The journey begins.

Arian and Zinarphil still lived in their wooden cabin. Now seven years old, Arian spent more time learning martial and magical arts than childish games. His instructor, Zinarphil—of the dragon-kind, the very one who had raised Atrius—was tasked with Arian’s training.
«Very well, Arian,» said Zinarphil, seated on a sofa with one leg crossed over the other. «Before we begin practice, you must answer a few questions about geography. Agreed?»

Arian gazed into those amber eyes encircling vertical-slit pupils, and with a scowl that betrayed his displeasure at the questions, answered: «Yes, Master.»
Zinarphil smirked at Arian’s expression. «First question: Tell me—what is the form of this world?»

«Well, Master… The world we live in is formed of two great continents, with an ocean between them.»
«Good. Now,» Zinarphil’s claw tapped the armrest, «name them—and tell me which continent we dwell upon.»
Arian paused for a few seconds. His eyes, which had been following a butterfly by the window, reluctantly dragged back to his master’s question: «The larger continent is Ougandra—where we are. The smaller one is Zilandryn. And the ocean… is Thalaris.»

Zinarphil, unable to suppress a chuckle at Arian’s scowling face, asked: «Last question—trust me! Name the nations of Ougandra.»
«Well… Calustia, land of humans… Argolin for dragons, Scilandrin for Elves, and lastly… Darkland, realm of the Bloodsham.»
«Well done, my boy!» Zinarphil’s tail thumped the floor in approval. «As promised, you may go play now. Just… watch yourself.»

Arian darted out of the cabin like a bird freed from its cage, eager to play—though his only companion was a simple wooden sword. Zinarphil watched the small back of this fallen prince, upon whom a bloody legacy loomed instead of a crown. Within, he pondered the boy’s uncertain future.
Day after day, Arian and Zinarphil adhered to their training. Zinarphil prepared him for what lay ahead, answering every question the restless child pestered him with—except those about his parents. To those, he only ever repeated one reply: «They were the finest souls I’ve ever known in this world.»

Hours passed in this manner. Each day, Arian grew stronger in both knowledge and combat skills—so much so that Zinarphil realized this training model could no longer keep pace with his progress.
«Arian,» he began, scales glinting in the cabin’s dim light, «how would you feel about a journey? I think it’s time you saw the world beyond this forest.»
«Yes, Master! Please!» Arian nearly vibrated with excitement. «Let me go pack my things—quick! So… where are we going? The sea? Or the Argolin Range? Hmm! No, no—what about the Dark Marsh?!»

«Quiet!» Zinarphil’s voice carried the weight of centuries. «This is no pleasure trip. Our first destination is Calustia’s capital—for missions.»
And so time flowed. Arian and Zinarphil stood ready to embark on their shared odyssey.
They journeyed on foot, the young boy building endurance with each step. Zinarphil taught him to draw in the ambient mana while walking—no meditation, no exhaustion. A skill woven into motion itself.

In the early days of their journey, they emerged from the forest that had cradled their wooden cabin, stepping into the vast expanse known as the Merchant's Plain—a lush, endless grassland. At its heart lay roads stitching Calustia directly to Sylindrin.
As they left the forest, Arian kept glancing back, his heart heavy with a bittersweet farewell to the scattered comforts of childhood he’d known.

«Master, look at those butterflies! Why do they act like that? So delicate!»
«Arian, stay vigilant. Remember this, child: beautiful things often hide dangers. Notice how they hover more around insects than flowers? Because the mana within insects is… sweeter to them.»
«But why should I be careful? I’m not an insect… am I?!»
«True. Yet if you provoke one, they’ll swarm you—for they are vindictive little creatures.»

«Wow, such fascinating creatures! But why weren’t they in the forest? Guess they were scared of it… gasp Master, look at that dog! This one doesn’t seem dangerous, right? ’Cause it’s ugly!»
Their journey unfolded thus. Along the path, they encountered a few travelers bound for Iravana—the border town adjoining Sylindrin.
As night deepened and the moon hung at its zenith, Zinarphil declared: «We rest here. New lessons await.»
Arian helped him prepare supper, then kindled the campfire, flames licking the velvet dark.

«Very well, Arian. Tonight, I’ll teach you the anatomy of the races. Despite glaring differences, our bodies function similarly. How? Listen closely. All beings who wield mana must develop Mana Veins and a Mana Core—just as blood needs vessels, mana requires its own circulatory system!
Yet the timing varies by race: Humans form theirs at age 8, Elves at 12, Dragons at 20, and Bloodshams at 31. These are approximations, of course. Some, like you, forge their core far sooner—a rare spark.»

«Really, Master? So I have a Mana Core?»
«Yes, Arian. You’re a prodigy—an anomaly who forged his core at age five. Recall that day you collapsed, drenched in sweat? Now swear this: tell no one except those you trust with your life.»
«Yes, Master. But can you explain more?»
«Not tonight. Sleep now—I’ll join you shortly.»
After lulling Arian to sleep, Zinarphil moved toward a shadow-cloaked spot in the plain. With each deliberate step, the suffocating pressure grew thicker—a poison seeping into the air.
«Never thought you’d be so foolish...»