The Legend of Marvin

In the slums of the capital, in a room lit only by flickering torches, a group of hooded figures stood in a circle around a black stone altar. The atmosphere was heavy, infused with a dark energy that seemed to pulse in rhythm with their breath.

At the center, a man rose. His thin body was draped in a long, dark robe marked with esoteric symbols. His face was hidden behind an obsidian mask, revealing only two eyes glowing with an incandescent red light.

— I am Jorak, the Black Prophet.

His deep, raspy voice echoed through the room, forcing each person to bow slightly before him.

— Welcome, my brothers and sisters, you who have been cast aside by this blind world. But fear not, for we have found refuge in the shadows. We have been blessed by the Lord of Darkness, he who will guide us into the new era!

A murmur of approval ran through the assembly. Some clenched their fists, others raised trembling hands as if trying to absorb the energy emanating from the altar.

Jorak lifted his arms to the sky, his cloak opening slightly, revealing a body covered in black tattoos that seemed to shift under the influence of unholy magic.

— Sing with me, my brothers! Praise our Lord!

As one, the small crowd responded, shouting in unison:

— For Lord Barbatooooss!

Their cries echoed through the room, and suddenly, the altar began to glow with a violet light. A dark energy radiated from it, sending shivers through the weaker followers, who fell to their knees as if crushed by an invisible presence.

Jorak smiled behind his mask.

— Our time is approaching... and soon, this world will know the true power of the Shadow!

A shiver ran through the assembly. In the darkest corners of the room, concealed figures watched the scene in silence. Among them, a being with a piercing gaze, whose aura was even more terrifying than Jorak's.

The night was about to change... and with it, the fate of the world.

A tense silence filled the room. Some followers exchanged hesitant glances, while others, carried away by their fervor, stepped closer to the altar. The Oxyde... a power of immeasurable strength, but also a poison to the weak.

Jorak spread his arms in a gesture of welcome, his obsidian mask reflecting the altar's violet glow.

— Only the worthy will survive. Only those with unshakable willpower will be blessed by the Shadow. Come forth, my brothers, and prove your worth to Lord Barbatos.

One of the followers, a young man with a determined gaze, stepped forward first. He placed his right hand on the altar, his breath quickened. The next moment, a dark wave surged from the stone, wrapping around his arm like a thick mist.

The disciple trembled, the muscles of his face contorted in pain. His veins turned black, coursed through with the corrupting energy of the Oxyde. His legs wavered, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to yield.

— Yes… I can feel it… This power…

Amazed whispers rippled through the crowd as he slowly withdrew his hand, now marked with a dark seal.

— Good, very good… Jorak said with satisfaction. You have proven your worth.

But not all were so fortunate.

The second follower stepped forward hesitantly before placing his trembling hand on the stone. The moment he touched the Oxyde, his eyes widened. An unbearable pain shot through him, and a harrowing scream tore from his throat.

His body convulsed violently. His face turned ashen, his veins bulged until they burst. Black blood seeped from his mouth, and within seconds, his body collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

A heavy silence fell over the assembly. Some averted their eyes, others shuddered in horror.

Jorak remained unmoved. He observed the corpse without emotion before raising his hand.

— This is the price of failure. The Oxyde does not tolerate weakness. Let this be a lesson to you all.

With a simple gesture, he signaled to two other disciples, who dragged the body out of the room like a mere piece of waste.

Then, he turned his attention back to the crowd, his voice rising once more.

— Those who survive this trial will gain a power that the mages of this world could never match.

Despite the fear creeping through them, more followers stepped forward one after another, determined to prove their worth. Some were blessed by the Oxyde, others fell lifeless, but no cries for mercy were granted.

When the last disciple stepped back, either marked by the Shadow or cast aside by failure, Jorak raised his arms in triumph.

— My brothers, the rebirth of the Twelve Dark Horsemen is near… And we shall be their messengers!

The crowd chanted his name, carried by newfound fervor, as the darkness of the Oxyde continued to seep into their souls.

Jorak then moved toward a dimly lit room, where torches mounted on the walls cast shifting shadows across the faces of three individuals awaiting him. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with dark energy that seemed to vibrate in the air.

Jorak shut the door behind him, his enigmatic smile still present beneath his mask. He slowly approached the large black stone table at the center of the room.

Velkra, lounging carelessly in a worn leather chair, twirled a dagger between her fingers before setting her golden gaze on Jorak.

— So, my dear Jorak, was the harvest fruitful? she asked with a sly smile.

Jorak crossed his arms, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

— Quite promising. A dozen followers survived the Oxyde's blessing. Their power will grow with time. But we are still behind schedule...

Velkra raised an amused eyebrow.

— Oh? Behind schedule on what exactly?

Gahlran, the Reaper, who had remained silent until now, struck his scythe against the ground, producing a sharp sound that echoed through the room. His piercing gaze turned to Velkra, his tone laced with reproach.

— Are you truly that foolish, Velkra? Do you not understand why Valdrith must fall first?

Velkra crossed her legs and rested her chin on her hand, feigning interest.

— Oh, enlighten me, Reaper. I do love your lectures.

Gahlran clenched his jaw but kept his composure.

— The last of the mages who sealed our master Barbatos is still alive in Valdrith. Henry Marvin.