As the tumult of war raged on, Mani found a moment of precarious solitude on the battered earth. The Mirror Egg, cradled between his legs, had become a nexus of his own life force.
His sacrifice to it was etched deeply into his skin, with cracks that wove across his flesh, glowing with an ethereal light of blue and red. These fissures spread like the intricate roots of an ancient tree, a testament to the immense power he had channeled into the artifact at the price of his own blood and soul.
Despite appearing on the brink of physical collapse, Mani's resolve did not waver; his spirit, unbroken.
Unbeknownst to him, danger approached from behind—a man cloaked in white, moving with the silent intent of a predator. The man's weapon, poised to deliver a fatal blow, glinted coldly in the dim light. "Forgive me, boy, but the goals of the priestess are far more important than the life of her son," he whispered, a hint of regret in his voice overshadowed by his grim resolve.
