The low growl echoed from the shadows—a monstrous shape emerging, unseen but felt.
Veridia City's marketplace buzzed with magic Arthur Zenith. l could only watch from the sidelines. Fire mage's juggled glowing crimson orbs, drawing cheers from coin-tossing crowds. Ice mages shaped delicate, sparkling swans from frozen water. Arthur pulled his worn cloak tighter; the rough fabric scraped his neck.
"Watch it, lowly brat! " snarled a lightning affinity guard as Arthur brushed past his guild cloak. Blue sparks crackled from the guard's fingers, and the air thickened, making Arthur's breath come fast. He dropped to his knees—powerless against the electric assault. Curse-bearer. That name stuck like tar. Centuries ago, his family wielded fire magic so fierce they could turn a fortress into ash in a moment. But after the War of Shattered Peaks, a forgotten ritual sealed the Zenith families power—and their exile became a tomb for their legacy.
Arthur slipped away into a dark alley smelling of rotten plums and damp stone. Above him, a recruitment poster flapped—a fire wielder mid-battle, inviting hopefuls to join the prestigious Ignis Guild. His fist clenched tightly. He'd trade ten lifetimes for a single spark of that power.
"Still hiding, Arthur?" The mocking voice came from the alley entrance. Roric stood there, a towering lightning mage, flanked by two earth mage's. His silver guild pendant—a storm cloud—gleamed arrogantly. "Heard your father's still digging through old scrolls. Pathetic. Some curses aren't meant to be broken."
Arthur's voice stayed cold. "What do you want, Roric?"
"Entertainment," Roric replied with a cruel grin. His hand sparked, lightning lashing the wall near Arthur's head, leaving scorch marks. "Jump. Like the powerless rodent you are."
The others laughed. Arthur's muscles tensed, ready to spring, but he held still. React, and he'd win. Their eyes met. "Does your guild master know you waste magic on bullies? Or is cowardice the Stormweaver creed now?"
Roric's smile faded. His hand rose, energy crackling
Crack!
A roof tile shattered between them. Laughter echoed from above—a street urchin's distraction. Seizing the moment, Arthur darted past Roric, sprinting through tangled slums. He didn't stop until the shouts faded behind him, replaced by the wet, earthy scent of decay.
Ahead stood the Temple of the Fallen—moss-covered arches half-swallowed by the hillside. Forbidden. Haunted. Perfect.
Arthur squeezed through a narrow crack in the ancient wall. Darkness swallowed him. His boot struck something cold and metal—a broken censer. Guided by moonlight piercing the ruined ceiling, he moved deeper. The air turned colder, humming with a tension that made his teeth ache.
At the sanctuary's heart, a pulse of emerald light drew him near. Beneath a shattered altar, a crevice glowed softly. Arthur knelt, peering into the abyss. There floated a creature of living crystal, its form shifting—one moment a coiled serpent, the next a tangled root. It pulsed weakly, its light dimming as if drowning.
Trapped. Like me.
Arthur reached inside. His fingers touched the cool crystal.
Agony exploded up his arm like white-hot fire. The creature unraveled, dissolving into liquid light that surged through his veins. Cyan marks bloomed across both arms to his left eye. Visions burst behind his eyes:
- A battlefield where mountains bled lava and storms birthed dragons.
- A hooded figure sealing a Zenith ancestor's magic with a blade forged from shadow.
- The crystal entity—a shard of "Primordial Essence"—imprisoned here, screaming without sound.
Arthur gasped and collapsed as the pain faded. Warmth spread from his chest, strange and electric. He scrambled backward, staring at his hands. No burns. No—nothing else to show for the power now coursing within him.
Arthur felt the pebble near his foot tremble. Slowly, it lifted, hovering in midair. He flinched—and the pebble dropped. A voice echoed in his mind, deep and ancient. "Host," it said. "I am the resonance your world forgot. The key to your cage."
Arthur gasped, struggling to believe what he was hearing. Then, focusing on a patch of lichen on a nearby pillar, he watched in shock as it withered, its green life flowing like shimmering mist into his palm. The voice purred again, "Life-force absorption. Elementary."
Suddenly, footsteps rang outside. "Saw him enter! Check the ruins!" shouted Roric's enforcers. Panic surged. Arthur was trapped—weaponless, powerless.
"No," the voice insisted. "Observe."
Arthur's senses exploded. He felt the earth underfoot vibrate with the steps of two mages: one wielding earth, the other water. He noticed moisture in the air and heat trapped in the stones. The voice whispered, "Fuse them."
Not understanding his own action, Arthur thrust out his hand. Air and heat rushed out, mingling with the dampness around him. Suddenly, an explosion of superheated steam ripped through the entrance. Stone shattered, dust and debris filled the air. Silence followed.
Arthur stared at his trembling hands—no elemental power, yet he had just created a new force. Steam—a fusion of air, heat, and water. "Adaptive fusion," the voice said with satisfaction. "Our first step."
But the power came with a price. Nausea doubled him over, his veins burning like overpacked pipes. "Cost," the voice warned. "Without control, this power will consume you. We must evolve—or perish."
As dawn broke over Veridia City, Arthur stepped from the temple ruins. The city glittered in the sunlight, unaware of the change in him. He flexed his hand, focusing on a dew-covered leaf. Drawing its moisture, he heated it, turning water to steam that vanished with a hiss. A bitter laugh escaped him.
"All my life, I begged for power. Now it's here, but it feels like holding a live wire."
"Embrace it," the voice urged. "This is your birthright—stolen from those who caged you."
Arthur's eyes drifted to the ruined Zenith manor—the site of his father's cursed research. The answer wasn't in old scrolls. It was inside him: a forbidden bond between lost spirit and cursed blood.
He touched the temple's crumbling wall, sending his mind out. The voice hummed inside him, and dust and stone began to stir, swirling in a slow vortex around him. Not earth magic—something new. A fusion of earth's density and wind's motion.
"You learn quickly, host."
Arthur smiled sharply. For the first time, real power flowed through him—unbound, unpredictable, and his alone. But the price showed: black veins snaked up his wrists where the voice dwelled.
Turning homeward, a shadow separated from a nearby oak. A cloaked figure bowed deeply. "Arthur Zenith," a rasping voice said. "The Forgotten Temple has spoken. The Last Parasite has chosen its host. The balance shifts."
Before Arthur could respond, the stranger vanished into the trees, leaving behind an obsidian dagger etched with a coiled serpent around a crystal drop.
Arthur picked up the dagger, feeling it hum with the voice inside him.
"Danger," the voice hissed. "They know."
Arthur's fingers tightened on the blade. Let them come. Let the guilds, nobles, and the world face what they thought was a cursed failure.
He was something new.
He was evolution.
He was chaos.