The bells of Eorzea tolled across three cities that day.
In Ul'dah, the blazing heart of Thanalan.
In Gridania, the forest cradle of the Twelveswood.
In Limsa Lominsa, the salt-stung city of sails.
Within the Arena Halls of each guild, five warriors stood at the edge of transformation. The guildmasters themselves had called them, not for another day of drills, but for the trials that would decide whether they would rise into new callings — Paladin, White Mage, Monk, Dragoon, and Warrior.
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The Gladiator's Guild – Ul'dah
Zack stood tall before Jenlyns, commander of the Sultansworn. The man's armor gleamed like sunlight on steel, his voice a steady anchor in the echoing hall.
"You've taken your lessons to heart, Zack Fair," Jenlyns said, hands folded behind his back. "You wield your blade not for yourself, but for those who cannot. Yet training in this hall is but a shadow of battle. To become Paladin, you must show that your courage holds when steel and blood meet."
He produced a crystal of pale fire, its light refracting like a shield.
"This soul crystal is not won by bravado. It is claimed through sacrifice and service. The Burning Sands of Thanalan will test you. Go forth — and prove that your sword can shield those who depend upon you."
Zack rested his bastard sword across his shoulder, grinning despite the solemnity. "Sounds simple enough — stand tall, fight hard, protect the helpless. You'll see, old man."
Jenlyns's expression flickered, half stern, half amused. "Do not mistake tradition for age, lad. The desert will not be merciful."
With a sweep of his gauntlet, the aether tore open — a gate shimmering with golden heat.
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The Conjurer's Guild – Gridania
In the hush of the forest hall, E–Sumi–Yan regarded Aerith with eyes both youthful and ancient. His Padjal horns glimmered faintly in the filtered light of the Twelveswood.
"You have listened well to the whispers of the forest," he said gently. "You call upon the flow of aether with grace, and life answers your summons. But the measure of a White Mage is not found in words or practice. It is tested when despair presses close, when healing means standing between life and death."
He extended a crystalline staff, its tip glowing like a bud of eternal spring.
"To walk this path is to vow your heart to the helpless. In a sickened glade, where corruption festers, you must let your light bloom. Only then will the forest name you White Mage."
Aerith's hands tightened around her staff. Her eyes, steady as sunlight through leaves, did not waver. "I've seen despair before. I know how it feels to heal in the darkest hour. I won't falter."
E–Sumi–Yan smiled faintly. "Then may the forest watch over you."
The aether stirred, and a gate bloomed before her like a tree opening its hollow — roots curling, dripping with sickly green glow.
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The Pugilist's Guild – Ul'dah
The guildhall thundered with the rhythm of fists striking wood. Hamon Holyfist, fiery elder of the Pugilists, barked orders as trainees sparred around him. When he turned to Galuf, his grin was as fierce as his stance.
"Old bones or not, you've kept your fists true, Galuf!" Hamon shouted, his voice carrying like a battle cry. "You've danced through drills and found your rhythm. But don't think fists honed in comfort mean anything. A Monk's strength is proven only where spirit and muscle burn together!"
He slammed his fist into his open palm with a crack that echoed like thunder.
"You will test yourself in the steppe outside Ul'dah! There, in the wind and dust, you'll prove whether your spirit is stronger than your years. Show me body, mind, and soul — striking as one!"
Galuf grinned, his white beard shaking as he cracked his knuckles. "Finally! I was starting to think you'd never give me a real fight."
Beside him, Chuchuto, Hamon's fiery assistant, smirked. "Don't embarrass us, old man. Even a moogle could knock you over if you slack off!"
Galuf roared with laughter. "We'll see who's still standing when the dust settles!"
Hamon lifted both arms, and the aether split open in a swirl of dry grass and open sky.
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The Lancer's Guild – Gridania
The wooden hall of the Lancers was quiet, every strike of practice lances echoing like heartbeat drums. Ywain, calm as a mountain stream, stood before Noctis.
"Your lance finds its mark, Noctis Lucis Caelum, and your heart does not falter when you leap," he said, voice steady, almost meditative. "But the Dragoon's path is not one of safety. It is risk — to pierce sky and fate itself."
He held out a soul crystal, shimmering with the faint image of wings and scales.
"To earn the dragon's soul, you must face fear where it is strongest. The wyvern's mountain aerie awaits you. If your blood is burden, you will fall. If it is strength, you will soar."
Noctis's hand brushed the haft of his lance, his face unreadable but his eyes burning with resolve. "If it means I can turn my fate into strength… then I'll leap."
Ywain struck his spear into the floor, and a gate rose like a spiral of skyward wind, faintly echoing with a dragon's roar.
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The Marauder's Guild – Limsa Lominsa
The sea winds crashed against the walls of the Marauders' hall, banners snapping above. Wyrnzoen, massive and broad as a cliff, stood with arms folded. His laugh boomed through the hall even before he spoke.
"You've swung your axe with power, lad, but power alone doesn't make a Warrior!" he said to Reks, voice like storm-tossed surf. "Our way is endurance — to take the blow, to stand when others would fall, and to turn that fury into strength!"
He raised a glowing soul crystal, red as burning coals.
"If you would wield this, you must stand in the storm, with nothing but your will between you and death. Prove you can fight, bleed, and endure — and still rise!"
Reks straightened, eyes sharp despite the scars of his past. "I've fallen before. I've bled before. But I always rise. That won't change."
Wyrnzoen barked a laugh and slammed his axe into the ground. The stone split, revealing a swirling gate of thunder and sea-spray. "Then prove it in the storm-wracked cavern near Limsa!"
Though their trials would be fought apart, the five stood together in the Arena's central chamber one last time. The guildmasters' voices overlapped, different yet united, forming a chorus of fate.
"Training has tempered your body, sharpened your mind, and tested your spirit. But mastery comes when resolve faces despair, when courage answers fear, when steel and soul meet."
Five gates pulsed around them — desert flame, sickened forest, wind-swept steppe, mountain aerie, and storm cavern.
Zack smirked, adjusting his grip on his sword. "Guess it's showtime."
Aerith smiled gently, brushing hair behind her ear. "Be safe, everyone. We'll meet again stronger."
Galuf roared with laughter. "Don't waste time worrying! Worry for the poor beast that has to fight me!"
Noctis's gaze was quiet, burning. Reks said nothing, only nodded once, axe in hand.
Together, they stepped toward their gates, swallowed by aether and fate.