The Forest of Welim, also known as the Forest of Lost Paths, was a place where few dared tread, a territory steeped in danger and soaked in ancient magic. Once, long ago, during the era of the Great Calamity, the forest had been a thriving part of the human realm. That was, until the treants—the treefolk—spawned a Demon King from among their kind. Twisted by madness, the treant race surged forth like a tidal wave, overrunning human settlements in their path.
In the wake of their rampage, humanity lost nearly five percent of its habitable territory. That land was swallowed by corruption, consumed by the encroaching dark magic. And so, the Forest of Welim was lost, claimed by the demonic and rendered unfit for human life.
The Calamity.
The word referred not only to the sudden, unnatural birth of Demon Kings or eldritch gods from among monsters, but also to those creatures themselves. However, when people spoke of the Great Calamity, its meaning deepened: it was an event in which an entire species mutated in a single generation, producing not just a lone threat but a monstrous horde. It was a catastrophe on the scale of a species.
Most of the creatures in such an event didn’t reach the terrifying power of a true Demon King. But what they lacked in individual strength, they made up for in sheer overwhelming numbers.
Take goblins, for example. Ordinarily, they were the lowest tier of magical creatures. A small village could fend them off with little more than hoes and pitchforks. They were nuisances, not threats.
But during one recorded Great Calamity, even goblins transformed. One rose to become a Goblin King. Then the Goblin King evolved further into a Goblin Emperor.
Goblins were supposed to be the bread-and-butter enemies for greenhorn adventurers. A Goblin King was a challenge for those with a few campaigns under their belt. And even then, neither were especially powerful by monster standards. But in numbers? They were terrifying.
Goblins were a prolific species. So prolific, in fact, that in the underground caverns beneath the Dragon’s Village, it was said that goblins had been kept by the thousands, bred and managed like livestock. A swarm that size, all turned hostile, was nothing short of apocalyptic.
Every last one of those goblins had been boosted by the mutations brought on by the Great Calamity. The result was nothing short of a disaster, on a scale so massive it sounded almost fictional. Frontier villages fell like dominoes, devoured by the onrushing tide of goblin forces with no time to mount any kind of defense.
When it came to Goblin Emperors, those weren’t just your average monsters. They were classified as Phantom Beasts, the kind of ultra-rare threats that entire kingdoms were built to repel. Imagine that: each goblin settlement, of which there were many, produced one, sometimes even two of these monstrosities. It was no wonder every nation’s knight orders were suddenly thrown into chaos.
Still, if that had been the end of it, humanity might have scraped through. Just barely.
The Goblin Emperor was supposed to be the apex of goblin evolution, the final form. The evolutionary ceiling. But in that particular calamity, the goblins didn’t stop there. No, the one at the top of the hierarchy, the ruler who had originally reached the Emperor stage, underwent an impossible transformation.
It evolved again.
They called it the Ultimate Goblin. A creature whose power rivaled that of the highest-class evil gods, a singular being who led an army so vast and violent that entire nations crumbled under its advance. Wherever it marched, kingdoms died.
By the time the threat was finally extinguished, roughly ten percent of the continent’s landmass had been lost, swallowed by darkness, ceded to monsters.
Defeating it had required a total mobilization: every Hero from the four cardinal directions, every S-rank adventurer from every known kingdom. Only when all those forces joined together did humanity manage to strike back and bring the threat down.
But you’re probably starting to realize the pattern here. The world Cordelia and I lived in? It was one where humanity was slowly, steadily declining.
Every few hundred years—sometimes just a few decades—a Great Calamity reared its head. And every time, we lost a little more. A few percent of livable land here. A few more safe cities there. As of now, humans didn’t even control half the continent. We were holding onto scraps.
And every time we clawed back a little progress—every advance in science, every leap in magic—it got dragged backward again by the next disaster. At this point, we were not evolving. We were just barely treading water.
Anyway, I got a little off track.
What I meant to say was: Altena Magical Academy, where Cordelia and I now attended, wasn’t always in its current location. A few hundred years ago, the school was forced to relocate from its original site after another territory was lost.
It was said that the old site of Altena Magic Academy now lay deep within the cursed Forest of Welim, the same place once consumed by a Great Calamity and twisted into what people now called the Forest of Lost Paths.
Why bring this up? Because, well, context matters.
Not long after the entrance exams ended, the Academy posted our class placements. Rankings were based on performance, at least officially. Lilith, thanks to her spectacular duel with Cordelia during the practical, was slotted into the elite scholarship class. Cordelia, naturally, was already at the top.
Me? Dead last.
According to the academy’s own words, the reason was simple and blunt: “Because you’re a Villager.” Nothing more. No subtlety. No shame.
Though, between you and me, I was pretty sure there was a noble brat somewhere pulling strings behind the scenes. Some little lordling who didn’t like seeing a commoner score well. That explanation made a lot more sense.
Still, I wasn’t too bothered. As long as I could keep tabs on Cordelia from a close enough distance, it didn’t really matter where they put me. And with Lilith embedded in the top class, I’d have some eyes up there too. For now, that was good enough.
Which brings us to today.
Our bottom-rank class—forty-odd students—had been gathered out on the Academy’s training grounds. Each of us was burdened with a heavy hiking pack, like we were about to climb a mountain instead of study magic. Nearby, five mercenaries stood watch, clearly from the Adventurer’s Guild. Big guys. Mean-looking. Not the sort you wanted to ask questions twice.
One man stood at the head of the formation, arms folded across his gray robe. Middle-aged, thickly built, and already radiating that special brand of contempt reserved for people who thought their time was being wasted.
I raised a hand. “Hey, Instructor? Mind if I ask something?”
He turned to me, and his expression twisted as he’d just stepped into something foul. “Hey, kid.”
“Kid? You talking to me?”
“You see anyone else running their mouth?”
“Fair enough,” I muttered. “So, what’s the plan here?”
He gave no answer, letting a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
“This is a field camp. Minimum duration: one month. During that time, my word is law. You disobey, you drop.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Then he raised his voice, loud enough to reach the whole group, his grin stretching wider. “Listen up, maggots—because from this moment on, that’s all you are. Trash.”
His voice cut through the field like a drawn blade: deep and rough but carrying undeniable authority. The kind of voice that didn’t need to shout to demand attention. Every head turned. The word “trash” hung in the air like smoke after an explosion. You could feel the air tighten, a collective tension rising as every student’s gaze locked onto the instructor.
“Your entrance exam scores were the worst,” he said flatly, without a shred of sympathy. “Let me be blunt: more than half of you are completely useless. Every year, during this training camp, more than half end up quitting.”
I remembered something about that during orientation… how the lowest-ranking class was put through a sort of “trial period.” But even so, hearing it like this, being told you were garbage to your face? That was another level. Brutal didn’t begin to cover it.
Still, he didn’t stop there.
“The academy didn’t pick you for no reason. Most of you are commoners, peasants with no formal training in magic. So yes, right now, you’re trash. But somewhere among you, there might be a few with real talent. Hidden potential.”
He gave a bitter, almost amused snort. “And me? I’m the one stuck digging through that garbage. Wading through filth, trying to fish out a gem or two. That’s my job. I’ve been handed the delightful task of sewer cleaner.”