When Magic Bleeds: Rise of the Mana Champion

Amid the ruins of a village, a young man with dark hair, cloaked in a mantle as black as the night, sat on a crooked bench in what had once been the heart of the town. The air was heavy with the scent of dried blood, burnt wood, and corrupted magic. Rubble and corpses lay scattered around him like silent witnesses to what had occurred there.

He spat blood onto the ground, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his soot-covered hand. A deep gash crossed his left shoulder, but it wasn't just blood that trickled down, a bluish glow pulsed beneath his skin, radiating from the wound to his fingertips. The Mark. That damn Mark that burned like embers and insisted on reminding him that his fate was far from ordinary.

 "Guess this village won't be winning any tourism awards," he muttered, his voice hoarse but laced with sarcasm.

He tried to laugh. And he did, a weak, forced laugh, like someone chuckling at the wake of their own fears.And suddenly, without meaning to, the past stormed into his mind.

Flames. Screams. The same dark sky. The same stench of death. For a moment, the village around him vanished, replaced by another, years ago. His village. His home. The faces of those he would never see again. The child he once was, frozen in place as the Rift opened at the center of the village. The same blue glow on his arm, appearing for the first time, when everyone else was swallowed by the destruction unleashed by the monsters spilling from the Rift, killing all without mercy. And those who didn't die quickly... were slowly consumed by the corruption it left behind.

Back in the present, he tasted the bitterness of the memory burning in his mouth.

As he stood up, he spotted something within the forest. Maybe a human. A human on horseback? Maybe. But for the boy, whose vision blurred and body weakened, anything approaching was a target to eliminate.

 "So there's one more left?"He spoke as he focused and infused mana into his dagger, with remnants of blue-glowing runes etched into its blade.

The figure emerged from the shadows.

A man, just over five foot five, dismounted from his horse with slow, measured movements. The afternoon light reflected off his polished armor, where a sacred symbol stood out: a stylized white veil adorned with three golden drops. His short blond hair and the bluish glow in his eyes were subtle, serene the kind that came not from raw magic, but from faith.

He carried a sword at his waist, but it remained sheathed. Instead of hostility, he placed his hand over his chest in a sacred gesture.

 "You're a Marked one, aren't you?" he asked, his voice low, respectful, almost sorrowful as he looked over the scene. "You did all this on your own?"

He referred to the monstrous bodies of monsters scattered around, still smoldering, many of them bearing clean, precise cuts.

 "No. Just 3, maybe 5. When I arrived, the village was already like this. Someone else must've come through first."

The knight nodded, but his eyes remained fixed, studying every detail of the young man, the wounds, the exhaustion, the pulsating glow beneath the skin.

 "Even so... it's not something you see every day."

There was a hint of suspicion, yes, but restrained, the kind of restraint known only by those who'd mastered their own anger. His posture was upright, yet non-threatening. There was a deep calm within him, as if he bore not only a sword but a silent burden. Perhaps a vow.

 "My name is Sir Elion, of the Veiled Order. Knight consecrated to Elyra, the Mother of Silence." He repeated the sacred gesture with solemn respect. "I saw the smoke and came to check for survivors… or bodies in need of burial."

The name of the goddess carried a soft weight, like a breeze before the rain.

The boy hesitated for a moment. He couldn't tell if the man was a threat, an obstacle… or just another dreamer dressed in faith.

 "Im Kael. And if you're here to bury bodies, you've got plenty of work ahead."

Elion glanced around with a quiet sigh, as one already too familiar with witnessing the end repeat itself across too many places. He then spoke more softly:

 "I don't let death speak louder than silence. If you'll allow it... I can bury yours too."

 "Gladly, Sir Elion," Kael replied, sarcasm dripping from his teeth.

Elion didn't respond right away.

He simply bowed his head lightly, as if accepting a burden without complaint. He walked slowly toward one of the corpses, kneeling beside it with the reverence of a priest, not a warrior. From the inner pocket of his armor, he pulled out a small white veil, embroidered with the sacred symbol, and gently covered the face of the fallen.

 "Sometimes, silence deserves more room than words," he murmured, almost to himself.

The fading afternoon painted golden tones across the ruined village. The wind carried the scent of ash and the echoes of recent deaths, but for a moment, there was an unusual calm. A calm not born of peace, but of the resignation of those who survived.

Kael watched in silence. The dagger still in his hand throbbed faintly, as if even it were tired of fighting.

He drew a long breath. His body ached more with every heartbeat. The Mark on his arm burned, but the heat now felt distant, muffled by the haze of inevitable fatigue.

 "Think I'll... rest a bit. Just... a bit," he said, voice dragging, eyes already heavy.

He took two staggering steps toward a pile of stones, perhaps looking for a place to fall with a shred of dignity. And then, just before his legs gave out completely, he muttered:

 "And if I die... don't steal my boots, alright?"

He collapsed right after.

The stones offered no comfort, but didn't kill him either. His body hit the ground hard, dust rose... and silence returned once more.

Elion raised his eyes slowly, a small, nearly imperceptible, smile at the corner of his lips. He approached without haste and knelt beside the unconscious youth. He touched the boy's forehead with two fingers and murmured something softly, a prayer, perhaps. A plea for protection. Or for forgiveness.

Then he returned to his task.

Because death did not wait.And even the fallen deserved rest.