Chapter 269: Elfs and Undead

Thalion was not the only one struggling against the undead. Deep in the tunnels below, the elven forces had been fighting for an entire day, battling to push back the relentless tide of vampires. The vampires worked in tandem with the undead beasts—monstrosities empowered by the dark ritual that now surged forward in near-endless waves. Progress was slow and costly. The elves were disciplined and precise, unwilling to lose anyone if it could be avoided. Every few meters gained were paused to tend the wounded, and every inch of retreat was marked with crimson stains and exhaustion.

When word reached them that the humans were now engaged on the surface, it was already too late to turn back. The enemy had committed too many forces, and the vampires had begun to surround them. Their blood sorcery wreaked havoc among the elves. Althirion, with his mighty greatsword, became a whirlwind at the front. Each swing shattered bones and cleaved through undead flesh like parchment. His strength was unmatched, and no matter how grotesque or towering the beasts became, they fell before his blade. But even with all their might, the elves were being tested. Their enemy was cunning and adapted quickly.

The vampires themselves were not masters of combat. Their swordplay was clumsy, their techniques crude—perhaps the result of over-reliance on their supernatural gifts. Against humans, they likely never needed refinement. But against elves—agile, sharp-eyed, honed by centuries of training—their brute force faltered. Yet the danger was not in their weapons, but in their eyes and their cursed magic. The hypnotic gaze of a vampire could slow even a seasoned warrior. Just one careless glance could dull an elf’s reaction, leaving them open to fatal strikes. Althirion and the councilors did all they could to shield the others, but even they could not be everywhere. They had already lost thirty-one elves. For a race that cherished life so deeply, each loss was a wound to the soul.

The greatest threat, however, came from the vampires’ blood rituals. Using the gore of fallen beasts, they would channel devastating tidal waves of blood magic down the narrow corridors. These surges consumed all in their path. Often there wasn’t even room to dodge. Those lucky enough to leap above the wave still risked being impaled by follow-up bloodspears. The path to the final pillar was brutal—a gauntlet of winding tunnels leading to vast chambers where the vampires concentrated their defenses. Entering those spaces was a slaughter. But once secured, the elves could dig in and repel the undead more efficiently. The mages and archers worked tirelessly, casting barriers and hailing arrows to keep the tide at bay.

After nearly a full day of relentless combat, they neared the final chamber. There, the resistance grew even fiercer. Stronger vampires appeared—armored in cursed steel, or transformed into winged, demonic horrors that tore through lines like living scythes. Althirion did all he could to intercept these elite foes, reserving only his most potent techniques and his energy-enhancing skills. The other council members fought with equal resolve. Vaelinor summoned thorned vines and sentient roots to ensnare and crush their enemies. Elaria, moving with supernatural grace, darted between foes in a blur of blades and wind.

Though Althirion and Elaria had clashed during the tutorial, their battles over the past day had forged something like camaraderie. Fighting side by side, defending one another without a word, had kindled mutual respect—perhaps even something more. Among elves, combat was one of the most sincere forms of connection. Perhaps, when this was over, their bond would deepen. She had often spoken of her lost son—insisting he still lived, held captive by the human with crimson eyes. She had vowed to find him, and to kill the man who had taken him.

If her words were true, then Althirion would help her. No elf should ever be taken by humans, let alone used. The human would deserve death. But if she was wrong... well, the human camp was still filled with potential slaves. Their forces were stretched thin, and the humans wouldn’t hold long once their champion fell. Althirion doubted the crimson-eyed man had the intellect to refuse a challenge from an elf. That arrogance would be his undoing.

Althirion had no doubt that Elaria could defeat the human in a duel—and if she allowed it, he would gladly be the one to strike the killing blow himself. Yet, judging by the seething hatred in her eyes whenever the red-eyed human was mentioned, that possibility seemed remote. She loathed the humans with every fiber of her being. Althirion had seen it—how her jaw tightened and her hands curled into fists every time one of their kin brought up the human who had supposedly slain her son.

Many elves speculated on the human’s true strength, wondering whether they could defeat him in direct combat. These whispered questions fanned the flames of Elaria’s rage, for they implied that her son—an elf born of noble blood—had been inferior. To a proud noble like her, such insinuations were unbearable. What tested her patience even more was the way others spoke of her son as though he were already dead. Elaria rejected that idea entirely. She clung to the belief that he still lived, waiting to be rescued, and she swore to do just that.

Althirion suspected this conviction stemmed from maternal instinct—a fierce, unwavering love that was both admirable and heartbreaking. It was one reason the others held back from confronting her too harshly. The other reason was more pragmatic: her strength. In the battles against the vampires, Elaria had displayed an extraordinary power far beyond what he remembered. It wasn’t a mere improvement—it was a transformation. Whenever she was pushed to the brink, her aura surged higher, stronger, like a tempest meeting resistance. Althirion doubted they had even seen her limits. Privately, he questioned whether he himself could best her now, should it ever come to that.

Until now, their advance had gone surprisingly well. The council members had been forced to reveal much of their strength, but Althirion had managed to hold back a large portion of his own power—an advantage that might prove vital later. That was his belief, at least. But everything changed when they stepped into the next chamber.

They emerged into a vast cube-like hall, over a hundred meters high and wide, with smooth obsidian walls that swallowed the torchlight. Directly ahead, another corridor opened into what looked like the final chamber. And at its heart, they could already glimpse the grotesque stone pillar—twisting, pulsing, radiating dark energy. They were close. So close.

But the path through the chamber was anything but simple.

It was crawling with vampires. Hundreds of them. And these were not like the ones they had fought before. They moved with purpose, wearing enchanted armor, their bodies radiating with concentrated malice. Among them, near the center of the chamber, stood something worse—undead humans. Their leathery skin clung to sunken frames like parchment stretched over bone, and their eyes glowed faintly with unnatural light. Some looked almost freshly dead, others like corpses dug up after weeks in the earth. Yet each of them radiated power—auras as strong as the highest-ranking vampires.

But that was not what froze the blood in Althirion’s veins.

At the center of it all stood a single figure—tall, gaunt, and utterly wrong. Time seemed to slow the instant Althirion saw him. His breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded like war drums. There, grinning with malicious glee, stood the corpse of the elven prince.

Only it was no longer the prince.

The thing wearing his face still bore the same regal features, but twisted—corrupted. Dark runes were carved into his flesh like branding marks, pulsing faintly with infernal power. His once-noble aura had been twisted into something grotesque. The air around him rippled as if recoiling from the sheer weight of his presence. Even at a distance, Althirion could feel it pressing against his mind—an oppressive, suffocating force that eclipsed even his own strength, boosted or not.

The battle hadn’t even begun, and yet every hair on Althirion’s body stood on end. It was as if lightning had struck the ground beside him. What he beheld defied everything he knew—an abomination, a mockery of elven life, a nightmare sculpted into flesh. Fury rose within him like a tidal wave. His fists clenched of their own accord. His muscles tensed under his armor, trembling not with fear, but with barely contained rage. It was no longer a decision—his body moved before his mind could stop it.

Without a word, Althirion surged forward. His sword ignited with burning light, his aura flaring like a wildfire. A roar tore from his throat—a sound of anguish, of wrath, of war. The chamber answered with chaos, as the undead turned to meet his charge. But Althirion had already committed.

There would be no retreat. No mercy.

Only vengeance.


<author note>

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<author note>