Chapter 115
The battle wagon they had used for their journey rested nearby, its heavy wheels caked with dried swamp mud and rune-bound plating scorched from the earlier conflict. Towering at the front, hitched by enchanted harnesses of reinforced steel and leather, stood the creature that pulled it,a Torvoria Ox.
Massive, broad-shouldered, and nearly the size of a small hut, the Torvoria Ox was no ordinary beast of burden. It had been specifically selected for missions like this, where unpredictable magic, monsters, and miasma could send lesser animals into frenzied panic. The Ox, however, was different. Bred in the remote volcanic valleys of the North Rift, it possessed an unnaturally calm disposition, thick, heat-resistant hide, and a skeletal structure laced with hardened mineral bone plates. Its skin alone was tough enough to deflect arrows and resist shallow blade strikes, and its lungs had adapted to filter toxins and magical pollutants with ease.
But more than its physical resilience, the Torvoria Ox was valued for one reason above all:
It did not fear monsters.
Now, with the swamp growing quiet and the haze of battle finally behind them, the group took time to rest and tend to their wounds. Beneath the extended canvas of the battle wagon's awning, they built a modest camp. It wasn't much just a ring of stones, a small fire crackling at the center, but it was enough.
They took turns preparing the evening meal. Galen roasted strips of swamp boar over the fire while Ysil mixed what edible herbs she could forage from the drier edges of the clearing. Lora, her robes still stained with soot, used soft water magic to clean their gear and rinse away the blood from their faces.
Thalen, ever the quiet sentinel, mended a tear in his cloak while watching the tree line, eyes never quite resting. And Ormin, despite the soreness in his limbs, carved new runes into the handle of his hammer, silent as the sun dipped low.
The sky above the swamp shimmered in deep violet hues, streaked with pale orange light refracted through layers of mist and broken clouds. The last remnants of the day clung to the horizon like fading brushstrokes on a dying canvas. Fireflies drifted lazily between the reeds, their slow pulsing glows blinking like lullabies across the still, recovering swamp.
The oppressive hum that once weighed over the land, thick with dread and twisted magic, had vanished. What remained was silence. Natural. Peaceful. Not absence, but stillness. The kind earned through hardship.
Under the outstretched canvas of the battle wagon, a simple gathering formed, not planned, not prompted. Just seven souls drawn to the comfort of shared warmth and food. The fire crackled gently in the center of their circle. The stew, made from the meat of swamp boar and foraged herbs, simmered in a dented iron pot while flatbread warmed over a stone plate.
Thalen Merrow, Ysil Thorne, Galen Althus, Lora Sithe, and Ormin Vos Sithe sat close together. Their gear was set aside, their weapons resting but within reach, and each of them held in their packs or pockets the mana cores of the creatures they had slain. Glowing stones—some red, others green or blue—still faintly pulsing with residual essence. Proof of their kill. Marks of survival.
They spoke softly as they ate, taking turns sharing moments from the battle, laughter blooming in fragments between retellings of near misses and lucky blows. Thalen spoke of how the kobold nearly gutted him from behind before he crushed it against a tree. Ysil reenacted her triple shot on the Skunk Ape with dramatic flair, making Galen nearly choke on his food. Lora and Ormin exchanged a glance when someone brought up the roots bursting into flame, and even they couldn't suppress a tired grin.
And Daniel, seated among them, listened.
He didn't need to say much. His presence alone was grounding, solid, and silent. the same quiet storm they had followed into the swamp. Melgil sat beside him as always, sharpening a dagger blade, saying little, but watching them all with an expression that softened just a little.
The fire crackled gently as the last bits of food disappeared, and for a few rare moments, each of them began to feel it; they were no longer walking alone. Melgil quietly cast a simple barrier around the camp, allowing them to finally rest in peace, the weight of the day slowly melting into the stillness of night.
Daniel sat silently, eyes half-closed, but his mind deliberately quiet. He forced himself not to overthink, even though it was his nature to calculate every angle. He liked that feeling—the control, the foresight, but tonight, he resisted it. There was something more important than planning: presence.
He had seen the emotions brewing in his classmates—the frustration, the guilt, the quiet regret. They had chosen to go hunting not out of duty, but to prove something. Not to the world, but to him. That they weren't like the arrogant, entitled students they had left behind. That they could be something more.
But Daniel hadn't been concerned with what they did. The fact that they had broken away from the written scenario at all, that they had chosen something unscripted—was enough to amaze him. He hadn't forced their hand. He hadn't guided them.
He had simply watched… to see if they could evolve.
And, against all expectations, they had.
The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting flickering shadows against the enchanted barrier. The air outside whispered with the usual night sounds—crickets, rustling leaves, the occasional distant screech—but none of it pierced the protective dome Melgil had formed.
Daniel sat with his back to a log, eyes half-lidded, pretending to rest.
Footsteps approached softly. Not trying to sneak, just respectful of the silence.
Lora knelt beside him, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "You're not really asleep, are you?"
Daniel gave a half-smile. "Didn't plan to be. Someone has to be alert."
"I thought we were taking shifts," she said, sitting beside him. "Galen's snoring. So is Ysil. Melgil's meditating. And I think Thalen's talking in his sleep—again."
Daniel chuckled quietly. "About swords or poetry this time?"
"Both. Something about slicing his enemies while serenading their widows." She shook her head. "That boy needs help."
The quiet settled again. But it was gentler now, shared.
Lora stared into the dying embers, her voice soft. "Do you think we're doing okay?"
Daniel didn't answer right away. He looked at her—not just at her expression, but at her posture, the slight tremble in her fingers, the way her shoulders tensed as if ready to be judged.
"You're doing better than expected," he said honestly. "Not because you're succeeding, but because you're choosing. That's harder than it sounds."
She nodded slowly. "I just… I want to make sure I'm not wasting what this world is offering. Even if it's dangerous. Even if it's broken."
Daniel's voice lowered, almost a whisper. "It is broken. We broke it. Long before you ever stepped into it."
She glanced at him, confused—but before she could speak, a sudden ping echoed faintly against the barrier. Like a sharp pebble had struck it from the outside.
Both of them stilled.
Daniel's hand moved to his sideblade. Lora drew her dagger.
Another sound. Shuffle.Scratch.
Daniel stood. "Stay behind me."
He stepped toward the edge of the barrier, eyes narrowing into the dark. Something moved just beyond the protective dome. A silhouette? No. More like a distortion. Like the air itself was bending around something trying not to be seen.
Then it vanished.
Lora whispered, "Was that…?"
"I don't know," Daniel replied, not taking his eyes off where it had been. "But it knew we were awake."
A pause.
Then Daniel added, almost to himself, "And it wasn't the first time."
The distortion in the air faded, but the unease it left behind clung to the skin like cold mist.
Daniel stayed still, hand on his blade, eyes fixed on the trees beyond the barrier. Lora, tense at his back, scanned the darkness.
Then the forest went quiet.
Too quiet.
No crickets. No breeze. Even the embers in the fire seemed to burn slower, like time had been stretched.
Daniel muttered, "Wake the others."
Lora didn't question him. She rushed toward the others, shaking them awake in hushed urgency. Galen stirred first, immediately reaching for his axe. Ysil and Thalen followed, groggy but alert. Melgil's eyes were already open; he had sensed it, too.
Before a word could be spoken, the barrier cracked.
A faint line spread through Melgil's protective dome,fine as a spider's thread but glowing with unnatural light.
Then came the voice. Not shouted. Not whispered. Spoken in a language older than any of them had ever heard. Yet they understood every word, deep in their bones.
"The roots have screamed. The Hallowtree is dead. And you brought the rot with you."
From the treeline, shadows moved with unnatural grace, tall, lithe figures in armor grown from bark and bone, their faces painted in moss and blood. Eyes like polished obsidian reflected the firelight. Elven, but not of the peaceful kind from children's tales.
Dark Elves, Hunters of Rillifaen.
One stepped forward, a staff made of twisted wood in hand, bark pulsating as if alive. Vines slithered at his feet like snakes sensing prey.
"You desecrated sacred ground," he said, his voice layered with wrath. "And the forest cries for balance."
Galen grunted, rolling his shoulder as he stood beside Daniel. "They talk too much."
Daniel didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on their leader.
"We didn't kill the Hallowtree," Lora said quickly, stepping forward. "We saw it die—but it wasn't us. Something corrupted it."
"Lies," hissed one of the hunters, drawing a longbow that looked more like a stretched spine than wood. "You carry the stench of unraveling. Of false code. Of broken order."
Melgil's voice was calm, but firm. "If you strike, Rillifaen will know the truth."
"Rillifaen already judged you," the leader growled. He raised his staff, and the vines beneath the forest floor erupted, lashing toward the barrier like spears.
The dome shattered.
"Scatter!" Daniel shouted, his blade igniting with a flicker of elemental energy. "Don't group up—they'll bind us!"
Arrows sliced the air. Thalen dove behind a rock, deflecting two with his shield. Ysil chanted a quick barrier to shield Lora. Galen met the first of the hunters head-on, the clash of metal and bark ringing out into the night.
Daniel ducked a strike, slashing at the vine-tendrils snaking toward his leg. As he moved, his mind spun, not in panic, but in calculation.
This isn't just vengeance... They're testing something. Watching.
And then he saw it, behind the hunters, just barely visible in the dark.
A second presence. Hooded. Silent. Not attacking.
Observing.
From the edge of the treeline, cloaked in silence and shadow, the observer watched.
He had not moved when the battle began. Not when steel met bark, nor when arrows cut the night air. His presence was subtle but absolute, wrapped in divine concealment. A Seer—chosen by Rillifaen himself, bound by sacred law to observe but not interfere. And yet, as the skirmish unfolded, his eyes had remained fixed on one figure alone.
Melgil.
No—Melgil Veara Gehinnom.
His breath caught. The White-Haired Calamity. The Queen of Endless Threads. The Demon Spider of Gehinnom.
Long before the gods of this world carved their dominions—before Rillifaen breathed life into sacred groves and imposed order upon chaos—she had already existed. Not born of nature. Not born of balance.
Born of annihilation and endless hunger.
In her prime, she was a force of unrestrained destruction. A crawling apocalypse. Kingdoms vanished beneath her silk, cities wrapped in cocoons of web and despair. Her eight-legged form blackened the sky; her threads suffocated light itself. Even Rillifaen, god of growth, wilds, and vitality, had never dared confront her directly. Not out of reverence. Out of survival.
And now… she sat beside humans. Cloaked in a frail humanoid form. Her presence dulled, her power sealed, but not erased. He could still see it in the way her fingers twitched subtly, resisting ancient instincts. In the faint shimmer around her, strands of silk stretched into unseen layers of reality. A predator contained, but never tamed.
And her eyes.
Those were not human eyes.
No matter how calm she appeared, no matter the mask she wore, he saw the monster coiled beneath. Waiting.
Why is she here?Why take this form? Why walk with them?
And why… protect them?
His gaze drifted briefly to Daniel and the others. They had no idea what sat in their midst. No idea of the catastrophe sleeping beside them.
The questions clawed at him, but no answer came. Only a single, terrible truth echoed in his thoughts:
If she awakens… truly awakens… everything will burn again.
And the world was already on the brink.
He raised a hand.
The dark elven hunters froze mid-attack. Their instincts urged them to avenge the Hallowtree, to strike down the corrupted—but the Seer's will was final.
"Fall back," he commanded, voice drifting through the trees like a breath of wind.
The leader snarled in protest. "But the Hallowtree—"
"Fall. Back."
The command was a law older than words. One by one, the hunters obeyed, melting into the forest like smoke. The vines recoiled. The tension loosened. The night released its breath.
Daniel, still wary, glanced at Melgil. She hadn't moved. Her face unreadable.
But her fingers no longer twitched.
No longer resisting.
The danger had passed.
For now.
The Seer lingered a moment longer, eyes locked on the calamity veiled in human skin.
You shouldn't exist anymore… and yet you do.
He turned, fading into the darkness.
"We will watch," he whispered to the trees. "We will wait. And when she moves… we must be ready."
The moment the vines retreated and the hunters vanished into the night, Daniel moved.
He darted past the remnants of the shattered barrier, his feet light on the forest floor, weaving between roots and brush as if guided by instinct alone. The others called after him, but their voices faded behind him. He had no time to explain, not yet. There were questions screaming in his mind, louder than reason.
The dark elves weren't evil. Daniel knew that much. The ancient texts,even the ones buried in corrupted system files—spoke of them as guardians of the wild, chosen by Rillifaen to preserve the balance of the natural world. And yet, they had attacked without hesitation. Not as mindless killers, but as executioners—carrying out a sentence they believed justified.
Why?
Why did they come for us?
Why now?
Are they protecting the one who corrupted the Hallowtree?
That thought struck Daniel like a blade across the chest. The timing was too perfect. The twisted roots, the broken code embedded in the forest's soul—it had felt deliberate. A planted rot, not a spreading disease.
His legs burned from the strain, but he pushed harder. The swamp air was thick, the humidity clinging to his skin, but his focus never wavered. Ahead, shadows flickered between trees—seven of them, moving in near silence, their forms nearly indistinguishable from the wilderness around them.
But they had made one mistake.
They underestimated him.
With a sudden burst of speed, Daniel vaulted over a fallen log, slipping into their path like a ghost. The startled rear scout spun, bow half-raised, only to freeze as Daniel raised his hands.
"I'm not here to fight," he said, breathless but clear. "I need to talk."
The others immediately shifted formation, surrounding him in a half-circle, weapons drawn but not yet loosed. Their leader stepped forward, bark armor creaking softly under the tension.
"You dare pursue us, outsider?" the elf hissed, voice like wind through dry leaves. "Do you think you're owed answers after defiling sacred ground?"
Daniel didn't flinch. "We didn't destroy the Hallowtree. We witnessed it die—but something else killed it. Something unnatural."
A tense silence followed.
"I know your kind," Daniel continued. "You protect nature. You preserve balance. But tonight, you acted like executioners. If you're not working with the one who corrupted the tree,then tell me who is."
His words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. The leader's obsidian eyes narrowed, unreadable.
Then slowly, deliberately, he lowered his staff.
"You should not have followed us, human," he said coldly. "But since you did… perhaps you are ready to learn what sleeps beneath your world."
The dark elves scattered through the twisted swamp paths like shadows, silent, swift, and sure-footed. Daniel pursued them without hesitation, weaving through the moss-draped trees and slick roots with relentless speed. He wasn't after vengeance.
He needed answers. Dark elves weren't supposed to be enemies; they were known to be ancient guardians of nature. So why had they attacked him and his allies? Were they under orders? Were they protecting the one who corrupted the Hallowtree?
His thoughts burned as fiercely as the lightning surging through his veins.
Eventually, the seven hunters halted in a moonlit glade surrounded by glowing mushrooms and the low hum of the corrupted swamp. One among them stepped forward, eyes narrowed beneath a bone-crafted mask.
"You should not be here, outsider," she said, voice firm but not cruel. "Turn back. This path leads to something even we fear."
Daniel didn't flinch. "I don't turn back without truth. Are you guarding the one who poisoned the tree?"
A silent pause stretched between them—then the lead hunter nodded to the others.
"Then prove your worth. Survive."
Without warning, six of the dark elf hunters lunged forward, vanishing into blurs of motion. Their blades gleamed in the filtered moonlight as they struck from all directions, forcing Daniel to react in a storm of instinct and discipline. He drew both weapons in a single fluid motion—his mother's katana in his right hand, his father's gunblade in his left. Sparks erupted with every parried strike, and the air shimmered with elemental energy.
He didn't hold back.
Lightning surged around his limbs, snapping like hungry serpents, as he wove martial strikes into his movements, spinning, flipping, and intercepting every angle of attack. His katana clashed against twin daggers, spun down into a parry, and followed through with a crackling fire-enhanced uppercut. One hunter fell back, winded.
Another hurled poisoned needles, but Daniel twisted mid-air, flaring a burst of flame around him to burn them to ash before they struck. He landed hard and swept his gunblade across the ground, firing a condensed bolt of lightning that scattered two of the elves into defensive rolls.
Their coordination was flawless, but Daniel's precision was terrifying. He read their movements like a seasoned hunter, countering with flawless timing, chaining his fire and lightning skills into brutal shockwaves and explosive bursts. Every move had purpose. Every strike held restraint—but no weakness.
The sixth and final hunter leapt from a high branch, twin swords aiming straight for his back. Daniel spun, ducked beneath the strike, and slammed the flat of his blade against the attacker's stomach, disarming her midair before planting her into the mossy earth.
Silence fell.
The six hunters lay sprawled or kneeling, gasping, bruised but alive. Daniel stood at the center, breathing heavily, both weapons still glowing from elemental charge. He had held back just enough, not to kill, but to speak.
The leader stepped forward again, slower this time. Her tone was different—lower. Respectful.
"…You fight with purpose, not vengeance."
Daniel nodded. "I want the truth. That's all."
The dark elves halted in a circular glade, its edges wreathed in glowing blue mushrooms and tangled vines slick with swamp dew. The air was heavy with old magic. Daniel stepped into the clearing without hesitation, twin weapons gleaming faintly at his sides.
"You should not be here, outsider," the lead elf said coldly, her voice tight with both command and curiosity. Her mask was carved from petrified wood, painted with thorns.
"You follow us, and demand truth?"
Daniel's eyes didn't leave hers. "You attacked first. I want to know why. The Hallowtree is dead, and I need to understand who did it, and what you're protecting."
The six elves flanking her shifted their stances. Not in fear. In readiness.
Daniel gave out a heavy sigh, knowing that the situation was escalating quickly. "I don't want to fight you," he said, his voice steady and calm. "But I will defend myself if necessary."
The leader raised a hand and gestured sharply. "Prove your intent. Survive us."
They struck.
The first, a dual-wielder with short crescent blades,lunged low, spinning like a dancer as she tried to hook Daniel's ankle and throat in one fluid motion. Fast. Almost too fast. Daniel parried the ankle strike, then sidestepped and launched her back with a blast of lightning from his palm. The impact flung her against a tree, winded but conscious.
"Fast doesn't mean unpredictable," Daniel muttered, shifting his weight.
The second attacker came down from above, a silent monk-like elf wielding a blackwood staff tipped with fungal spores. Each strike was precise, pressure-point aimed, disrupting balance rather than breaking bones. Daniel grunted as a jab struck his shoulder, making his sword arm twitch. But he dropped into a low roll, using the momentum to fire his gunblade point-blank into the ground. A chain reaction of fire burst upward, scattering the spores and knocking the staff-wielder off balance.
"Enough pressure," Daniel whispered, "and even control crumbles."
The third attacker didn't fight with weapons. She fought with living vines—twisting around her limbs and extending from her back like writhing whips. She moved erratically, like a puppet pulled by wild nature. A whip lashed at Daniel's leg. He jumped, twisted mid-air, and sliced through the vines with his katana, then fired a bolt of lightning at her feet to disrupt her rhythm.
"I see you rely on chaos," he said, breathing harder now. "But I was born in it."
Daniel responded, "Born in chaos, I am chaos." The attacker's eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly regained her composure and unleashed a barrage of vines at Daniel. He dodged and countered with a series of lightning-fast strikes, each one aimed at weakening her control over the chaotic vines. As the battle raged on, Daniel's movements became more fluid and precise, showing that he was indeed born in chaos and had mastered its unpredictable nature.
With a combination of slash and kick and punches his enemy fell unconsious, broken and defeated. Suddenly the fourth dark elf emerged from the shadows like smoke, a cloak-weaver, using illusions and light distortion. One moment she was behind him, the next to his left. He closed his eyes, relying only on instinct, then turned and fired, the round grazing her shoulder. She hissed, retreating into fog.
Daniel exhaled shakily. "I don't need to see you. I just need to know you're there."
The fifth and sixth attacked in tandem, a shieldbearer and a glaive-wielder, one tanking, the other sweeping in wide, devastating arcs. The synergy between them was flawless military-trained, drilled beyond the natural.
Daniel ducked a sweeping strike, blocked the shield slam with his katana, then used a shockwave electrical spell beneath their feet. Earth cracked. Both staggered.
Before they could regroup, he struck, the blunt edge of the katana to the glaive-wielder's gut, hilt of the gunblade into the shieldbearer's shoulder. Neither blow was lethal. But effective.
Daniel stood in the center of the glade, breath heavy, clothes torn at the sleeves, sweat mixing with smoke and mud. His weapons hummed with residual energy. He had never fought like this before, not with full focus. Not with this much emotion swirling beneath the surface.
But it wasn't rage.
It was urgent. A need for answers. For truth.
The six dark elves surrounded him again, but they did not raise their weapons.
The lead hunter stepped forward; her tone changed.
"You held back," she said. "You could have crippled us. You didn't."
"I didn't come here to kill," Daniel replied, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. "I came here because you aren't the enemy. But someone is."
There was a long pause before the leader slowly removed her mask. Her face was gaunt but strong, painted with ash and sacred symbols.
"I am Sheae Viansola, sworn sentinel of Rillifaen, the Great God of Nature," she said, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of authority.
"We are guardians of the wilds, not enemies of humankind. But someone has disturbed the sacred balance,and we must uncover the hand behind these attacks upon our kin."
Sheae Viansola stood five foot seven with the grace of moonlight filtering through ancient leaves, elegant, silent, and untouchable. Her obsidian skin shimmered faintly with the sheen of dew-kissed bark, smooth as polished onyx yet marked with faint, natural patterns like vines etched into her flesh by the forest itself.
Long hair, the color of midnight rain, fell in silken waves down her back, braided with living ivy and delicate white blossoms that pulsed softly with druidic magic.
Her eyes, a piercing shade of jade green, held centuries of wisdom and the silent fury of storms long passed. Slender yet strong, her form was wrapped in armor of woven leafsteel and spider-silk, light, durable, and alive with enchantments. Every motion she made, even in stillness, carried a natural rhythm like wind moving through high branches or the slow rise of dawn mist over sacred ground.
She wore a cloak the color of autumn shadow, and around her neck hung a pendant carved from a piece of the First Tree—Rillifaen's symbol, glowing faintly with divine verdance. Sheae spoke rarely, but when she did, her words echoed like truth carried by the wind: ancient, fierce, and unyielding.
"You are no ordinary human. Your scent is tangled with gods, demons, and something else I cannot name." Her eyes narrowed. "Very well. Come with us. You have earned the right to hear what we know."
She turned, pointing toward the west.
"But be warned… the one who corrupted the Hallowtree does not work alone. And what lies ahead will test more than just your blade."
Daniel lowered his weapon, the hum of fire and lightning dissipating into the damp silence of the glade. His breath still came fast, his muscles tight with the memory of movement—but his eyes were calm. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid the katana back into its sheath, then holstered the gun blade at his side.
Before the dark elves could speak, he stepped forward and dropped into a respectful bow—not the quick nod of a soldier, but the deep, open-palmed gesture of Taen'Siir, the traditional elven vow of non-hostility. His hands crossed over his chest, fingers splayed, and head bowed fully. It was the same gesture their ancestors had offered under moonlight before sharing water and peace. He spoke softly in their tongue—not perfect, but clear.
"Il'hanar e'thellien. Virel das myr, naer ir'nale."
Peace to your grove. My thanks, and my step shall trouble it no more.
A quiet ripple moved through the hunters. The one who had led them, still mask less, her violet eyes reflecting starlight, watched him with a new weight behind her gaze. She gave the faintest nod in return, her expression unreadable but no longer hostile.
Daniel turned without further word, stepping back through the damp ferns and thick moss, leaving the glade in solemn silence. The pale fungi lit his path faintly as he moved, their glow dimming behind him. The trees seemed to whisper as he passed, the ancient magic of the swamp momentarily still, as if it too watched him leave, uncertain what to make of the man who bowed like kin and fought like stormfire.
He vanished into the mist, and the night swallowed his footsteps like rain into roots.