Mana Orb

«Mind telling me why you turned back?»
Zinarphil’s expressionless eyes locked onto them—a gaze that had frozen the two bandits rigid.

«Please... spare us! We didn’t realize that... agh!»
The younger-seeming man screamed, his face contorted in agony.

«Didn’t realize what?!
Did you think an old woman and a child would be easy prey?!»

«The two humans launched their assault, but stood no chance against this ancient dragon. The battle ended in the blink of an eye—blood spraying from the bandits’ bodies. Zinarphil then incinerated the corpses, leaving no trace, before returning unhurriedly to Arian’s side to rest.
Come dawn, they resumed their journey. Zinarphil handed Arian a pristine crystal—the very Mana Orb used to awaken one’s core after its formation.»

«Arian, my dear. Take this crystal. Try to channel your mana into it.»
«Why must I?»
«This crystal reveals a Mana User’s elemental affinity.»
Arian shrugged—a child’s gesture of resolve—and began the trial.

He cradled the crystal in his small palms. Breath held. Mana surged through his veins like molten rivers, cascading into the stone. The colorless gem ignited—first in glacial blue, then forest green, next deep umber, and finally... crimson.

Zinarphil’s eyes bulged, scales paling.
«This—this is... impossible!»

«Hey, Master! What do these colors mean?»
Zinarphil finally snapped back to himself—though his eyes still held the ghost of disbelief. «Apologies, child. My mind wandered... What did you say?»
Arian seemed puzzled too, not by the colors, but by his master’s daze: «I asked what the colors are for!»

«Well, Arian,» Zinarphil began, choosing each word like stepping on broken glass, «every Mana User has an elemental affinity. It defines their magic’s nature.» He paused, grappling with the impossible. «There are four primal elements: Wind, Water, Earth, Fire. Most master one. Rarely two. But you... you wield all four.»
As he spoke, the shock in his scales faded into grim awe. «Green is Wind. Blue is Water. Brown is Earth. And crimson... is Fire.»

«So, Master... am I the Elemental King now? The strongest?»
A wry smile touched Zinarphil’s pale lips. «You will be among the mightiest, child. But the path is long—and drenched in sweat.»

Arian’s eyes blazed with mischief. «How many elements do you wield?»
«Three,» Zinarphil’s voice grew heavy. «And another once did... now lost to time.»

The crystal in Arian’s palm began devouring the light, spreading shadows like spilled ink—until it shattered into nothingness.

"Agh! My hand—it’s burning!"
Arian’s palms had blackened like charred coal, yet within seconds, they regained their snow-white purity.

"Arian, you... wait. Black crystal?!"
Zinarphil choked on his words. Black—the hue that wore Death’s own face.

"Master? What happened? Why did my hands change? And what does black mean?"
"Never ask that again. Never. And speak of this to no one."

History whispered it: black belonged solely to the God of Death. Only the oldest scrolls held such secrets—and they spoke nothing more.

"If you won’t explain, shouldn’t we move? We’ve been stranded in this plain for three days, and the capital still looms far off."
"You’re right, child. We go. But remember my warning."

As they walked, Zinarphil’s mind clawed at ancient truths. Four elements weren’t enough—now this? Fragments of a crumbling scroll resurfaced:
"Should an element beyond Nature’s four emerge... its bearer is Anointed. And a bleak fate awaits."

Worst of all? That element was Death’s own shadow.