Winter. Evening. December 16th, Year 307 After the Magical Revolution…

A boy, no older than twelve years old by the look of him, was sprinting through a dark, snow-covered forest. The thick snow made every step difficult. His feet sank, his body strained, and the roots buried beneath the white surface, along with hidden snowdrifts, kept making him stumble.

He was dressed in light ceremonial clothing  completely unfit for the freezing weather. The fabric was soaked through with sweat… and blood. His light brown dress shoes constantly sank into the snow, dragging him down with every step.

His body was covered in cuts of varying depth, and the cold air burned his wounds, making him clench his teeth. The pain was sharp, and the wounds were still bleeding, soaking his white shirt in red. But the boy paid it no attention. For the past five minutes, the only thing that mattered was surviving. He ran with everything he had, pushing himself to go as far as possible.

As he passed another tree, he kept glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds. His eyes, wide with fear, scanned the shadows of the forest behind him.

Then, as he turned again, he saw them several black, faceless figures moving silently along the trail of blood he had left behind…

A surge of adrenaline hit him. He pushed himself harder and ran even faster. But his foot soon caught on a tree root hidden under the snow.

“A-aaah!” — he cried out as he tumbled downhill, rolling head over heels.

“Catch him!” — a loud command rang out, more like a shout than an order.

Clearly, the pursuers weren’t chasing him with good intentions. The moment they heard anything remotely resembling a human voice, one of them drew his sword in a flash and jumped after the boy.

There were two men in pursuit, both dressed in black cloaks with warm winter clothing underneath. Unlike the fleeing boy, they were clearly dressed for the weather.

As he rolled down the snowy slope, the boy’s back slammed against roots sticking out of the frozen ground. He finally hit the bottom but immediately jumped up and kept running. A patch of skin just below his left shoulder had been torn, and blood dripped slowly from the wound.

“I see him! He’s heading toward the lake! Repeat  capture the last one! He’s by the lake!”

One of the men stood at the top of the slope, holding a strange glowing stone in his right hand  the same slope the boy had just fallen down seconds earlier.

“Root… stone… snowdrift…” That was all the boy could think about now how to survive.

Tears welled up in his eyes as the realization of what was happening sank in. But he quickly wiped them away and kept running, carefully planning every step so he wouldn’t fall again or slam into a tree.

Following the fresh trail of blood on the snow were several creatures, vaguely resembling wolves only made enTyrely of wood.

They were Spiritual Golems, summoned by the second man — a mage.

A few more minutes passed, and the boy burst out of the forest, running onto a vast, frozen lake. The moment his feet touched the ice, they began to slip. He lost balance and collapsed to his knees.

Behind him, the sound of snapping branches broke the silence. Two golems jumped out from the snowy bushes and stopped, standing still. Moments later, the two pursuers stepped onto the ice.

The boy tried to get up, to jump aside  anything to avoid the inevitable  but the ice beneath him was treacherously slick. He couldn’t get a grip. It felt like the most slippery ice he’d ever set foot on.

One of the men, watching the boy’s desperate attempts to stand, pulled out a magic wand and quietly muttered a spell, pointing it at his boots. In an instant, tiny ice spikes appeared on the soles, giving him perfect traction.

He stepped onto the ice confidently.

The second man, observing from a distance, said nothing. He calmly sheathed his sword, pulled out the glowing stone once more, turned around, and walked away from the lake without looking back.

Meanwhile, the mage in black approached the boy, who was nearly motionless now  freezing, losing his last bits of strength and hope. Without a word, the mage extended his arm and pointed his wand at the boy.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness… just understand me, if your mind and time allow it…”

Blue sparks began to gather around the tip of the wand, quickly forming into one bright glowing mass. The man spoke the spell: “Sigillum Glaciale…”

The glowing lights compressed into a single ball of ice and shot toward the boy with terrifying speed.
All the boy could do was raise his hands in a weak attempt to shield himself.

A deafening crack, like an explosion, echoed across the lake. A thick cloud of blue smoke burst out at the center.

Moments later, the boy’s body flew from the smoke, bounced several times across the ice, and finally came to a stop.

Several minutes passed before he slowly opened his eyes.

Almost his enTyre body was covered in frost, and the ice on his arms had frozen solid, like icy shackles, leaving him unable to move.

His frozen body barely responded.

Then, he lifted his head and finally looked into the face of the man who now stood above him, unmasked.

The boy’s pulse was weak. His breathing turned heavy, then broke into hysterical screaming. He screamed at the man before him, his voice full of pain, hatred, and despair.

The man listened silently. When the boy’s voice faded into exhausted sobs, the mage leaned down and whispered something into his ear. Then he stepped back a meter, touched the ice with his wand, turned around, and walked away.

The boy, sitting in horror on the cracking surface, stared at the man’s back as he disappeared.

A few seconds later, the ice beneath him finally gave way. He fell through and sank.
Still, he kept his one open, bright-blue eye fixed upward  staring at the dark silhouette above, fading through the icy water and the frozen ceiling…

To truly understand the story of the boy who survived. 
The one who would one day be called the greatest sorcerer to ever live. The one who would bend magic itself to his will… We must go back.

Back to where it all began.

“Nero… Nero… come on. Your food’s getting cold…”