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.

This text was taken from NovelBin. Help the author by reading the original version there.

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.