In a relatively small land on the continent of Eldoria, where magic floated like mist through the air and was woven into the everyday lives of humans, plants, and animals, lived an ancient, frail man known as Mr. F.

At 1,120 years old, he was one of the oldest living humans on the continent.

Throughout his long lifetime, he had gone by numerous names. In his youth, his true name had struck fear into the hearts of many, known far and wide as one of the feared Soul Mages.

But now, in his advanced age, only a few remembered that name. The once-great tales told by bards in taverns had faded into obscurity.

Mr. F had become little more than a footnote in history—his legend nearly forgotten by the passage of time. His once sharp and commanding features had given way to wrinkles and a stooped, fragile frame. His hair had turned a stark white, and his once imposing figure now resembled a bent and broken man.

The greatest loss for any mage, though, was not physical but magical. Time had eroded not only Mr. F’s body but also his once-great power. Once a fearsome Rank 9 mage, he had slowly degenerated over the centuries, reduced to a Rank 6 mage, a shadow of his former self. He could feel the weight of his years pressing down on him, and he knew his days were numbered.

Despite his diminished status, a spark of resolve still flickered within Mr. F. Every day, as he moved through his solitary existence, he reminded himself of the dream he had long held onto.

Years ago, he had come to the painful realization that he would never achieve Rank 10 in his lifetime. It was this cruel understanding that had driven him to withdraw into the wilderness, far from civilization, to further his studies in Soul Magic.

Fifty years had passed since he had taken refuge in his isolated home, and during that time, Mr. F had faced countless setbacks. The nature of Soul Magic was dangerous and unpredictable.

The reason Soul Mages were so feared was their ability to capture the essence of a soul—a fate from which no one wanted to suffer. The very thought of having one’s soul trapped for eternity was a terror too great for most to bear.

This day, Mr. F could feel his life force waning, almost fully depleted. He estimated he had only a few days left before his vitality completely drained away and he succumbed to old age. For many, such an end after living over a thousand years would be a blessing, but not for Mr. F.

He had ambitions, and they burned within him as fiercely as ever. He was still on the brink of unlocking the greatest mysteries of souls, and he could not accept death without uncovering the truths he had spent his entire life pursuing.

Today, he was prepared to risk everything. He closed his eyes and focused on his Soul Image, the culmination of 1,120 years of work. The image was like a constellation within his being, a representation of his very soul. Its form resembled a cat, and though it bore no color, Mr. F knew its fur would be pitch black if it ever fully materialized.

For the last five decades, Mr. F had sought ways to strengthen his Soul Image. But when he realized that was impossible, he turned to a more dangerous path. Every mage had only one soul, and thus could only have one Soul Image.

But what if there was a way to create a human with multiple Soul Images? Many had tried this over the millennia, but the experiments always ended in the subject's death.

Mr. F believed this was the key to his problem. With two Soul Images, two souls… he would be unstoppable.

Before retreating into his hermitage, he had already captured thousands of souls. Some had belonged to enemies, others to friends, and some to innocent bystanders caught at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Mr. F would not describe himself as evil, if you asked him, he was simply willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals.

Over the years, he had experimented with binding these souls to his own. But he was not interested in any ordinary soul. He sought only the most powerful, the ones with immense potential. He believed that talent was intertwined with a person's soul, and only those with the greatest souls would suffice for his ambitions.

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Of the thousands of souls he had collected, only a handful remained, souls he could count on one hand. “Today,” he whispered to himself, his fist clenched in determination, “I either offer my soul to the gods or I will succeed.”

In the dark, stone cellar of his home, he retrieved his Soul Lantern, a magical artifact that allowed him to store souls. The lantern, originally only a few centimeters tall, expanded to over 30 centimeters when activated. Inside, the last of Mr. F’s captured souls swirled, glowing faintly. He reached into the lantern, his hand gliding through the souls as if stirring a quiet stream.

His choice was not difficult. There was one soul in particular that he knew had the potential to accompany him on his journey. It flickered with a dormant glow—the soul of an alchemist who had once been a Tier 4 mage, but a Tier 6 alchemist. This alchemist had been renowned in his time, admired for his skill and envied for his talent. But like many, he had met his end in a bitter power struggle between two families, before he could mature.

Mr. F had captured the alchemist's soul just as it was departing for the afterlife, preserving it in the Soul Lantern for centuries. Now, that soul would serve a greater purpose.

He placed the lantern aside and began carving runes into the floor of his cellar—runes that had taken him decades to perfect. They were designed to bind the alchemist’s soul to a vessel, and in this case, the vessel was Mr. F himself. This was no ordinary ritual. It was a gamble with his very existence.

Channeling his magic, Mr. F poured his energy into the runes. One by one, they began to glow as they absorbed the magic.

The time had come.

The air in the cellar grew thick with power as Mr. F formed a magical dome, sealing off the space to prevent the souls from escaping. Then, with a single gesture, he released the soul of the alchemist from the lantern. The spectra form of the alchemist floated before him, shimmering with latent power.

Next, Mr. F released the remaining souls in the lantern, using their combined energy to fuel the runes. A surge of magic filled the room, and a battle began between the soul of the alchemist and Mr. F’s own.

Outside the cellar, the sky responded to the magic unfolding within. Dark clouds gathered, thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed across the heavens. It was as if the gods themselves were furious at Mr. F’s audacity to defy the natural order.

Mr. F could feel the ritual reaching its climax. The forces he had unleashed were at their peak, and it was time to strike. With a final push, he released all the magic from the runes, forcing the two souls to merge.

At that moment, the storm outside intensified. The clouds darkened, and lightning struck the earth with a deafening roar. But as quickly as it had begun, the storm subsided, and the clouds dispersed, leaving an eerie calm in their wake.

The aftermath was devastating. The land around Mr. F’s home was scorched, reduced to charred remnants. His house, the trees, the grass and everything else had been burned to ash. And in the cellar, buried beneath the rubble, lay Mr. F, unconscious but alive.

The ritual had succeeded, but the consequences of his bold gamble with fate would only reveal themselves in time.

...

The next day, the sun rose as if the storm had never occurred. Birds sang in the distance, their melodies light and carefree, unaware of the cataclysm that had taken place. Above the hill where Mr. F’s house once stood, smoke still rose from the ruins.

A few Firebirds, drawn to the lingering heat, perched on the blackened stones, absorbing the residual magical energy.

Suddenly, the debris shifted. A hand, covered in black dust, emerged from the ashes. The Firebirds scattered, startled, as Mr. F slowly pulled himself up from the wreckage. His entire body was blackened, and his appearance was barely recognizable.

A broad, victorious smile spread across his face, and with a surge of newfound energy, he exclaimed, "Success!"

But the exhilaration was short-lived. He quickly realized that his vitality was nearly gone. He had succeeded in merging souls.

Still, the experiment had been a triumph. After centuries of research, he had achieved what many thought impossible. Yet, Mr. F knew he was not done. Death still loomed over him, closer than ever.

Exhausted, he sat down amidst the wreckage and closed his eyes, focusing inward. His Soul Image appeared before him—the cat he had known all his life was now joined by a second image, an inverted reflection of the first. It was the form of a tree, a common Soul Image for alchemists, symbolizing their connection to nature.

As the knowledge of alchemy and earth magic flooded his mind, Mr. F understood that his new powers would take time to master.

But he had no time to waste. He needed to find a way to prolong his life.

He rummaged through the pockets of his robe, searching for his magical pouch—a staple for magicians that allowed them to store items in another dimension and access them at will. However, it was nowhere to be found.

His forehead creased with a frown as he surveyed his surroundings, desperately seeking the missing pouch. But it eluded him. "No… it must be here," he muttered under his breath, but the pouch was gone. "It must have been destroyed in the explosion," he said, frowning deeply.

With his magical pouch destroyed in the explosion he resolved to move forward without it.

Determined, he made his way toward the nearest city, his mind racing with plans for the future. There, he would secure the means to restore his strength and continue his pursuit of power.