Year 3026, Day 20
Arthur Pendragon, a tall boy with long blonde hair that swept back from his kind blue eyes, gazed out at the world before him. His muscular build was accentuated by the sleeveless shirt he wore as he sat in the back of the public transit hover-bus, watching the landscape blur past the reinforced windows. The vehicle hummed with the steady thrum of mana-engines, floating three meters above the designated transit lane while faster flying cars zipped past in the express routes overhead. Every so often, a shimmer of protective barrier magic rippled across the bus's exterior—standard safety measures ever since the Breaches had made travel outside city limits a calculated risk.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, watching the countryside give way to the outskirts of Argentum City. The mid-sized urban center sprawled across the horizon, a blend of gleaming skyscrapers and older stone buildings that had survived the chaos of the Breach Era. Magical wards glowed faintly around the city's perimeter, a constant reminder that humanity lived in a world that had fundamentally changed a millennium ago.
Today's the day, Arthur thought, his reflection staring back at him with determined blue eyes. The day I start rebuilding everything.
His hand unconsciously moved to the small pendant hanging beneath his shirt—a silver dragon coiled around a sword, the last remaining heirloom of the Pendragon clan. Once, that name had meant something. Knights. Honor. Power. Now it meant a crumbling estate on the edge of bankruptcy, a family legacy reduced to stories and faded portraits.
When Arthur was younger, he used to like his Uncle Ambrosius Aurelianus Pendragon. The man was generous with advice, gifts, and stories, and always brought companions for the boy to play with. He seemed wonderful when you only saw him a few times a year, as his flaws never showed during family gatherings.
After Arthur's father was killed in an S-rank dungeon, he and his mother were sent to live with his uncle full time. At the tender age of six, he found himself thrust into a completely different life.
Ambrosius, or Uncle Andy as Arthur usually called him, was already fairly well-known — Headmaster of the Kingsmen's Agency, acclaimed writer and director, playboy philanthropist — yet carried a reputation for being a bit slow-witted. The truth, however, was far darker. He was a genius, and more than that, a master manipulator. The public only saw what he allowed them to see and never guessed the real motives behind his actions. No one ever suspected the villainy hiding behind that socially awkward smile.
The man was a total megalomaniac, obsessed with himself and equally fixated on boosting the prestige of the Pendragon family, along with its branch members, the Arcs and Drakes.
But he does it in the most shameful ways imaginable! The halls of Kingsmen schools were decked out like some gaudy museum to the Pendragons—what a disgrace! Instead of slaying monsters and closing Breaches, he wasted his time at dances and charity galas, the scoundrel. The poor orphans he took in always seemed to end up helping to promote the Pendragon legacy. His so-called "sisters" were seven such orphans, surely adopted only to serve as prime examples of the Pendragons' contributions to peace—and, of course, to torment Arthur with endless teasing, flirting, and constant tests of his self-control.
His mother provides no assistance whatsoever.
It was revolting, except for the parts concerning his sisters, who were simply and undeniably beautiful.Most of the kids Uncle Andy took in turned out to be pretty awesome, and the event food was surprisingly decent—especially considering he had no clue what he was supposed to be doing. Inevitably, he'd get passed around from dance to dance by his sisters like a slightly confused, well-dressed parcel. Still, seeing the family history plastered on the walls was oddly satisfying, like flipping through a scrapbook you didn't know you were in.
Being a descendant of Alexander is nice. But the Pendragons were meant to be warriors, heroes of legend! His uncle should have been slaying beasts as a hunter, jousting as a knight, or at the very least chasing down criminals as a cop. A security guard? Fine, maybe. But a puppet-master? That's not exactly the stuff of epic family ballads.
The worst part was how flawlessly the scoundrel pulled it all off. The public hailed him as a hero, while his foes mocked his supposed mushy heart. The kids, thrilled to have "jobs" as servants, turned down every chance of escape like it was broccoli night. Half of Earth was practically eating out of his hand, blissfully unaware they'd been housebroken.
Gross. Shameful. About as dignified as a raccoon in a tuxedo.
Merlin finds the whole situation funny and he does nothing to help.
But he will change things for the better. He has advantages that no one else has—memories from Earth, or rather his alternate Earth, which shares the same name as this planet and follows his old Earth, at least when it comes to the names of continents and countries.
Arthur leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as the memories of his previous life flickered through his mind like an old film reel. The truck. The screech of tires. The moment of impact. Then... nothing. And then everything.
Waking up as a baby in this world had been disorienting, to say the least. It had taken years to reconcile his memories of a mundane Earth—no magic, no monsters, no flying cars—with the reality of this place. A world where Breaches had torn open the fabric between dimensions, flooding the planet with mana and unleashing creatures that should have only existed in mythology and fantasy novels.
Dragons. Actual dragons. He'd seen one fly over his family's estate when he was seven. It had been magnificent and terrifying in equal measure.
But what haunted him most were the names. His parents: Uther and Igraine Pendragon. His distant relatives mentioned in stories his uncle or granther told: Morgana, Mordred, Gawain. Names that tugged at something deep in his memory, like a word on the tip of his tongue that he could never quite grasp. They felt significant somehow, but he couldn't place why.
Maybe they were characters in some book I read before I died, he mused, not for the first time. Or maybe I'm just overthinking it.
The hover-bus began its descent, lowering toward the Argentum City transit station. Arthur gathered his belongings—a single backpack containing his identification papers, his guild application documents, and a change of clothes. Everything he owned of value was either on his back or hanging around his neck.
Traveling light was a necessity when you were broke.
"Now arriving at Argentum Central Station," the automated voice announced, smooth and feminine. "Please gather your belongings and proceed to the nearest exit. Remember: if you see something suspicious, report it to the nearest Guild patrol. Stay safe, citizens."
Arthur filed off the bus with the other passengers, stepping onto the platform and immediately being hit by the sensory overload that was city life. Argentum wasn't one of the mega-cities like Neo-Tokyo or New London, but it was still a far cry from the quiet countryside he'd grown up in.
Holographic advertisements floated in the air, promoting everything from the latest mana-enhancement supplements to Guild recruitment drives. Street vendors called out their wares—enchanted trinkets, protective charms, "genuine" monster parts that were probably fake. A group of adventurers in mismatched armor laughed loudly as they passed, their weapons gleaming with enhancement runes.
Above it all, massive screens displayed the current Gate alerts: a C-Rank Gate had opened in the industrial district three days ago and been cleared by the Silver Falcon Guild. A B-Rank was currently being monitored in the eastern sector, with the Iron Wolves Guild on standby.
Gates. The permanent reminder that the Breaches had changed everything.
Arthur had studied the history obsessively. One thousand years ago, portals had torn open across the world simultaneously.
No warning. No explanation. Just sudden rifts in reality that poured mana into a world that had never known magic. And with that mana came the Gates, or Breaches is the offical term—stable dimensional doorways that spawned monsters, creatures, and nightmares pulled straight from humanity's collective mythology.
Werewolves. Vampires. Goblins. Demons. Things that had names and things that didn't. All of them hungry, aggressive, and very, very real.
The world's militaries had been overwhelmed within months. Traditional weapons worked, but not well enough. Not against creatures that could regenerate, teleport, or shrug off bullets like raindrops.
Then came the Awakened—humans who could absorb and manipulate mana, developing abilities that ranged from enhanced physical capabilities to reality-bending magic. And with the Awakened came the Guilds.
At first, they were just groups of Awakened banding together for survival and profit. Clear a Gate, harvest the monster cores and materials, sell them for money. Simple.
But as governments crumbled or became ineffective, the Guilds grew. They became the primary defense against Gate breaks. They became economic powerhouses. They became the new nobility, the new military, the new power structure.
A nation's strength was now measured by the number and quality of its Guilds.
And Arthur Pendragon, last heir of a fallen knight clan, was about to try to create one.
The building was impossible to miss—a massive structure of white stone and blue-tinted glass, with the international Guild Association symbol emblazoned above the entrance: a shield crossed with a sword and staff. People streamed in and out constantly: adventurers registering for Gate raids, administrators processing paperwork, hopeful Awakened looking to join established Guilds.
The interior is something Arthur to used to. The main lobby stretched out like a cathedral, with high ceilings and multiple floors visible through interior balconies. Holographic directories floated in the air, directing people to different departments. The noise was overwhelming—conversations, announcements, the hum of magical equipment.
Arthur walked up to the main reception desk, where a weary-looking woman with cat ears—a feline Beastkin, one of the races that had once been human—sat waiting. When mana spilled from the Breach, parts of humanity changed into entirely new races, Light and Dark. Among the light races were Elves, Beastkin, Dwarves, and Agnel, while the dark races included Goblins, Daemons, Gons, and Dragonborn.
"Excuse me," Arthur said politely. "I'm here to take the Guild Creation Qualification Test."
The receptionist didn't look up. "Name and registration number."
"Arthur Pendragon. Registration number A-7734-2891."
Her fingers flew across a holographic keyboard, pulling up his information. Then she paused, her cat ears twitching slightly. She looked up at him for the first time, her golden eyes widen at the man before.
HE's fine! Her mind screamed, a sudden flush of heat rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the lobby's temperature. He's so FINE!
He was handsome in the clean, unassuming way that some men were—like a character in a period drama she'd binge-watched once, or a knight from an old storybook. There was an earnestness to him that was both endearing and slightly out of place in the jaded world of Guilds and Gates. She felt an uncharacteristic urge to help him, to make sure this handsome young man got everything he needed.
"Wow, that's... that's quite a name you've got there," she managed, her voice a little higher than usual. "Pendragon. Like... the famous family?"
Arthur's sent a her smile. Becky bit her lip, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to muster some restraint. "One of them, yes."
"Right. Well." Becky fumbled with her console, suddenly flustered.
"Luv. Relax." And with that, came dangerously close to losing it. After a few more moments of mental preparation, Becky opened her eyes, and let out the breath she'd been holding. Why did this man have such a sexy accent? Luv. Her mind repeated. Luv. Luv. Luuuv.
Becky's professionalism finally won out over her hormones. "Yes…" she said, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. Those deep blue eyes of his, perfectly complemented by the shy smile that so often graced his face, were a combination that… did things to her.
She tapped a few more commands, then a physical ticket printed out from the desk. "Take this to the seventh floor, Testing Division. They'll process your application and administer the qualification exam. Fair warning, handsome—the pass rate for Guild Creation is less than five percent. Most people fail the financial requirement alone."
Arthur took the ticket, managing a confident smile despite the knot in his stomach. "I understand. Thank you."
"Anytime! I mean, you're welcome! Not that you'll need it again, unless you fail and have to come back, which you won't! Not that I'm saying you'll fail! Oh gods, I'll just stop talking now."
Arthur gave her another amused smile before heading toward the elevators. As the doors closed, Becky sank onto her desk, fanning herself with her hands.
"Is it hot in here or is it just me?" she muttered to her coworker, a stoic-looking man with lizard scales.
The lizardman didn't look up from his work. "It's just you. Try to maintain professional decorum, Becky. We've discussed this."
"Oh, shut up, Gary."