Alaric was born in the quiet village of Silvermere, nestled in the fertile heartlands of Eryndor. His family, though humble, was well-respected within the community. His father, Darion, was a blacksmith, his hands calloused from years of forging weapons and tools that were prized across the region. His mother, Elenna, was a herbalist, known for her remedies that could heal both the body and the spirit. Alaric was their only child, a bright-eyed boy with an insatiable curiosity and a penchant for wandering the meadows and forests that surrounded their village.
Life in Silvermere was simple but peaceful. While the distant rumblings of war with the Demon Lord’s forces grew louder, the village remained untouched, its people living in quiet denial of the chaos spreading across the world. For Alaric, those early years were idyllic. He would spend his days helping his father at the forge, gathering herbs with his mother, and dreaming of the day when he would receive his class, the defining moment in every Eryndorian child’s life.
In Eryndor, every child at the age of 15 underwent the Class Awakening Ceremony, a sacred rite performed by the kingdom’s mages. The ceremony not only revealed a person’s innate class but also granted them their first set of skills, abilities tied to their unique potential. For some, it was the dawn of greatness—a chance to become warriors, mages, or healers. For others, it was a sobering revelation of their limitations.
On the day of Alaric’s ceremony, the entire village gathered in the square. He stood among his peers, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. The mage overseeing the ceremony, an elderly woman with a stern face and kind eyes, placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are you ready, child?” she asked. Alaric nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
As the mage chanted the ancient spell, a soft golden light enveloped Alaric. He felt a strange warmth flow through him, a connection to something vast and unknowable. Then, as the light faded, the mage stepped back, her brow furrowed. “Essence Sage,” she announced, her voice carrying a tone of both curiosity and pity.
The murmurs of the crowd were immediate. “Essence Sage?” someone whispered. “What use is that?” another muttered. Alaric’s heart sank as he saw the looks of confusion and disappointment on the faces of his family and neighbors. He didn’t fully understand what his class meant, but he could already tell it was not one of the celebrated roles like Knight or Elementalist.
When the mage explained his skills, the reality of his situation became even clearer. His first skill, Essence Extraction, allowed him to draw the magical essence from objects, skills, and living beings. The process was slow and yielded only fragments of essence that could sometimes, with a minuscule 1% chance, grant him a skill. His second skill, Essence Infusion, allowed him to temporarily imbue the essence he collected into himself or others as buffs.
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“Useful for crafting or support,” the mage said, her tone neutral but her expression betraying her doubt. “But not for combat.”
Alaric’s father clapped him on the shoulder, forcing a smile. “You’ll find a way to make it work,” he said, his voice tinged with forced optimism. But his mother’s worried glance betrayed her true feelings. The path of an Essence Sage was not one of glory or strength. It was a life on the fringes, of subtlety and patience—traits not valued in a world teetering on the edge of destruction.
For the next few years, Alaric worked tirelessly to master his class. He practiced Essence Extraction on everything he could find—rare herbs, enchanted trinkets, and even small woodland creatures. He studied ancient tomes, seeking to understand the intricate nature of essence and how it could be harnessed. But no matter how hard he tried, the skill refused to yield any tangible results. The 1% chance of gaining a skill from extracted essence remained an insurmountable barrier.
The villagers’ whispers grew louder. Some pitied him; others mocked him. “A sage who can’t learn a single skill,” they said. Even his own parents, though supportive, couldn’t hide their disappointment.
When Alaric turned 20, he left Silvermere, hoping to find his place in the world. He traveled from town to town, offering his skills to anyone who would hire him. He infused weapons with temporary boosts, healed minor injuries with essence, and occasionally enhanced the stamina of weary travelers. But his abilities were seen as little more than parlor tricks, and he struggled to make a living.
When the Demon Lord’s forces began their march across Eryndor, Alaric volunteered to help in any way he could. He joined the army as a support mage, using Essence Infusion to bolster the strength of soldiers and repair magical artifacts. But on the battlefield, he was a liability. Without any fighting skills of his own, he could only watch as his comrades fought and died around him.
It wasn’t until the final days of the war that Alaric’s class revealed its true potential. On the blood-soaked plains outside the capital, surrounded by the corpses of fallen soldiers and mages, he activated Essence Extraction on the remains of a Chronomancer, a master of time magic. For the first time, the skill yielded more than fragments—it granted him a complete essence: Essence Regression, a forbidden spell that allowed the user to turn back time.
With no other options, Alaric combined the essences of the fallen into himself, creating a hybrid skill that had never been attempted. In his final moments, as the Demon Lord’s forces closed in, he cast the spell, his soul and memories hurled twenty years into the past.
And so, as Alaric awoke in his younger self, the boy who had once been scorned and pitied, he realized that his journey was far from over. This time, he would not fail. This time, he would master his class, no matter the cost. The world may have mocked the Essence Sage, but Alaric knew that the power of essence was far greater than anyone had ever imagined.