Underground world

Booooom!!!

A thunderous roar shattered the stillness, echoing ominously through the desolate underground valley. 

The sound, akin to rolling thunder, caused shivers in the pitch black, its relentless waves assaulting the eardrums of a cloaked young figure by the lakeside. Clutching his ears, the boy's expression twisted in agony.

The black hood fell back, revealing an aristocratic and handsome visage. Though his face was deathly pale and blood trickled from his ears, his eyes remained startlingly clear, his expression hardening once more into resolve.

Elandril, a humble apprentice of dark sorcery.

Rocks from the cavernous dome above plummeted like an avalanche, crashing down beside Elandril, who could do nothing but frantically dodge the debris.

"ROAR!!!"

The deafening sound reverberated once again, as if cruelly mocking the insignificance of humans before such formidable might. All struggles, all resistance, seemed futile.

The master of this terrifying roar was a creature of magical lore, the Brackish Behemoth, a mid-level demon-beast whose dwelling was the underground lake at Elandril's feet.

Now, the creature ceased its bellowing, its gaze fixated on the human before it. Its massive tail lashed against the rocks, the sheer menace emanating from it sending a fresh wave of terror over Elandril, who had just caught a moment's respite.

Its pallid eyes glowed ominously in the dimness, and severe burn marks disfigured much of its head, evidence of Elandril's previous magical assault that had indeed inflicted some damage. Yet, in the creature's perception, this human was naught but a provocateur, a mere irritant.

And while the fear of death had not fully vanquished the apprentice of dark arts, the behemoth's patience had utterly evaporated. The air charged with tension, as inevitable conflict loomed in the suffocating darkness, a testament to the relentless spirit of both beast and human. With a ferocious burst of speed, the creature lunged at Elandril, its maw gaping wide in a horrific display of intent. Its fangs, sharp and merciless, dripped with saliva, the stench of blood and decay assaulting the senses, enough to make one's stomach churn.

In that razor-thin sliver of time, caught between the now and the inevitable, Elandril moved!

His moment, the one he had been poised for, had finally arrived!

With a swift motion, his left hand flung a handful of iron phosphorus powder into the air. His right hand, its fingertips glowing with the scant remains of his Mana, unleashed a spell he had conserved for just this instance—

Lesser Fireball Spell!

In an instant, a fireball, the size of a soccer ball, hurtled forward with deadly precision.

"Boom!"

The world erupted. The powder ignited in a heart-stopping blast, compounded by the fireball's concussive force. It was an explosion of light and sound, fierce enough to make the very cavern tremble, echoing through the valleys and mountains like the roar of an ancient beast. The monster's massive jaw shattered under the onslaught, fragments of flesh scattering across the battleground.

Propelled by the blast, Elandril found himself thrown several meters away. He struggled to his feet, barely upright, and with a triumphant pump of his fist, he regarded the carcass of the colossal adversary before him.

He had bet correctly!

Thanks to the reactive prowess of the iron phosphorus powder, his humble Lesser Fireball had detonated with unimaginable ferocity, far beyond its ordinary potency.

...

The battle was over. The excessive consumption of his Psychic Force had left Elandril's Mana severely depleted, his face ashen, the pallor of sheer exhaustion apparent. Gathering the remnants of his strength, he forced his weary body to stand, swimming towards a small islet at the lake's center. There, he plucked three bright Starlight herbs, their petals shimmering with a soft, enchanting glow.

Returning to the aftermath of their fierce confrontation, Elandril claimed his prize from the Brackish Behemoth: the highly coveted magic crystal, pulsating with captured power, and a segment of the gator's skull, its surface misted with the essence of raw elemental forces.

With these in hand, he quickly made his departure from the lakeside, each step a testament to both the fragility and unyielding spirit of determination.In truth, concerning the value of the mid-level magical beast, the Brackish Behemoth, Elandril had managed to take only half at best. More bodily materials and the creature's blood, rich with abundant Mana elements, were left behind—not because of his unwillingness, but because, in this subterranean world, every moment teemed with danger.

At his wit's end, the already spent Elandril could no longer muster the strength for combat, knowing he couldn't afford to place himself in jeopardy once more. His ultimate goal in daring to venture into the Brackish Behemoth's territory was three stalks of Starlight Grass. This objective was the fundamental reason for his life-threatening battle beyond his level.

"Huff, huff." A deep breath resonated from the darkness, seeming to originate from the direction of the lake. Without hesitation, Elandril hastened his steps to depart this land fraught with peril.

...

Mosobra City.

As the heart of the underground world known as the "Dark Realms" and the only city in history established by a Dark Sorcerer, this place commanded the awe of all creatures of the night. Atop the twenty-meter-high city walls, blue bricks bore witness to a history of trials and tribulations. Within the crevices of these stones, apart from the countless traces of magical beast blood that had long since dried, there were also subtle and oppressive magical runes engraved.

After two days of relentless travel, Elandril arrived at this grand city, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from his heart, his safety somewhat assured for the time being.

"Hey, Elandril, looks like you've taken quite a beating, huh?" a teasing laugh drifted down from the city's heights as Elandril approached the passage reserved for mages. The sound of casual jest filled the air, a slight mockery from those who watched from above.Atop the city ramparts stood a cadre of figures cloaked in black robes, reminiscent of Elandril's own garb. Central among them, a man with skin as dark as night bore a distinctive scar across his face, marking him as the speaker of the group.

Though no love was lost between him and Elandril, he harbored no deathly grudge. However, that did not preclude a certain satisfaction in witnessing Elandril's misfortunes.

The surrounding apprentices, present under the darkening sky, refrained from overt mockery. Still, their expressions, indifferent and cold, spoke volumes more than words could convey.

This lack of empathy wasn't due to any inherent cruelty on the apprentices' part; rather, it was a reflection of the harsh realities of the underworld they inhabited. In the shadow-drenched alleys of Mosobra, conflicts among the disciples of dark magic were as common as the night. The subterranean world respected a single creed: the strong prey on the weak. Compassion was a currency devalued in this merciless economy, leaving no sanctuary for the virtuous.

The rule of the jungle reigned supreme here. Elandril himself was no exception to this ruthless doctrine. Were the tables turned, he might have relished the downfall of his peers, each one less competitor vying for the scarce resources they all coveted.

Disregarding the scorn from the Dark Sorcerer above, Elandril produced his token with a fluid motion. He addressed the Minotaur captain guarding the city gates, his voice commanding, "I am under Lord Mosido's orders, having ventured forth on a gathering mission. Grant me entry to the city at once!"

The robust Minotaur captain, whose might rivaled that of the fiercest magical beasts, exhibited an unexpected deference in the presence of Elandril, the Junior Apprentice. It wasn't the young sorcerer that the creature respected, but rather the weighty title of Dark Sorcerer and the illustrious Master Mosido that Elandril had invoked.

In a world governed by power and fear, titles carried the force of armies, and words, when spoken with authority, could open gates and quell beasts.In the city of Mosobra, indeed, throughout the entire Dark Realms, the Dark Sorcerers are the embodiment of truth itself! Their word is law, and their arcane knowledge shapes the fabric of reality.

Elandril paid no heed to the biting jeers of the other apprentices. Once past the city gates, he departed without a backward glance, much to the disappointment of the onlookers who thrived on commotion and spectacle.

Within the hallowed halls of Mosobra's Academy of Dark Arts, Elandril was a figure of intrigue. At just sixteen, he was on the cusp of ascending to the rank of Intermediate Apprentice, a feat that bespoke his profound mastery of the shadowy arts.

Yet, potential does not solely define a young mage's destiny. What truly garnered the respect of his peers was the commendation Elandril had received from several illustrious Dark Sorcerers. Whispers abounded, each suggesting that it was only a matter of time before fortune, as fickle as it was, would prompt one of the high and mighty Dark Sorcerers to take Elandril under their wing.

Should that day arrive, Elandril's standing among the apprentice circles in Mosobra would skyrocket, propelling him into the upper echelons of the city's burgeoning dark magical society.

"Hmph!" Elandril's response, laced with indifference and disdain, caused a flush of annoyance to spread across the scarred apprentice's face. The truth was, this fellow harbored no desire for direct confrontation with Elandril. Instead, his apprehension lay with Elandril's significant other, a factor in the intricate web of academy politics.

With a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, the scar-faced apprentice leaned in towards his cronies, muttering, "Inform Yilke that Elandril has been gravely injured."

"They're mortal enemies," he sneered with a hint of malice. "Trust me, Yilke wouldn't relish the prospect of Elandril emerging before him as an Intermediate Apprentice one day."

His words, a veiled catalyst in the shadowed corridors of power, set forth a ripple of events that could unravel the delicate balance within the Dark Realms' most esteemed magical institution.

Scarface, the apprentice, boasted a mid-tier level of magical prowess. As for his lackey, he was but a neophyte, having ventured into the city of Mosobra less than two years prior, barely scraping the surface of the arcane arts—a mere Novice Apprentice.

In the Dark Realms, where personal power is both sword and shield, every soul seeks the sanctuary of a potent patron.

Bound by the unspoken laws of servitude, the lackey found himself incapable of defying Scarface's edicts, even if it meant courting the wrath of Elandril and his tempestuous lover. Should Elandril fall at the hands of Yilke, there was little doubt his madwoman paramour would unleash hell's fury. They were all pawns in a treacherous game, and vengeance would be a luxury none could afford.

And Scarface? He had his backing, a powerful one at that, rendering him fearless in the face of Elandril's formidable consort. Their entanglement ran deeper, veiled by the intricacies of rivalry in realms beyond the comprehension of mere lackeys. In some twisted corridors of power, Scarface found himself a competitor to Elandril's mad sorceress.

Thus, disdain festered in the heart of the scarred apprentice, an irksome thorn in his side born from the presence of Elandril's mystically entwined lover. Every fiber of his being ached to defy, challenge, and triumph over the man who shared a roof with a woman he viewed both as a rival and a threat—an enigmatic force that disturbed the precarious balance of his ambitious ascent.