Time passed, as it always did, subtly yet relentlessly. And with it, my presence at the Royal Literature Academy became harder and harder to ignore.
By the time I reached the end of my first semester, my name—Ethan Verne—was no longer just whispered in passing. It was spoken in the same breath as seasoned young nobles and acclaimed prodigies. My writings had begun circulating beyond classrooms, reaching bookstores, guild shelves, and even private collections of minor nobles.
My words, once quiet like the scratching of a pen, now echoed like thunder across the capital.
But fame, I learned quickly, was a double-edged quill.
While many admired me, not all celebrated my success.
Behind polite smiles and courtly handshakes, I sensed a quiet hostility. Some sneered behind fans or muttered behind shut doors. "A lowborn child who writes? Protected by the King? What sorcery is that?"
Yet even in their malice, none dared lay a finger on me—not with the royal seal backing my name. After all, the King himself had declared me "The Kingdom's Youngest Quill," and had openly praised Sky Under the Water in a banquet speech.
I was untouchable… at least for now.
But I didn't let their stares slow me. I had stories to tell, worlds to build, and characters to breathe life into. And with each passing day, my passion grew, burning brighter than ever.
Then came the final day before summer recess.
Our professor, Lady Lysandra, entered the hall that morning with a strange glint in her eye. She stood at the center of the lecture podium, holding a scroll made of pale-blue parchment—something rare, used only for announcements from the Royal Board.
She smiled knowingly.
"Summer break begins tomorrow," she said. "But I hope you weren't planning on resting too much."
The class chuckled uneasily.
"This year," she continued, "the Royal Academy of Literature, with approval from the Crown, is launching the Journeyman's Quill Contest."
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
"Your task is simple. Leave the walls of this academy. Travel our kingdom. Walk the cobbled streets and forest paths. Meet the merchants, the farmers, the guards, the poets, and the vagrants. Hear their tales. Observe their pain, joy, love, and struggles. And then—write about them."
She raised the scroll and unrolled it dramatically.
"Compose an original story. A novel, inspired by your journey—fiction rooted in truth. The top three stories with the most readers, emotional impact, and popular acclaim will be granted access to the Royal Library of Infinite Pages for one week."
Gasps filled the room.
The Royal Library—the repository of ancient scripts, forbidden texts, and magical codices sealed away for centuries. Even nobles needed special permissions to enter. For most, it was a dream.
And now… it was a reward.
I felt a surge of excitement course through my chest.
"You may use your family's influence, or your creativity alone," the professor said, her gaze briefly landing on me. "This is a test of perspective, not just penmanship. Let the world shape your ink."
As the bell rang and students scattered in heated whispers, I remained at my desk, deep in thought.
A whole kingdom… waiting to be seen. Heard. Written.
The roads of Alcaris were unfamiliar to me, but the stories—oh, the stories—called out like distant melodies.
And in my heart, I knew.
This summer… would be the beginning of my true journey as a writer.
The classroom buzzed with excitement after the announcement of the Journeyman's Quill Contest. Students gathered in small groups, already discussing routes to take, villages to visit, or famous figures to seek interviews with. I remained seated, silently contemplating the endless story threads that could come from a single step outside the academy gates.
But silence never lasted long around those who dislike it.
The scent of rich cologne preceded the person who approached me next. I looked up to find a tall figure with sharp, aristocratic features and golden-blond hair tied in a silk ribbon. His uniform was immaculate, and a golden quill pin gleamed proudly from his lapel.
His voice cut through the air, confident and loud enough for surrounding students to hear.
"Ethan Verne, is it?"
I stood slowly, my eyes meeting his.
"Yes?"
"I figured I'd introduce myself before we begin the game." He smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "I am Caelum Highridge, heir of House Highridge, recipient of the Golden Quill three years in a row, and second-year scholar of the Royal Academy's Advanced Literature Track."
His name echoed in my mind. I had heard it before—whispers of his brilliance, his flawless writing, the ducal backing behind him, and his rumored ambition to one day become Royal Archivist.
"I've read Sky Under the Water," he said, tilting his head mockingly. "Charming. Raw. Almost... childishly emotional. No doubt, the kingdom needed something so accessible."
Several students stifled laughter behind him.
I kept my expression still, though I felt a warmth rising in my chest—not of embarrassment, but fire.
"Are you saying you didn't enjoy it?"
"Oh, I enjoyed it—like I enjoy a common folk tale told around a fire. But the Royal Library isn't a hearth, Ethan. It's a sanctum of knowledge and refined artistry."
He stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a low challenge.
"So, here's a proposal. You and I… let's see who wins the Journeyman's Quill. Who earns the readers' hearts. Who writes a story worthy of eternity."
My hands itched to hold a pen just hearing those words.
"Accepted," I said, simply.
"Good. Let the world be our inkpot… and may the better story win."
With a dramatic turn of his cape, Caelum Highridge left, leaving behind whispers and widened eyes.
A rival.
No—the rival.
Unlike those who sneered behind veils or muttered in jealous corners, Caelum was a true opponent. Talented. Arrogant. Dangerous. And now, my official competitor.
And yet, beneath the challenge, I felt something else rising within me.
Excitement.
Because for the first time, I wouldn't just be writing to survive or to be heard…
I would be writing to win.
The sun hung low over the Royal Literature Academy, bathing its towering spires and ivy-covered walls in golden light. The summer breeze stirred the academy's violet banners, each marked with the emblem of a quill and scroll—symbols of truth, imagination, and legacy.
For most students, this day was a simple departure.
But for two, it was the opening line of a far greater story.
I stood at the main gate, a leather-bound notebook tucked beneath my arm, my ink-set carefully packed inside the satchel on my shoulder. My father had accompanied me all the way from home that morning, his weathered hands adjusting my collar one last time before clasping my shoulders.
"The world's a book, Ethan," he said, his voice thick with pride. "But most only read the first few pages. Go out there… and write your own chapter."
I nodded. "I'll return with a story worth remembering."
Across the courtyard, another carriage stood ready—sleek, black, and lined with gold. Caelum Highridge emerged, dressed in travelwear far too elegant for dirt roads and village inns. Servants scrambled to carry his supplies, including a polished travel desk and personalized inkstones. His golden quill pin glinted like a sunbeam on steel.
We made eye contact.
He smirked, gave a mock salute, and climbed into his carriage without a word.
He would travel like a noble. Protected, pampered, and escorted by House Highridge's retinue.
I, on the other hand, would travel by common foot, wagon, and riverboat, with nothing but curiosity and ink to guide me.
Two writers. Two worlds. One goal.
As the main bell of the academy rang thrice—a deep, resonant chime marking the end of term—I stepped past the gate.
My boots touched the cobblestone road beyond the academy walls. For the first time, I truly felt the size of the kingdom. Mountains loomed on the distant horizon. Caravans wheeled through forest trails. Airships dotted the sky above, drifting toward floating cities like drifting thoughts in a dream.
Villages waited beyond rivers.
Stories whispered behind windows and shopfronts.
Lives were being lived—quiet, loud, joyful, tragic—all of them waiting to be discovered, understood, transformed by ink into something immortal.
"Let's see who writes the better truth," I murmured to myself.
Behind me, other students began their own journeys. Some in groups, some alone. Some had plans. Others had none. But all of us shared that same spark: the hunger to see the world and leave our mark upon it.
And thus began the first true chapter of my journey—Not as a noble.Not as a child.But as a storyteller.
Armed with nothing but paper, pen, and the impossible dream of writing a tale that could move even the coldest heart.