Upon leaving the laboratory of Master Mosido, Elandril strode purposefully through the extensive structures of the Black Magic Academy in Mosobra City, making his way toward his modest abode. The Academy was a colossal entity, its grandeur known throughout the lands. The Dark Sorcerers, elevated beings as they were, did not reside in the same quarters as the black magic apprentices, an unspoken testament to the hierarchy that thrived within these dark arts' devotees.
Navigating through towering academic edifices under the moon's ghostly glow, Elandril encountered several of his fellow apprentices. Like him, they hurried on their paths, faces shrouded more by their personal ambitions and fears than the falling night, making it rare for any of them to pause and engage in even the most fleeting of conversations.
The Academy's rules fostered a frigid atmosphere, where warm camaraderie was as foreign as daylight within these cursed walls. Relationships were forged more out of necessity or strategic alliances; true friendship was a rare gem, often crushed by the unrelenting grind of rivalry and suspicion.
It was amidst the shadowy tendrils of the White Raven Forest, a stretch of ink-green wilderness that marked the final leg of his journey home, that Elandril found his path obstructed.
"Ah, Elandril," a voice slithered through the darkness, carrying with it a sneer as sharp as a blade. "Scar-faced Joke was right, you are indeed wounded, perhaps more gravely than you perceive."
"Why suffer slowly, ensnared by the claws of pain and waiting for the embrace of death? Let me expedite your journey to the void!" The words were punctuated by a chilling laugh, devoid of warmth, a sound that seemed to dance on the edges of the wind.
From the dense underbrush of the White Raven Forest, a figure leaped forth. Clad in a black robe that seemed to absorb the very light around him, the aggressor wore a mask as white as bleached bone, creating a spectral vision in the moonlit darkness. He was almost Elandril's height, though, in contrast to Elandril's enviable locks of golden hair, this assailant's strands were a mottled gray, akin to a sky burdened with storm clouds.
Conflict among the magic apprentices was not just common; it was the norm, a crucible within which only the strongest survived and ascended. And here, amidst the whispers of the forest, another confrontation was about to unfold beneath the indifferent gaze of the stars.The feud between Elandril and the apprentice known as Yilke had its roots buried in the gritty past of the Dark Realms. It all began a decade prior when Elandril, a newcomer to this grim underworld, had been driven by sheer hunger to a state of primal desperation. In a frantic bid for a morsel of food, to stave off the gnawing emptiness in his belly, he had felled a fellow captive, a peer ensnared like himself in this subterranean nightmare, with a single, survival-driven punch.
Tragically, the recipient of that desperate blow was none other than the brother of Yilke, who now stood before Elandril as an adversary shaped by grief and vengeance. The years had not been kind to the children abducted into the Dark Realms. The once powerless human youths, struggling for sustenance and survival, had evolved into neophytes of dark magic, their innocence corroded by the nefarious arts they were compelled to study.
Yilke's brother, having been denied food and then struck down by Elandril, never made it to the pivotal moment when the dark academy's emissaries arrived to assess the initiates' Psychic Force. Though one could argue that the boy might have succumbed to the harshness of their environment regardless, failing to meet the stringent standards set by the academy of dark sorcery, this rationale did little to cool Yilke's simmering resentment.
Oddly, Yilke had refrained from seeking immediate retribution, perhaps intimidated by Elandril's formidable strength and ferocity, anomalous among children their age. But the years fermented the animosity within him, leading to numerous clashes between the two in the shadowy corridors of Mosobra's academy of dark arts. Their conflicts were far from petty squabbles; on at least two occasions, they had teetered perilously on the brink of mortal consequence.
It was a cumulative loathing, an aggregation of every cursed encounter, that brought them to this: a vow of mutual destruction, an understanding that their strife would not culminate until one of them lay lifeless.
Strangely, such feuds were not uncommon among apprentices in Mosobra, and even more bizarre was the stance of the Dark Sorcerers themselves. Those enigmatic figures, ensconced in their power and mystery, did not deign to prevent these internal combats. Instead, they observed with a morbid fascination, almost an encouragement, as their young wards dueled in a macabre dance of survival, a testament to the harsh world in which they were all ensnared.Perhaps, to the Dark Sorcerers, this was nothing more than an amusing sideshow, a diversion to indulge in after their rigorous experiments.
Lingering too long, however, might attract the scrutiny of the academy's overseers and the unwanted interference of fellow apprentices in black magic.
Thus, after coldly ridiculing Elandril with a few sharp jabs, Yilke wasted no time in making his move. Unlike Elandril, whose mastery lay in the fiery arcana, Yilke excelled in the art of botanical magic. His exceptional prowess in the academy's botanical gardens had even earned him a low-tier magical artifact awarded by the institution itself—the Pale Masquerade—which he was now wearing across his face. It was clear from this that without sufficient power, one wasn't even qualified to be a rival for Elandril.
Three verdant-tipped arrows materialized and shot forth as Yilke chanted softly, launching from before him. A standard spell of this nature would only conjure two arrows, but Yilke's ability to summon three signified that he, like Elandril, was brushing the threshold of an Intermediate Apprentice level.
Yet, in the face of Yilke's aggressive onslaught, Elandril remained unmoved. The three green-fletched missiles zeroed in, targeting his head, heart, and lower body, each poised to strike with lethal force. Elandril, freshly returned from a completed mission, found himself depleted, his Psychic Force barren and his Mana dry, making it near impossible to counter with his potent Lesser Fireball Spell.
Moreover, his severely wounded body forbade him from evading the ferocious incoming green arrows in time. Hindered and vulnerable, he stood grounded as each arrow sought to claim his life with a dire precision that brooked no resistance.As Yilke released three verdant-tipped arrows, a hint of a smile began to form beneath his Pale Masquerade. In this arcane world, the constraints of Psychic Force and Mana bound every magic apprentice tightly, making each spell they mastered and the number of its usages a matter of harsh limitation.
Take, for instance, Elandril and Yilke. These Junior Apprentices, even at their pinnacle, could only muster the energy to unleash the Greenfletch Arrows or a Lesser Fireball Spell twice at best. Yet, it would take no more than a single one of those three green-fletched arrows to snatch Elandril's life away, potentially exploding his head in a gruesome spectacle.
However, the smile that danced behind Yilke's mask began to stiffen as Elandril, with a fluid motion, drew a magical wand from his bosom. Before Yilke could react or attempt any remedial action, the last vestiges of Elandril's Psychic Force ignited, and corrosive acid etched within the wand shot forth in an instant!
Indeed, this was a worthy initiation gift from the esteemed Dark Sorcerer Mosido to his pupil Elandril. Even if it was but a trinket, concocted almost absentmindedly during one of Mosido's alchemical experiments, it empowered Elandril, wand in hand, to duel any apprentice of intermediate level or higher.
Beyond the high-level Corrosive Acid Spell, this particular wand also possessed the capability to slowly regenerate Mana and restore Psychic Force. Since departing from Master Mosido's laboratory, Elandril had kept this wand tightly within his grasp, an unassuming yet potent weapon concealed until the moment of direst need.
Though Mana and Psychic Force had not been restored in abundance, they sufficed for any unforeseen circumstances that might arise within the ominous walls of the Dark Magic Academy. The disparity between high-level magic, represented by the Corrosive Acid, and the lower echelons, as evinced by the Verdant Piercing Arrows, was stark, crossing the bounds of mere power into the realms of speed, precision, and sheer destructive elegance.
The trio of once-menacing Verdant Arrows, charging forth with lethal intent, disintegrated into mere wisps of green smoke under the Acid's sinister yellow glow. The high-tier spell did not diminish there; it relentlessly sought Yilke, who found himself incapacitated, unable to conjure a second line of defense or nimbly dodge out of harm's way.
A cry of agony pierced the charged air, a raw, visceral scream that echoed the depths of his torment. The 'hiss' of corroding flesh sent an involuntary shudder through any onlooker, the sound insidiously intertwining with tightening skins. Soon, Yilke's cries dwindled into nothing more than a haunting whisper of what once was.
As Elandril approached the aftermath, the scene striking in its brutal finality, he noted that save for Yilke's relatively intact head, the rest of him had been reduced to a charred, unrecognizable mass.
The air was thick with a revolting stench, a testament to the unforgiving nature of the magic wielded. Yet, the macabre spectacle did little to alter Elandril's expression, his countenance as still as the grave.
Rustles of movement began to punctuate the heavy silence — other apprentices or perhaps monitors from the academy had taken notice. Unruffled, Elandril commenced the meticulous collection of his spoils of war, moving with a purpose that belied the chaos.
First, he retrieved the Pale Masquerade from the grotesque remains at his feet. As a low-tier magical artifact, it was inscribed with a single, modest enchantment — the Clarity Spell. This minor sorcery granted its user enhanced vision in the cloak of darkness, a seemingly meager reward salvaged from the gruesome tableau of power's relentless pursuit.
Although its worth paled in comparison to the short staff that Elandril now held in his hands, it was nonetheless a prize that warranted his keen attention.