Disasters often strike without warning, no matter their form. And on this fateful day, the elves had no inkling of the calamity that was about to befall them.
Gradually, some of the more perceptive elves sensed something was amiss. Their magic; the very essence of their being, had begun to falter. Subtle at first, but then all too real, their powers were suddenly suppressed to a mere fraction of their former strength. Confusion rippled through the ranks. Some elves, sensing danger, attempted to rise, to defend themselves, but it was futile. Magic coursed through their bodies like blood, and without it, they were rendered almost powerless. Weakness overtook them, and many who tried to stand up found themselves collapsing back to the ground, unable to maintain their balance.
Among the chaos, Plamon, known for his keen eyesight, was the first to notice what was happening. He scanned the scene with mounting dread, but before he could fully comprehend the situation, something far worse unfolded. A human, one of the dreaded Black Crow warriors, rushed forward from the shadows, brandishing a deadly weapon. The Black Crow soldiers were clad in heavy armor, leaving only their eyes exposed. Normally, their slow, cumbersome movements would pose little threat to the swift and agile elves. But today, things were different.
The elves' magical abilities, which had always given them an advantage in speed and dexterity, were now stripped away. Helpless and caught off guard, they had no chance to escape or retaliate. The first wave of elves, still dazed and confused, barely registered the attack before they fell, their bodies lifeless on the ground. Blood pooled beneath them, warm one moment, cold the next. The Black Crow soldiers showed no mercy. These were not captives to be taken; they were targets to be eliminated. It was a massacre.
In the midst of the carnage, one figure remained eerily calm, Aegnor. Seated on the ground, he rummaged through his belongings with maddening indifference, muttering to himself. "Damn it, where is it?" he cursed under his breath as he searched for a match to light his firewood, seemingly oblivious to the slaughter around him.
Meanwhile, Oliver, trailing behind the Black Crow forces, struggled to keep pace. The soldiers, mounted on horses, had already outdistanced him, but he continued to follow the path of destruction. As he pushed forward, he was startled to encounter an unexpected sight: a gathering of elves. "What's going on?" he wondered aloud. Why were there so many elves here? Something wasn't right. He commanded his bird familiar to fly closer, hoping to gain more insight into the situation. But as the bird approached, it suddenly vanished into thin air. It wasn't due to exhaustion; no, the air itself had changed. The magical elements in the atmosphere had condensed into a solid barrier, impenetrable to magic. The bird had simply ceased to exist.
Realization dawned on Oliver. "So, it's true," he muttered, fear lacing his words. "The elves and humans... they're about to clash. Have they really come to an agreement to fight today?"
Back on the battlefield, Aegnor had finally found what he was looking for; a match. "Ah, there it is," he said with a grin, ready to light his fire. But before the flame could take hold, an arrow pierced through the wood, splintering it. An old elf, one who had always ignored Aegnor, now stared at him with burning intensity. Perhaps the elf had finally realized the gravity of the situation. But Aegnor only laughed, tossing the broken match to the ground with a shrug. "It doesn't matter," he said, smugly. "In this area, all the elves will fall... all except for one."
That one was Lucy, an elf who had been resurrected using the body of his teacher. She was the only one whose magic had not been affected by the strange suppression in the air. Swift as a blade, she flew across the battlefield, her eyes locked on Aegnor. Without hesitation, she swung her weapon and beheaded him. His body crumpled to the ground, and his mocking grin lingered even in death.
Several other elves, enraged by what they had witnessed, tried to retaliate, but they too were quickly subdued. These elders, each with stories worth telling, now lay lifeless, their fates sealed. They, like the 200,000 elves who had gathered here, would die with their unfinished thoughts and unspoken regrets.
Among the fallen were their ideas, so stubbornly held that they had resisted the progression of their own people. Their deaths would not only mark the end of an era, but also impact the future succession of the elven royal family; a royal lineage that had long been built on rigid traditions and unyielding beliefs.
As the carnage unfolded, Plamon, one of the few elves less reliant on magic, fought valiantly against the encroaching humans. His sheer physical strength allowed him to fend off wave after wave of enemies. But even he, despite his resilience, knew that the tide of battle had turned, and the future of his people hung by a thread.
This was part of the teacher's grand plan, a calculated decision to ensure the safe evacuation of the innocent elves while drawing out the old, stubborn leaders. After all, it wasn't the goal to see all the elves perish here. This was just the first step in a larger scheme. Too many deaths, and the entire plan would crumble. A kingdom without its people is doomed to collapse into nothingness.
Plamon, standing amidst the chaos, glared at Aegnor, fury blazing in his eyes. Even a fool could tell something was terribly wrong. "What's your reason for this, Aegnor? Why betray your own people like this?"
Aegnor, calm and composed, gave him a glance and shrugged. "Reason? It's simple, really. All of this, everything, is to secure the throne for two specific people."
Plamon blinked in disbelief. "What?" His voice was tight, disbelieving, but in his heart, he feared he already knew the answer.
Aegnor sighed, rubbing his temples as though tired by the conversation. "You don't realize how many assassination attempts we've stopped, do you? How many groups of elves we've had to deal with, all trying to kill two people before you even came back to life?"
Plamon fell silent. The answer was becoming painfully clear.
"Several attempts, every single month," Aegnor continued, as if he were recounting an inconvenient statistic. "This couldn't go on. The teacher knew her time was running out, so she created an heir. An heir that could draw attention away from the two sisters and calm the factions that wanted them dead."
As Aegnor spoke, he rummaged through his belongings, looking for something. His tone was almost indifferent, as though this whole ordeal was simply part of some tedious duty. "If they had just kept quiet, behaved themselves, maybe things could've been different. But no, they insisted on killing those two sisters, over and over again." He paused, pulling out a box of fireworks. "You understand that, don't you?"
Plamon clenched his fists. "Yes, I understand." Even without hearing Aegnor's final words, he knew exactly where this was going. The moment the talk of eliminating the sisters started, it was inevitable that Aegnor, once only a candidate for succession, would take matters into his own hands once he became part of the royal family. Talking would no longer suffice; they would act, and that act would be bloody.
As Aegnor struck a match and lit the fuse on the fireworks, he seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the slow burn of the fuse. When the fireworks shot into the sky, bursting in a dazzling but oddly muted display against the bright daylight, he barely flinched.
"Well, that's that," he said with a lazy clap of his hands, as though finishing some mundane task. "The signal's been given." He walked toward the human leader waiting nearby, offering only a simple wave. The leader, understanding the gesture, nodded and handed Aegnor a horse.
The elves who remained, the ones who had survived the trap, now understood what had happened. This was a betrayal of the highest order, but the reasons behind Aegnor's actions were still beyond their grasp. Confusion and sorrow filled the air. Why had he done this? What did he stand to gain?
Perhaps, Plamon thought, they would never understand.
Meanwhile, far in the distance, Oliver saw the fireworks explode in the sky, their colors faint against the midday sun. For a brief moment, he was stunned, confusion washing over him. Fireworks... in broad daylight? It made no sense. Who would do such a thing?
Shaking his head, he urged himself to move faster. Time was slipping away, and there was no room for hesitation now.
When Oliver finally reached the scene, he didn't waste a second. He surged forward, intent on finding answers, but just as he stepped into the clearing, he was caught off guard. Without warning, he stumbled into a magical barrier; an invisible force that flung him backward with tremendous power. He crashed hard against a tree, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, blood spilling from his mouth, yet there wasn't a single wound on his back, not even a scratch.
It wasn't ordinary magic that had repelled him. Holy water; an ancient and dangerous artifact, was involved. Its power came from the dense concentration of magical elements within it. When those elements stopped flowing properly, they clashed violently with the outside world. If kept in ordinary glass, the bottle would shatter instantly, releasing a pure, explosive thrust, unlike regular gunpowder. The mixed elements canceled each other out, leaving only raw force in its wake.
But no one had ever told Oliver about this. He had never been warned of its destructive potential. To those familiar with magic, this was common knowledge.
If Oliver had known, he probably would've muttered in disbelief, "What kind of twisted 'common sense' is this?"
He shook his head, wincing from the pain. In the end, this madness was far from over, and he had no choice but to push forward, even if nothing about this day made any sense at all.