin himself had never tasted the exotic booze—academics forbade such indulgences until one passed their studies. But confined to a small village, he'd accidentally expanded his reach. Connections, favors, and secrets—things just happened around him.
No "uplifting establishment" puts its ego before profits. And Orin balanced his big mouth with game-changing insights about mystica. That made a few morally ambiguous individuals very eager to lure him toward these addictive elixirs. But his first taste of BeeBuzz took him on a spin he would never forget—or ever wish to repeat.
During the worst days of Orin's life, Mr. Dad drowned himself in Buzz to numb the pain. Orin was six and wanted to forget too, so when the dear imbecile Crafter offered, he didn't refuse.
BeeBuzz was—and still is—the cheapest and tastiest buzz in Wanderlust. Orin took a sip, not worrying about the consequences, forgetting that the effects of a mystic's drink, even a sip, are way beyond any Wanderer.
His immune system was shattered. The buzz took him across nine realms before he found his bearings again.
Since then, Orin liked control. He stayed in control of everything. Every aspect of his life was calculated, mapped, and measured.
In any case, he didn't require such cheap stuff for thrill, he had the mystica and their countless mysteries to keep him in a constant state of euphoria.
Just like devotion to a mystica reshaped one's core, transforming them into Dreadmorne, Diva, or any of the other races, proximity to a mystica changed one's lifestyle. Your habits, needs, and energy got fine-tuned to fit the surrounding mystics.
By reverse-engineering this process, Orin could read people like maps. He could tell where someone had come from, where they planned to go, what kind of mystica or Ornyx they carried, and more, just by observing the fine details.
Tiny dots around the eyes, invisible to most, meant they had the Bubblepede mystical, bad eyes, and frequent trips to the Bubblepede lure store.
Specific ointments, usually brewed by 'Spiritsmiths', usually do the trick. Still, they aren't effective enough to escape Orin's scrutinizing vision. He spotted the smallest tick, the faintest shimmer, and connected dots no one else even saw.
Valeri rubbing ointment onto her wrist could've meant anything to someone who wasn't Orin. But he combined the constant itch, the circular patterns of faint leg-marks, and the mystica Zilthari—disguised as a hair knot—and arrived at a distinct answer: she had access to cutting-edge mystic tech.
Orin narrowed his eyes.
"Zilthari and Fluttra together can mean…" he noted.
He focuses on the various essences of mystics on Valeri's person, while cupping his fingers to access the whisperkeep inside his head.
On command, the mystica archives inside his head flared to life, forming massive, ethereal shelves filled with tomes. This space was within his mind that got superimposed over the world. He developed this technique to multitask between mundane physical tasks like responding and eating, while also running multiple simulations within his head to solve the myriad mysteries.
With a wave of his hand, Orin summons forth a tome filled with the ways of the mystica 'Zilthari,' and skims through its description.
Zilthari is a sleek, iridescent creature with translucent wings that shimmer in shifting hues. When worn—often as a hairpin, bowtie, or tie pin—they appear inert. Just an ornament. But beneath that stillness lies an intricate vibration network.
Their primary function is sensing, transfiguring, and relaying.
Silent but ever-aware, they pick up on even the faintest tremors from their kin, transmitting signals across unseen threads of energy. It's both a messenger and a sentinel—the first half of a sophisticated communication system used across Wanderlust.
Fluttra—a small, delicate Mystica with constantly vibrating wings that emit a soft, rhythmic hum. Drawn to companionship, they stick together in swarms, forming fluttering clouds that pulse in mesmerizing, synchronized patterns.
The people of Wanderlust learned to lure them onto their wrists using circular metal Ornyx rings. The Fluttra hover just above the skin, attuned to the slightest transmitted signals.
"Where did I store my mystica combinations?" Orin wondered, and instantly, a massive shelf shifted within his mind—the shelf zoomed forward, shrank, passed through him.
Orin encoded everything in layers of logic and chaos only he could decipher. Symbols. Ancient letters. A language of probabilities and patterns—one that only he could read. Because he didn't want any Wanderer, or mystica, to ever get inside his head and walk away with anything useful.
"There you are." He pulls out another tome while guiding his classmates onto the Gyroclaw.
He sat down in his mental archive, a spatial library suspended in nothingness, ancient texts floating around him, constantly rearranging and evolving.
Just because he didn't have access to restricted information didn't mean he couldn't figure it out on his own.
Zilthari transmits. Fluttra responds.
Their wings shimmer and vibrate in a violent cycle, releasing a fine dust—shimmering particles that swirl in midair, refracting light like fractured glass.
As Orin passed closer to Valeri, he spotted a faint glimmer of that dust on her knuckles that didn't belong.
A quick comparison—purely visual, stored and mapped across other mystica essences in his Whisperkeep—confirmed it.
"Not everything that shines is a diamond," he muttered. "And not all sparkles are the same."
There was more he could deduce. More he could prove, with time. But for now, he stored the data as a breadcrumb. A pattern ready to bloom.
As Fluttra dust shifted, their vibrations manipulated the particles mid-air, shaping them into faint, three-dimensional projections. Images hovered just above the wrist, forming living reflections.
Faces, glyphs, and signals flickering with each pulse of Fluttra's wings. A natural hologram woven from light, sound, and motion.
"Fascinating," Orin grinned.
He hopped onto the Gyroclaw, brushing his fingers across its shell.
"Let's go, bud." He taps and chants. "Krynxal!"
The shell lifted, rising above the earth.
"Brakz!"
Legs pierced through the space below the shell, clawing into the void.
"Eldrav!"
The legs twisted and spun, propelling the shell forward in smooth, fluid revolutions.
The class moved on with Orin reclaiming his smug, glorious grin as he led the discussion. Every explanation soared over the students' heads. Valeri docked stars for his attitude—and reallocated them for unmatched insight.
Hysteria did her best to dampen Orin's self-sabotage engine, without knowing his entire plan was rolling forward exactly as he'd designed.
One doesn't opt for a stronger drink until they're within reach of their sanctuary hidden inside themselves. The only exception is when life—or Orin—had drained them of patience.
Every individual has a different tolerance meter, and Orin had learned to calibrate it with near-surgical precision. Enough for them to choose a drink within their limit, rather than wrap their hands around his neck.
Luckily for him, the BeeBuzz establishment sat across from the Co'He bakers. Which meant he could prime the students with enough caffeine to keep them hyper and restless... and they would, in turn, drag Valeri into the welcoming arms of the buzz.
He stopped the Gyroclaw one street early, keeping the plan discreet. No need for anyone to catch on just yet. Not until the Aromancer who worked nearby—the same one who kept pestering Orin about the "Soup Maker."
What better way to set someone's stomach grumbling than a stray whisper of spice and sizzle dancing in the air?
No wonder Mr. Sobpants never rose to become a Gustor.
Just thinking of a real Gustor in his village filled Orin's mouth with salivation-laced ambition... tender meat folding beneath his teeth, juices dancing on his tongue, aroma alone reducing him to a ravenous void.
Anyone could call themselves an Aromancer—a cook, but only the gifted earned the sacred title of Gustor—a chef. A mystic artisan of flavor.
If Mystica weren't so utterly hypnotic, Orin would've trained to be the finest Gustor Wanderlust had ever seen.
Cooking was the most underrated form of mysticism. Unfortunately, Mr. Sobpants (real name: Mr. Chowder) lacked even the basic sense to wield it. He claimed he was on the path to becoming a Gustor, yet he couldn't understand the most fundamental mysteries of his mystica.
What's the point of having a mystica if you're not obsessed with its ways?
Case in point: the Soup Incident.
Mr. Chowder once had the brilliant idea of serving Co'He with soup. Blinded by profits, he ignored the obvious catastrophe of mixing Veloxine and Fervorox. Even without the mystical chemistry, the flavor clash alone was a war crime.
Orin cleaned up the mess, not for friendship, but for food.
Mr. Chowder owned the only Aromancer-grade mystica in this backward little village with the potential to make actual, mouth-watering Soulbroth. Orin could afford to lure such mystica into his farm, yet decided against such drastic plans. For any indulgence in cooking might drag him away from solving the myriad mysteries the mystica of Wanderlust held.
Instead, in exchange for the occasional fix, Orin tolerated the dramatics of Mr. Sobpants.
As always, Mr. Sobpants found Orin in the crowd. This time, though, it wasn't an accident as Orin wanted to be seen.
He let the man whimper and flail out his many woes right in front of Valeri, then stepped in like a hero, valiantly and smugly—exactly as planned.
He offered to help. The class, stunned by the display, followed him into the restaurant.
Inside, they stared in awe. This wasn't Orin the schemer, Orin the headache, or even Orin the prodigy.
This was Orin in his element—commanding a space with precision, creativity, and control. Every movement was calculated, and every word dripping with flavor and intent.
Even Hysteria and Valeri, who'd seen flashes of this side of him, were momentarily caught off guard.
Thus, the game advanced... one step closer to buzz. One step closer to the temple. And three steps ahead of anyone trying to catch him.
The best way to throw someone off your trail is to fake your death. Similarly, the best way to throw someone off your game is to give them what they truly desire. Something that doesn't lead to their victory, but which delays their hunt by a false sense of victory.
In this case, Orin slipped into a flameproof Ornyx suit, activated a set of runes, and stepped into a room engulfed in flames.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" Orin yelled at Sobpants in sign language.
Good thing Sobpants never learned the curse words—otherwise, he'd never have bothered Orin again.
"They love heat. If you give them more, they'll never settle for less," Orin continued, gesturing, never noticing that Sobpants didn't understand sign language. "Moderation is key." He goes on to reveal some ancient knowledge, shocking Valeri.
Beneath blazing flames that seemed to have a life of their own, stood a behemoth of a Mystica, nearly spanning the radius of the entire room.
Orin kicked away the 'Everlit Rocks' from beneath the mystica, Fervorox. The stones flew through a small window and into the adjacent chamber filled with 'Zero Liq.' This transparent liquid doused the stones' heat in seconds, freezing them inside bubbles of ice, which floated with the rock suspended in the center.
As the flames died down, a colossal, sinuous creature emerged. Its ancient, textured hide was etched with swirling, arcane patterns. Along its broad, graceful back rested a vast, natural cauldron—a living soup pot that churned and transformed its daily fare into a bubbling medley of broths and essences.
Its underbelly boasted intricately sculpted, drill-like ridges that generated a constant, searing heat, maintained by the steady glow of an Everlit rock that could temper or intensify its warmth as needed.
Aromancers had learned to place a carefully crafted lid atop this living vessel to monitor and harvest its ever-changing culinary concoctions—from robust, hearty stews to delicate, aromatic consommés.
Fervorox was both a marvel of nature and a conduit for culinary alchemy—a moving testament to transformation and nourishment in Wanderlust. The process of extracting its finest essence was an art in its purest form.
Valeri didn't mind Orin leaping into flames. Not all students had easy lives—many worked dangerous jobs to keep their family businesses afloat. Still, none of her students required such extreme measures, nor would she ever allow them. Yet, watching Orin amidst the fire just felt… right.
A relief—albeit a bad one—to see one of your problems burn away.
The entire class shared the same feeling on some level. The prospect of enjoying a feast after watching the devil burn offered a poetic end to their ordeal.
Orin exited the boiler room, the flames back under control. He left—or perhaps forgot an unconscious Mr. Sobpants inside, a smile playing on his lips.
"Broth's ruined," declared the devil. "I'm sure all of you can starve until we're done."
Raise expectations and deliver not! A recipe to awaken true hunger. Orin tried—and failed—to contain the marvelous fruition of his plan, his smile spreading from ear to ear.
The devil didn't burn, but their stomachs sure did—not a single one of their wishes came true. Without uttering a word, the class walked away as one, disappointed and hungry. A Co'He or two was their only salvation.
Aurochs knew they needed a few drinks in them if they were to endure another hour of Orin. The kids wished they had access to Buzz after that long session. Co'He might not cut it anymore.
Even within the busiest zones—amidst packed streets—they were able to spot a shop selling Co'He. All they had to do was follow the streak of light winking in and out of existence.
They trailed the brightest flicker of light, leading them to the nearest Co'He shop—just as Orin had planned. Now the mystica's magic would send the kids bouncing off the walls… and Valeri straight into the arms of Buzz.
The only part that baffled Orin—the piece that wouldn't fit the puzzle—was the Wanderers' unconditional love toward these mystica. He needed that kind of power with every fiber of his being. After all, one could violate rules, even violate others, and still walk away with a bucketful of affection.
Despite Vellora's aloof nature—cold enough to make even Grumvok seem warm—the allure of its purr and the enchanting pull of its Co'He created a quiet addiction. The combination compelled Wanderers to return love in exchange for hate.
At first, Orin believed the only major difference between a Grumvok and a Veloxine was appearance—the effects of Co'He failing to match the high of a true love-drink.
Veloxine, the mystica of swift elegance and untamed grace, was crowned for its role in crafting Co'He. It boasted a dual-toned coat that merged the regal flourish of a mane around its neck with a sleek, agile pattern across its frame.
Its fur—a subtle blend of silken hues—rippled with latent energy, vibrating with the purest essence of motion. When it moved, it blurred, trailing an afterimage that shimmered with a hum of kinetic light: the stream the class had followed.
Charming, diminutive horns tucked behind its ears gave it an endearing, almost playful look. But those horns served a deeper purpose: they channeled ethereal essence drawn from its fur, lightning-threaded filaments that gave off a faint, electrifying zap upon touch.
By meticulously grooming those charged strands, the Veloxine produced a potent secretion known as Co'He.
Some mistook its speed for chaos. In truth, it was a careful pact between two elements—the Veloxine's fur and its spiraling horns—crafting a potion that delivered a pure, unwavering surge of energy.
In the hands of the experienced, it is the perfect antidote to slowness, granting unparalleled focus and razor-sharp reflexes.
Known for its gentle, almost hypnotic purring, the Veloxine's natural hum is laced with the faint zapping sound of its fur—an enchanting blend of soothing resonance and delicate energy. The combination has a calming yet invigorating effect, healing the spirit and flooding the mind with peace.
None of which screamed mysticism, nor explained why Wanderers were madly in love with the Veloxine.
The mystica ignored people, bit them, scratched them, and sat atop them, shunning the expensive cushions built for their comfort.
Elio let them sleep on him, sacrificing his ease for once. The girls blushed, chasing after the clowder of Veloxines, who returned their affection with scratches and apathy. Billy the bully wrestled with one, his hair standing upright from accumulated static electricity.
And yet—they loved the mystica with all their hearts, forgetting their troubles, and, worse, forgetting their mission to drive Valeri mad on Orin's behalf.
"Wanderers!" Orin cursed.
"Not going as planned?" Valeri inquired, one brow raised.
"A complete U-turn," Orin muttered, stunned. "They don't even know how to make a cup of Co'He. Extract the speed essence. Or whether the most spiteful mystica could ever love them back... then why?"
Once you realize that, Valeri thought, you'll be ready to graduate.
She chuckled to herself. "I'll be across the street. I need something stronger. You..." She assessed the chaos and shrugged. "Go crazy."
All the positivity made Orin physically ill.
He drew a cup from the holder, pet three different Veloxines in three different ways—precise, practiced—and extracted their essence from their horns into a cup. He crafted a strong, creamy Co'He with a touch of speed.
On his way out, Orin shouted "Vinny!" into the air, purely out of spite, then joined Valeri in a more mature establishment.
He exchanged pleasantries with the local Essence Crafter, calling him by his first name—Essenso.
"Easy name to remember?" Valeri commented.
"True," Orin nodded. "My friend here will have The Meddler," he added, ordering Valeri a drink.
"Friend?" Essenso and Valeri raised an eyebrow in unison.
"My guru," Orin waved them off with a smirk.
"Guru?" Essenso turned a confused glance toward Valeri.
"Yes," Valeri said, smiling. "He likes to show off his ancient language skills. Makes no difference. Or sense. But still…" She chuckled.
Meanwhile, Essenso stayed busy—his hands a blur of motion as he cleaned crystals, mixed Buzz, wiped down the circular counter, and maintained the golden spiral Echohive at the center.
Unlike Co'He, which requires a living mystica to produce, Buzz is crafted within these relics of the First Era—mystica-born devices long lost to history.
Ancient inscriptions faintly pulsed along its curves—their meanings long lost to time, yet their presence hinted at a deep connection between this Ornyx and the emotions it fed upon.
The Echohive does not simply store—it harvests. Invisible currents in the air—whispers of laughter, pangs of sorrow, bursts of fury—are drawn into its labyrinthine chambers, where they are compressed and distilled into a viscous nectar. This raw, unfiltered essence carries the weight of the emotions it was born from, forming the foundation of Beebuzz—a drink that alters one's state of mind as much as it does the flavor on the tongue.
Altering the taste of Beebuzz is an art mastered only by skilled Essence Crafters. By carefully manipulating the mood of the tavern—stoking mirth with well-placed jokes, deepening nostalgia with a slow, aching tune, or stirring unease with a whispered rumor—they guide the Echohive's absorption process, ensuring a consistent and desirable brew.
This very fact made Valeri dismiss Orin's drink order for her. No Essence Crafter worth their salt would risk their entire establishment—not for a kid, not even for the Queen's demand.
As the saying goes, "You get to choose your establishment, not your drink of choice."
Yet to Valeri's surprise, Essenso retrieved a ladder and climbed atop the Echohive. The rungs pressed into the hive's soft, silken strands, creating temporary indentations. Its surface glistened like liquid gold, yet yielded to the touch like a dense, living fabric.
Essenso reached deeper with a meter-long spoon, retrieving a distilled, thick, shimmering nectar. He tapped the spoon into a glass—the nectar clinging to the base like glue. Before Valeri could tear her eyes from the nectar's hallucinatory bounce, Essenso added something red, something blue, something yellow—then flipped the cup onto a lid, sealing it upside down.
"A minute and a half," Essenso smiled, a smile that stirred something unreasonably warm in Valeri's chest.
Caught between the goofy mystica holding the jar and shaking it with intense dedication, and the goofier crafter who trusted the process, time slipped past. When the shaking ceased, the result was a drink resembling a living galaxy.
"As promised," Essenso said, dragging the vessel forward, flipping it right-side-up, and presenting it to Valeri with a practiced flair.
Valeri eyed Orin. Instead of downing it all in one defiant gulp, she took a slow sip. Her vision immediately refracted—Orin now looked like a multidimensional rift, all vibrating edges and collapsing colors.
"Guess the plan is back on track," she giggled.
"Yeah, it is..." Orin laughed, flipping Essenso a Joul. "You're well on your way to becoming a Brew Sage."
"If I don't lose this establishment first," Essenso shot back grimly.
"Eh! You can make another—in some other crappy village," Orin shrugged. "Send her across when she regains her senses."
He hopped off the high stool and strode away, sipping his cold 'Co'He' and ignoring everyone's stares.
"I don't know what he has on you," Valeri said, startling Essenso. "But this connection ends today."
"But—"
"—Shut it!" Valeri snapped. "Both your mouth and whatever it is you thought you could drag that poor, clueless kid into."
"Dumb of him to go against a Guru," someone whispered from the back.
"Listen to your establishment," Valeri said as she slid off her seat, drink in hand, heading for the exit. The people inside averted their gazes, unwilling to meet her eyes. "For all of you who stood by and did nothing—you get to be part of Essenso's punishment, too. Be good and stand by, like always."
"But—" the crowd began.
"—Shut it."
Valeri slammed the door on her way out.
Back at the Co'He establishment, Valeri found the shop frozen in time: every single person stood like a statue. Their discomfort was but a small price to pay.
"What did you do now?" Valeri asked, slouching lower.
"I found a chant to turn Wanderers into statues," Orin chuckled.
"Minus ten."
"In normal circumstances, I'd get a lot more for inventing a spell," Orin said, poking Axel, who glared but didn't move. "A very effective spell, I might add."
"Make one that's useful and I'll give you a hundred. Now undo this..." Valeri also poked Axel. No reaction. "...whatever this is."
"Wow, a hundred. Is that enough to graduate?"
"Based on how fast you lose them? It's just enough to keep you out of jail." Valeri ruffled Orin's hair. "Now. Undo."
"False alarm, guys," Orin said, stepping behind Valeri as a shield for what was coming. "There isn't any Vinny."
"Oh…!" Valeri blinked. "That's quite clever."
Everyone returned to hating Orin's guts—just the way he liked it. The next phase of his plan hadn't even crossed his mind.
A short ride later, they arrived at their next destination with Orin steering the Gyroclaw to approach the carnival from the back entrance—the one where the carnival folk kept their pack of Cerberus: a massive, three-headed hound.
Each head carried a distinct emotion.
If one didn't want their head bitten off, they had to mirror the dominant emotion of the head facing them while crossing its path.
Easier said than done when a seven-foot beast from hell was breathing down your neck—its dagger-like teeth ever so slightly skewering the balance toward death.
Orin never gave them a chance to decide—he rammed their ride straight through the pack of Cerberus.
"Oops!" He stifled a smirk. "No time to argue—be happy," he declared.
The students stretched their lips into the biggest smiles they could manage, their teeth gritting behind the gesture.
Orin ignored the snarling pack of Cerberus behind him. Their emotions shifted too often to track anyway. Instead, he relied on a hidden trick: indifference. It gave him the focus to watch the emotional chaos unfolding inside the Gyroclaw.
"Can do better," he remarked. "Now... sad. Happy. Disappointed. Utopia."
"We don't know what that is!" they yelled back.
"Neither do I!" Orin shouted. "Just do it—so I can find out!"
"Fear!" he commanded.
The crowd went pale. Sweat dripped from their chins, soaking into their uniforms. Their collective tremor shook the entire ride.
"Now that one is clear and easy to read." Orin wrapped his legs around a spike for stability. "Excited. Shocked. And... we're back to Utopia."
He checked the Suns' positions by placing three fingers against his forehead, faking a countdown.
"Oops. Look at that—happy." Orin kept yelling out the emotions to cut off protests before they began. "We're short on time, too far from our destination, and too hungry to delay. So! Nearest temple it is. Which just happens to be near the neighboring village." He pointed behind them. "Now maintain appreciation until we arrive—unless you want the Cerberus chasing us to get a bite - Shocked!" He broke another riot before it rose. "Now, back to appreciation. Like I'm your one and only savior." He grinned. "Because I am."
————
Despite their distinct traits, all four kingdoms of Wanderlust share a foundational structure—one crafted not from convenience but ancient order. At its center lies the 'Royal Citadel,' where the ruling figures reside.
'The Citadel' is flanked on either side by the personal 'Dorms of the King and Queen,' two grand yet practical estates reflecting their differing responsibilities.
The **King**, marked by the **most number of stars**, oversees **defense, protection, and external threats**. While the **Queen**, sharing **equal stars**, governs **finances, internal systems, and organizational welfare**. Both roles are 'titles,' not bound by gender, and are held by the most capable, chosen through star accumulation and duty fulfillment.
Surrounding the citadel is a **circle of administrative buildings**, home to the **officials and high-ranking advisors** who temper the kingdom's chaos.
Beyond this core, the kingdom spirals outward into a **perfect ring**, split into the four sacred **Quadrants—North, East, West, and South**. Each quadrant is a **self-sustaining region**, with **Zones** packed into its space like the pieces of a breathing puzzle:
A **Zone** is a **village**, headed by a **Chief**.
Multiple zones form a **Town**, governed by a **Mayor**.
Several towns join to create a **Region**, overseen by a **Regional Head**. And all four quadrants together form the **Kingdom**, a territory built on order and layered power.
Occasionally, **streets within Zones or Towns** are renamed by **local officials** to draw **foreign attention or tribute history**, giving every kingdom its own subtle flavor despite the shared skeleton.
At the **top of this living hierarchy**, above the King and Queen, stands the **Mahant**—a spiritual and political guide known as the 'Guru of Gurus.'
The Mahant does not rule with iron or law, but with **wisdom**—chosen not by stars, but by **soul lineage**, and tasked with overseeing both crown-bearers and kingdom-wide gurus alike.
Each kingdom takes its name from these individuals, who once shaped or sanctified its soil—a tradition passed down through songs, memory, and the sacred Ornyx etched into each kingdom's gate.
At the center of every 'Zone' lies the Temple of the Aurochs, a living sanctum built around the most revered Mystica in all of Wanderlust.
Aurochs are colossal, horned creatures whose bodies shimmer with minerals of the earth and whose eyes glow with unseen foresight. They carry the calm of ancient stone and the heartbeat of buried fault lines.
Worshipped by all faiths and religions alike, the Aurochs are not seen as any normal Mystica, but as living gods—sentient omens of the land itself.
Wanderers have never used the word 'god' since the first era. Since the time an Aurochs made survival possible. Some even believe them to be our creators. Hence, they replaced the word with 'Aurochs' instead.
Their movements are few, but when they rise, nations listen.
They are disaster prophets, predicting catastrophes long before they strike: A wandering mountain set to crush a region… Or a deep earth encavement destined to split land and merge it with the cursed terrain of the Wonder: Devil's Kitchen…
When an Aurochs stirs, the Zone reforms itself around the direction it moves—homes are rebuilt, roads redrawn, and lives reshaped around their divine guidance.
Their temples are never just structures, but living settlements, built with mobile sanctity, prepared to move should the Aurochs walk again.
As the Mahant marks the soul of a Kingdom, the Aurochs marks the soul of each Zone.
————
Hate, desire, lust—no matter what one held before they reached the Aurochs temple, all of it was washed away, leaving one emotion behind: unbridled devotion.
A unique emotion, Orin relied upon to get himself out of everyone's ire.
"Aurochs: the one true god," the devotees whispered.
"A god that's left," murmured the rest.
"The strongest mystica alive," said the Specialists.
"The only source that can predict Wanderlust's true future," claimed the Oracles.
"Wish-granter," whispered teachers clinging to fading hopes.
"A miracle. A mystery. The one at the beginning, and the one that shall remain," the scholars proclaimed.
"One of his buddies," said Orin. "...the one closest to the true Source." He hoped.
Orin created chaos to understand. Chaos was easy to spark. Take a step against the tide or shake something stale, and the storm would rise without fuel.
Creating it took seconds. Extinguishing it took ages. Unless you had a higher being to silence the scuffle.
Which, in this case, Orin did: the only one who called a god a friend.
The only one reckless enough to use one to cover his mischief.
A true Mystward.
"Oh, my dear crawler…" The Aurochs' voice resonated with a weight that felt older than stone. "You still don't see the bigger picture. This is the beginning of the end, on either front. A new era has been decided."
And with that, the signal cut.
The Aurochs present near Orin stirred. Its massive form rose slowly, a mountain waking, and began its solemn walk toward the Tablet of Fate.
Devotees inside the temple moved instantly, practiced in urgency. They rushed out, forming a blockade, retreating only once the Aurochs' horns unfurled and sealed the temple. It was a sacred rite—none could remain when the carving began.
It could take weeks. Years, even. Aurochs carved not with tools, but with truth. And truth did not rush.
Yet this time… a grunt was heard—a soft, guttural breath that echoed through the sealed stone. A sound of completion. A sound of release.
The Aurochs had finished.
Already? The devotees questioned in amazement.
Such brevity had never occurred in recorded history.
It is said that the Tablet only reveals fate when the absolute future is but arms away—when a single thread burns brighter than the rest.
This revelation, then… was imminent.
Once the temple reopened, villagers and pilgrims alike streamed in. Tradition allowed anyone to attempt peering into the Tablet—to see if their fate had shifted, or if disaster loomed near, for the Tablet of Fate was no ordinary relic.
It stood upright—an immaculate, monolithic marble slab, perfectly smooth but covered in flowing, chaotic lines. At a glance, it appeared as nonsense. Scribbles made by a toddler. Yet to the attuned… it spoke truths beyond mortal comprehension.
It contained everything that had happened, was happening, and was about to happen. Not just chronologically, but layered. A portrait of time, pressed into stone.
Most saw only madness. This was true for Orin until today, for when the moment he looked, his world rearranged, allowing him to trash his devious schemes without hesitation. Whatever revelation had etched itself into this moment… it made every previous obsession feel small.
For the first time, Orin saw the scribbles for what they were.
He believed, for he peered into a fateful encounter, understanding the crazy scribbles he once considered bad art.
For the first time, he had a piece to believe–A sliver to decode the rest!
His breath caught. A single fragment shimmered to him—legible. Clear. And something clicked.
Before he could unravel more, Hysteria arrived, breathless. "Orin!" she gasped. "What're you doing?! Aurochs' mesmerization works for only so long—"
"I have a date," Orin said absently, tilting his head to trace the curves of the strange mark with his eyes.
Hysteria flushed. "A date?! With whom?"
Orin smiled. A rare, unguarded smile. "With Ouroboros Zee," he said, pressing his palm gently to the single, tiny scribble that made sense. "Remind me to get you a bigger stone…" He beamed at Aurochs.
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