The World is ancient, a realm of magic and wonder, where dragons soar the skies and pixie tides roam the forests. But, as with all things, the World has grown tired, its grandeur dulled by the passing of eons. I, a scribe of the old days, remain, my purpose to keep alive the tales of a time when the World was young and full of wonder. And what tale shall I relate? 'Tis a tale of valor and of might, of sorrow and of despair, of mercy and of honour. The chronicle of one who, in his youthful days, rose to become the Kuza, the one and only, blessed with the power to wield magic and defend the realm from the darkness that threatens to engulf it. Yea, let us begin the telling of this tale, for the sands of time are running low, and I, an aged man, have not many days left.

Thus wrote Atlas, sitting alone in his hidden cabin deep within the enchanted woods, the quill in his hand dancing across the pages of his tome, as he sought to etch the deeds of the past into the annals of fantasy.

The year was Gulf, its ninth and final spring. A cold and windy morning, Atlas, a powerful mage and seeker of ancient knowledge, set out on a journey to find the fabled village of Ketbu. He had heard from the Tuthra elves that the hidden city was somewhere to the east, and that was his path. He was headed there in search of knowledge, power, in search of the White Gem belonging to the first Kuza.

As he journeyed on, Atlas's thoughts turned to the legends of Ketbu. Some said it was hidden in the clouds, protected by powerful spells and guarded by dragons. Others whispered that it was a portal to the underworld, where the dead Kuza's watched over their treasures. But none had ever found it, and none were welcome unless they were invited by the elusive inhabitants of the village.

After years of travelling, Atlas had grown tired and in need of rest. That morning, as he was walking up the hills of Drakia, he was amazed by the beauty of this place. His eyes were shining and a warm smile on his face as if he felt peace again in his heart. 'Never could I imagine the east to be a beauty' said Atlas to himself.

As Atlas descended the winding path that led down into the verdant valley, he could not help but marvel at the natural splendor that lay before him. The valley was a verdant oasis, lush with trees and awash with the sparkling waters of a great river that bisected the land. At the heart of the valley stood a majestic waterfall, its crystal-clear waters cascading down from the heights like a curtain of diamonds.

The valley was dotted with small villages, nestled amongst the trees and along the river's edge. The people who lived there seemed to have a deep reverence for the land and its natural beauty. Atlas felt a sense of peace and tranquility wash over him as he looked upon the idyllic scene.

As he drew closer to one of the villages, he began to notice that the flow of mana in the air was growing stronger and stronger. This was a strange phenomenon, and one that piqued his curiosity. He wondered what could be causing such an unusual shift in the flow of mana in such a small, seemingly unremarkable village.

With this question in mind, Atlas decided to stay in the village and learn more about the people who lived there and their ways. Perhaps their simple, peaceful existence would provide him with some answers, or at least offer him a respite from his long and arduous journey. As he approached the village, he could not help but feel a sense of wonder and excitement at the mysteries that lay ahead.

Even the towering peaks of the mount of dwarfs and their ancient magic loomed in the distance and couldn't bring about such a sudden change. As Atlas trekked through the dense woods, surrounded by tall bushes and a light morning mist, the flow of mana began to shift, draining towards the tranquil village nestled amongst the trees. Bewildered, Atlas struggled to hold onto his own mana, but it was as if his body was no longer under his control. The energy slipped away, leaving him feeling weaker by the moment.

Just as Atlas thought all was lost, a powerful surge of mana swept through the realm, returning to him in a sudden, overwhelming burst. But with the influx of energy came a searing pain, as if his mind was being tormented. His vision blurred and he collapsed, unconscious, just outside the village.

When Atlas awoke, he found himself in a cosy tent, surrounded by the sweet scent of herbs and wildflowers. He lay upon a bed of soft wool and hay, listening to the soothing sounds of the river outside and the distant laughter of villagers. The mana within him was calm and peaceful, as if it had found a new home. It was clear that this was no ordinary village, and Atlas couldn't help but wonder what secrets it held, as he lay there surrounded by the morning mist, tall bushes and the sound of the river outside the tent.

Is this a dream? thought Atlas to himself as he woke up in an unfamiliar tent. The canvas walls of the shelter were adorned with intricate patterns and symbols, hinting at the mysterious culture of the place he had stumbled upon. He couldn't remember how he got there or what had happened. He wondered if he should use the mana from the ground again to recover his own, but he was cautious, unsure about the nature of this mana.

As he gazed out of the tent, he saw the towering peaks of the mount of dwarfs in the distance, shrouded in a mystical morning mist that seemed to dance and twirl in the light of the rising sun. He remembered the strange change that had occurred in the flow of mana and the bewilderment he had felt as he struggled to hold onto his own.

Just as he was lost in thought, an old man walked into the tent. "Ohh dear sir, you're awake," said the old man in a soothing, wise tone. "Please don't move."

As the old man approached, Atlas noticed that he was surrounded by the sweet scent of herbs and wildflowers, and a serene energy that seemed to permeate the air. He lay upon a bed of soft wool and hay, listening to the soothing sounds of the river outside and the distant laughter of villagers, creating a sense of harmony and tranquility. The mana within him was calm and peaceful, as if it had found a new home.

"Don't worry, son," said the old man, introducing himself as Methra. "We found you outside the village, fainted. I was quite worried when the hunters came yelling and looking for the old me. They said you were laying on the ground hardly breathing, yet they couldn't lift you at first, as if something was pulling you to the ground."

Atlas thanked Methra for saving his life and asked where he was. Methra explained that they were in a small, humble hamlet, hidden in the woods and protected from the troubles and horrors that lay outside. The village was surrounded by lush greenery and tall bushes, adding to the secluded and serene atmosphere.

Methra offered Atlas some of Mama Tamaya's special boar Talbpat and left, promising to talk more later. Atlas thanked Methra for his help and promised to repay his kindness. As Methra left, Atlas couldn't help but wonder what secrets this strange village held. The energy and culture of the place was enigmatic and alluring, making Atlas eager to uncover its hidden mysteries.

For a moment Atlas had forgotten about what had happened to him but his mind wasn't at ease, he wanted to know what power could have turned mana to that extent. He wanted to see what had caused that and what is happening in this village. He didn't want to rest anymore; his curiosity wasn't letting him rest.

As Atlas ventured out of the tent, he couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder and awe at the village before him. It was as if he had stepped into a different world entirely. The houses were a mix of traditional wooden structures and caves carved into the mountains, each one unique and adorned with intricate carvings and symbols. The streets were lined with lush green trees, their branches entwined with delicate vines and wildflowers.

The village was alive with activity, as the locals went about their daily tasks. He saw women washing clothes in the river, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Men were working on the other side of the river, cutting down trees and carving them into beautiful wooden objects. Children ran around, chasing each other and playing games, while shepherds tended to the flocks of animals that roamed the nearby jungles.

As Atlas walked deeper into the village, he noticed that the architecture and design of the buildings was heavily influenced by the surrounding nature. The houses were built with natural materials, like clay and stone, and were designed to blend seamlessly into the landscape.

He also noticed that the villagers had a deep reverence for the natural world and its elements. Everywhere he looked, he saw symbols and motifs of the sun, moon, and stars, as well as animals and plants. It was as if the village was a living embodiment of the connection between humanity and nature.

As he walked, Atlas couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging, as if this village was where he truly belonged. The villagers seemed to accept him as one of their own, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and kindness emanating from everyone he met.

As Atlas meandered through the picturesque village, he was abruptly jolted from his reverie by a hand upon his shoulder. He remained unfazed, having already sensed the presence of the elderly man following him closely.

"My dear son, it is not advisable for you to be traversing at this juncture," the old man, Methra, spoke in a warm and gentle tone, his countenance adorned with a benevolent smile. "You ought to be convalescing, but it appears that you have already made a full recovery. Come, let us retire to my abode and partake in a discourse over a cup of tea."

Methra, who leaned upon a cane, continued to wear his inviting grin as he led the way to his dwelling. Atlas followed in silence, deep in contemplation. Once they were seated within the hut, the two engaged in discourse, with Atlas attentively listening to every word spoken by Methra, and through this discourse, Atlas discovered the source of the villages magic.