The Progenitor's Tale
"Welcome, Harvesters, to the bi-annual Harvest Festival," a voice boomed, cutting through the electric hum of the auditorium. "I am this year's Progenitor, Grand-Magi Orion Gold-crest."
Standing at the intricately carved podium, Orion Gold-crest was a vision of Larrisan authority. His emerald gaze, sharp and piercing as a hawk's, swept over the assembly of thirty thousand tributes. His robes, woven from threads that seemed to trap and refract the light of the crystal chandeliers, shifted like a golden sea with every slight movement.
"Today, thirty thousand of you have come to prove yourselves," he announced, his voice carrying a harmonic resonance that vibrated in the very stones of The Factory. "To prove yourselves to your families, to your nations, and most importantly, to yourselves—that you are true mages. Today is the day you show honor. Tomorrow is the day you show courage. And the day after, you will show the world your futures."
George sat on the edge of his seat, his hands resting near the Tele-stone ring that pulsed softly on his finger. Beside him, Nana's expression was one of intense focus, her eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight of the hall. Kayn, usually stoic, sat with his jaw set, the weight of the Alabaster family name—and the shadow of his father, Alfred—resting heavily on his shoulders. This was the moment they had prepared for through months of aura regulation and grueling drills in the trainings grounds.
"To begin the ritual of the Harvest Festival," Orion continued, his tone softening into that of a storyteller, "I must first present to you a tale of its birth." With a swift, practiced motion, Orion tossed a gleaming glass orb into the air. It didn't fall. Instead, it suspended itself in the center of the auditorium, and a blinding light burst forth from its core. The audience gasped as a majestic projection unfurled, painting the air with light and shadow. The image revealed a boy, no older than George, dressed in the tattered rags of a forgotten, impoverished village. The magical orb illuminated the eager faces of the audience, casting a soft glow over George's pale blond hair and the focused, dark eyes of the tributes around him. Orion's voice, deep and resonant, filled the space, weaving a spell of words that made the projection feel alive. The boy in the image stumbled through a dense, ethereal forest until he discovered it: a tree that defied the laws of nature, its branches heavy with golden fruit that shimmered with an inner fire. As the audience watched in hushed awe, the boy reached out and ate. Immediately, his projected form began to illuminate, the remnants of ancient magic coursing through his veins like liquid starlight.
"The fruit appeared to be a gift," Orion whispered, "but gifts often not what they seem."
The scene shifted. The boy had gathered as many golden apples as he could carry, his face etched with the hope of saving his starving village. But just as he reached the outskirts, the magic orb struck a somber chord. Soldiers, clad in the steel of a forgotten king, intercepted him. They didn't see a boy with a gift; they saw power. They gobbled up the apples, and before the boy's eyes, they transformed into the first wielders of potent magic. The projection showed the king's heart darkening with a thirst for domination. His forces seized the tree, shrouding it in secrecy. Yet, as Orion spoke, the air in the room grew cold. Whispers of the tree's bewitching powers spread like wildfire, igniting a cataclysmic war that swept nations into a maelstrom of chaos and bloodshed.
"Yet amidst the din of battle," Orion's voice rose, "a beacon of hope emerged."
The image of the war faded, replaced by the humble figure of Abram, a farmer whose name George had seen in his history texts alongside legends like the Father of Time. Chosen by destiny and guided by a dream laced with prophecy, Abram received a divine mandate to safeguard the Tree of Life. Driven by mystical forces beyond mortal comprehension, Abram moved with a sense of sacred duty that shook the foundations of civilization. The projection showed Abram returning home to his aged wife, who miraculously cradled a newborn baby. The threads of fate, woven by a mysterious figure in the shadows of the vision, began to unravel. It was a prophecy of promise and peril. As the Tree of Life vanished from mortal sight, a shroud of uncertainty descended, ushering in a fragile peace underpinned by the unseen hand of magic.
"Generations ebbed and flowed," Orion said, his emerald eyes finding George's for a fleeting second, "giving rise to a unified alliance. From that peace, the Harvest Festival was born."
The projection shifted one last time, showing contenders from every corner of the world vying for the mantle of the Guardian of Magic. It was a ritual designed to test not just the power of the mage, but the purity of the aspirant's soul. As the light from the orb began to fade, the three friends looked at one another. The sense of camaraderie between George, Nana, and Kayn deepened, becoming a silent, unbreakable vow. They were no longer just students of the Larrisan Magic Academy; they were part of a tapestry of diversity, a new generation standing on the precipice of a history that was still being written. The auditorium hummed with a final, lingering note of anticipation as the Grand-Magi stepped back, leaving them in the golden glow of the festival's awakening.