Chương 288: Chapter 269: Elfs and Undead Part 2

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. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. 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.