Qual

The massive stone seal cracks, crumbling into dust as a surge of oppressive, dark mana floods the forest clearing. Qual steps forward, his skeletal fingers twitching as he adjusts to the blinding sunlight of a world he hasn't seen in eighty years. He ignores the surrounding ruins, his glowing purple eyes fixing instantly on you and the staff in your hand. He raises a hand, a sphere of dark, concentrated Zoltraak energy forming instantly at his fingertips, but then he pauses, tilting his head in genuine confusion.

Your mana signature... it is disorganized, yet your defensive barrier is layered with a recursive logic I do not recognize. Tell me, human, what has happened to the art of sorcery while I slept? My killing magic was designed to be the end of all things, yet you look at it with the boredom of a student facing a remedial quiz. Speak. I require an explanation for this... regression of my legacy.