Legend of all times

Chapter 15

When the earth cracked from thirst, and the sun mercilessly devoured the harvest, people died of hunger. The fields turned to dust, rivers disappeared, and the animals fled to where life still remained. On one such day, a man whose name had long been erased from memory wandered the dry land in search of even a crumb of food. His lips were cracked, his body weakened, and his thoughts were muddled in fever.

And then he saw it.

A lone flower, growing on a heated stone, as if mocking the cruelty of the world. Its petals shimmered, glowing with silver light, and the slender stem seemed to need no water at all. The man did not hesitate—he ripped it from the ground and ate it, feeling the bitter juice scorch his tongue. The hunger did not fade, but his body filled with strange strength. He no longer felt tired, his skin became cold, and his hands seemed to stretch towards the air, catching invisible threads woven around him.

That very evening, he realized he had changed.

When he returned to the village, the people first did not notice anything unusual. But then the wind, which had been blowing from the south for a long time, suddenly changed direction, obeying his command. The water in a jug trembled as if responding to his thoughts. And when, in the night, he accidentally struck the wooden table with his hand, it burst into flames, engulfed by blue fire.

The people were terrified.

At first, they looked at him in awe, hoping that he could save them from hunger. They brought him water, begged for miracles. But then misfortunes began. Someone fell off a roof and died, and the next morning the curtains in another woman's house caught fire. Children cried, the elderly shook their heads. Someone whispered that his power was not a gift, but a curse.

When the village burned down, no one doubted his guilt. They seized him, bound his hands and feet, and then set him on fire. He did not scream, but just before the flames consumed him, the wind howled with such fury that the roofs flew off the houses, and the sky turned blood red.

But he was not the last.

Years passed, and from time to time, in different corners of the world, children were born with eyes that glowed in the dark, and hands that reached for fire, water, or air. They were called the Cursed Descendants. Wherever they appeared, they were feared. Magic was not seen as a gift—it was viewed as a plague, bringing death. People knew that the power came from the cursed flower, and its roots must have sown seeds in human blood.

Those who manifested powers faced one of three outcomes.

Some were captured and brought to priests. They were locked in temples, starved, and forced to pray for days until they were exhausted. But they were never freed. In the end, they were burned, believing that only fire could cleanse their souls.

Others were used. Kings and generals found among them those willing to serve. They became warriors, doctors, and seers. But if their power slipped out of control, they were killed. Those who were too dangerous spent their days in stone towers, chained to suppress their powers.

And the third group fled. They hid in forests, mountains, caves, and became legends. But even they knew: one day, they would be found.

This continued for centuries. People believed that magic would disappear if all its bearers were destroyed. But like the cursed flower, it always returned. And one day, there would be one who would not run. One who would decide it was time to change the world.

Wizards never lived long. They were killed when they were still children—barely learning to walk, never having known the joys of life. They were burned, drowned, locked in cages. Their birth was seen as a curse, and their death—purification. None of them lived to be twenty-five.

But one day, there appeared one who broke this rule.

The time was cruel: the world was torn apart by the Hundred Years’ War, where two kingdoms fought for the throne, land, and power. The battles lasted for years, the fields became graveyards, and the blood soaked the earth so deeply that even the rains could not wash it away. In one such battle, thousands of warriors fell, and only one rose from the dead.

He was a wizard.

It is said that on the night he stood among the corpses, his skin was paler than the moon, and his empty eyes reflected the sky. He did not remember how he returned. He knew only one thing: he had died but had not stayed dead.

When his king learned of this, he ordered his destruction. But the wizard fled. He was wounded, his body trembling with exhaustion, but he knew that to live meant to run. In the forest, among the dead trees, he stopped. He had lost many in that battle, and upon returning, he was called the Cursed. He was angry.

Years passed, but he did not appear. People forgot his name, but the fear of him did not fade. The king understood: if the wizard was still alive, he would not forgive. The hunt began. Kingdoms united, awaiting his revenge.

Their fears were true.

On the night of the bloody moon, darkness fell upon the capital. People disappeared one by one, without making a sound. Not a single survivor. The next morning, the king was found hanging in the center of the city, his lifeless eyes staring into the void, and silence covered the streets where life had once thrived.

The news spread across the world. In three years, three kingdoms fell. In fear, the remaining rulers gathered for a council, hoping to find a way out, but that same night, he reached them.

The wizard did not kill them. He came with a proposal.

Far away, in the ocean, there was an island—hidden from everyone, even the gods had forgotten it. He demanded it. This would be the land of wizards, their only home, a place where they would no longer be persecuted. He set one condition: no ordinary person could set foot on this shore.

The kings agreed. They were afraid. They wanted to save their lands, their people, their lives.

The next morning, the wizard disappeared, taking with him all those who had even the slightest trace of power.

Since then, the world of wizards and the world of humans became two different realities. No one knew what happened on that island, and no one dared to try to find out.

The wizards came to call that young man the First King of Magic. His name was forgotten, but the story of him was passed down through generations—how he rose from the dead, how he shattered entire kingdoms, and created a place where wizards would no longer be victims.

The island that the wizards claimed was wild and untamable. The earth trembled there, as if it did not accept its new rulers, the forests hid their monsters, and the winds howled at night, carrying whispers of fear. But the First King of Magic was not afraid. He knew that if the wizards wanted to survive, they needed not only a home but also order.

To tame this land, he invested part of his power into twelve stones. Each stone contained a piece of his magic—the very magic that had brought him back from death and made him stronger than anyone who had lived before him. These stones became the foundation of the new world. Wizards believed that as long as they existed, the island would belong to them.

Around each Stone, the First King of

Magic built cities. Each city became a stronghold of power, a reflection of the magic that nourished the land.

At the head of each city, he placed one of his most loyal followers—the Twelve Masters, the first representatives of the main families. They were not just guards: the master of each city received an additional piece of power from the King himself, making them stronger than ordinary wizards and binding them to the magic of the region. These twelve became his hands and eyes, guarding the borders and maintaining order.

These Masters were unequal to others. Their power surpassed that of ordinary wizards so much that no one dared to oppose them. Their additional magic did not obey ordinary laws, and they became the living reminder of the power and greatness of the First King.

Thus, the state of the wizards was born, and they named their home—MistLand. Isolated from the world of humans, this land became a refuge for all those who had once been persecuted and destroyed. But along with freedom came new laws. They stopped calling each other wizard or witches, since then they were just ordinary magicians on the Misty Land.

The First King of Magic pronounced three commandments that became the foundation of their world:

"Not a single person will step on our land."

"A magician will not betray another magician."

"Power is not simply to be possessed; it must be earned."

Magicians were no longer victims. Now they were rulers.

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Harabi listened intently to the teacher's words, her eyes glowing with excitement. Every mage had heard this legend countless times, but for her, it felt like it was the first time—every time, as though it were a new discovery. The story of the First King of Magic, his struggle, and the creation of the Mage Kingdom captivated her, no matter how hard she tried to disengage. The classroom was quiet, and her smile grew wider with every word from Mr. Kim.

The other students sat in the classroom, staring at their desks, bored. Some absentmindedly twirled pencils or quietly chatted amongst themselves.

When the teacher finally finished his tale, a silence hung in the air. One of the students, clearly tired of the monotony of the lesson, sighed and said: — "It's the same thing every year. Mr. Kim, maybe it's time to come up with something new?" The teacher ignored the remark, paying no attention to it. His expression made it hard to tell whether he was offended or simply used to such comments. He handed out a blank sheet of paper to each student, then fell silent as if waiting for everyone to be ready for the next part of the lesson.

Harabi stared thoughtfully at the sheet, as though it were demanding something important from her. Her fingers itched slightly, and she, as always, began pondering what to write. How should she present herself? She had always been lost in her thoughts, but now she needed to find the right words to express her goal. —

"Now, before the end of the lesson," continued Mr. Kim, "I would like you to write a small essay. How will you use your magic in the future? What good can you bring? And as for the representatives of the major families..."

He abruptly turned his head towards Harabi and Rumiya, who were sitting next to each other. — "I look forward to seeing what heights you expect of yourselves and for your city," he added, not hiding a slight hint of irony in his voice.

The atmosphere in the class became noticeably tense. Some furrowed their brows, others froze, but most of the students' gazes were fixed on them—on these two. Everyone knew that they were the only representatives of major families in the class. No matter how much they tried to hide it, these two girls always ended up in the spotlight. Harabi felt her face redden slightly. She had always felt the gaze upon her, but it seemed that Rumiya, like her, was not expecting such a reaction.

Mr. Kim straightened up behind his desk and scanned the class.

— "It is well known that at the beginning and end of every school year, you write this essay," he said clearly and evenly. "It will help you realize what you want from your future. If you already have plans—write them down. If not, you can submit a blank sheet. But be careful: when you graduate, we will compare all your essays."

Harabi listened, gripping her pencil tightly. She had heard about this assignment before from Tatsuki, but now that she faced it for the first time, it seemed much harder.

As soon as Mr. Kim handed out the sheets, the students immediately began working. They had written such essays in previous years, so it was nothing new to them. Some quickly filled out their sheets, as if they had long decided on their goals.

But two students—a boy and a girl—didn’t even touch their sheets. They silently handed in blank papers and left the classroom. Without hesitation.

Harabi watched them leave. Her attention was especially drawn to the girl. Blue eyes, reminiscent of Rumiya's, short purple hair. The very same girl who had earlier interrupted Rumiya. In her first year, she gave the blank sheet to the teacher —her audacity knew no bounds.

Harabi sighed and looked at her own sheet. Blank, without a single word. She had spent her whole life in her hometown, never leaving its confines. She had taken lessons on etiquette, history, but never on anything that would actually help her govern a city. After all, that was never her destiny. The head of the family was supposed to be her older brother. And what about her? Her role had been predetermined from birth—a family treasure, an heir in name, but not in essence.

But just being a beautiful doll at court—that was not what she wanted. She wanted something more.

But what exactly?

Time passed. Harabi looked at her sheet again—still blank. She tried to gather her thoughts, but nothing came to mind. No matter how much she thought, all that appeared before her eyes was emptiness. Fifteen minutes passed.

— "Time's up," Mr. Kim's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

The other students silently stood up and handed in their sheets. Some seemed confident, others less so, but almost all left the classroom without any extra emotion. Harabi remained among the last. Rumiya was standing next to her. When she saw her sheet, Harabi's heart involuntarily tightened.

The paper was completely filled. Line after line, neat and thoughtful text. It wasn’t a superficial essay about dreams. It looked like a clear plan. Harabi froze, stunned. She had never imagined that her quiet, calm acquaintance had advanced so far in realizing her future.

Unlike herself. Harabi looked at her sheet. Pristine white, empty, like a reflection of her thoughts.

Clenching her teeth, she handed it in, following Rumiya.

Mr. Kim's gaze was heavy and piercing. He said nothing, but his eyes showed silent disappointment.

Harabi looked away and left the room.

Her head buzzed with thoughts.

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