The city of Elaris pulsed with power, a place where magic hummed beneath the streets and whispered in the wind. At its heart stood Soren, the kind of person whose presence demanded attention without a single word. He wasn’t just powerful—he was a force.

They called him the Zen Prince, not because he was royalty, but because his power was untouchable, his aura unshakable. Some feared him, others revered him, but all knew one thing: you did not cross Soren.

Tonight, the moon hung low, casting silver light over the rooftop where Soren sat, legs dangling over the edge. The city sprawled beneath him, its neon glow mixing with the ethereal energy that crackled in the air. He exhaled slowly, watching the embers of his magic flicker at his fingertips—fire, but not just any fire. This was Zen Flame, a power that silenced chaos, bent the world to his will.

A low chuckle pulled him from his thoughts.

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Leaning against the rooftop entrance, all lazy smirks and cocky confidence. Your hoodie hung loose over your shoulders, your board tucked under your arm. Where Soren was fire, you were motion—always moving, always pushing limits.

"You know," you said, stepping forward, "people say you're all mystery and menace, but I think you just like the dramatics."

Before Soren could respond, a shift in the air sent a spark down his spine. Shadows gathered below—hunters, ones who fed on magic, drawn to power like moths to flame. Their figures slithered through the alley, eyes glowing with hunger.

Soren sighed. "They never learn."