Tom lay at the center of the flames. The lightning had struck him directly, and death had come instantly. There had been no pain, no time for regret or struggle, just an instant of brilliant light, and then silence.
The fire burned around him, consuming everything in its path, reducing the scene to ash. No one spoke. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the flames had stolen not only Tom's life but also the breath of everyone who witnessed it.
And yet, in some strange, indescribable way, it felt like the best outcome.
For the man who had saved lives, who had once extended a helping hand to the desperate, it was a quiet end, free of resentment or suffering. And for the man who had sold countless elves, condemning them to death or worse, it was a fitting retribution.
No one led the way, but the others followed Oliver's example, stepping silently out of the house to let the fire burn its course.
---
Standing outside, Oliver exhaled deeply, his mind a knot of unanswered questions. 'What now?' he asked himself, his thoughts heavy with uncertainty. Around him, the others had already found their paths.
An, Nisha, and Aegnor had their work to do. Enola and Chris seemed preoccupied with their own matters. Lesley and Sandra had their own bonds to tend to, tied up in family, friendship, or love. For a moment, Oliver felt out of place, like a lone figure disconnected from the web of connections binding the others.
In the distance, a group of the older elves had surrounded Lucy, their voices low but steady as they peppered him with questions. What struck Oliver as odd was how Lucy, who had once been hesitant and reserved, now answered with confidence and clarity. It was as if he'd undergone a transformation, his words flowing as though they belonged to someone entirely different.
Meanwhile, the remaining Black Crows had scattered, their leader dead. Some bore guilt, their faces shadowed by shame, but none of the elves made a move to punish them. Perhaps they understood that their true enemy was gone, the chain of oppression finally broken.
For Oliver, however, this victory felt hollow. He glanced at the others, each moving forward with purpose, and felt strangely stuck in place. The prejudice, the bloodshed, the lives lost; it had all ended, but at what cost? Could any of this be called justice?
He found himself unable to muster a single confident answer.
-----
"What are you staring at, little one?" Grandfather's raspy but gentle voice broke through the silence, pulling his grandson's attention away from the peculiar statue. The old man had woken from his light nap, intrigued to find his grandson fixated on the weathered figure in the middle of their garden.
The boy, no more than eight years old, pointed at the odd sculpture with a puzzled expression. "Why does that statue look like 'that'?" he asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and concern. His small finger lingered on the statue that stood starkly different from the others.
The garden was filled with statues of pristine craftsmanship, each one a testament to the sculptor's artistic brilliance; symmetrical, polished, and almost lifelike. Yet this one statue, worn and crumbling, seemed entirely out of place, almost as if it had been forgotten by time.
Grandfather's face softened with a knowing smile. "Ah, that one…" he murmured, his eyes glinting with a mix of nostalgia and gravity. "Go to its base," he said, motioning toward the statue with a slight tilt of his head. "You'll find a message there. Words etched into the stone, meant to remind the world of something very important."
The boy hesitated but then took cautious steps toward the statue, kneeling at its foot. The faded words carved into the base were barely visible, yet they spoke volumes: "To remind us: the strongest may fall, but the fallen teach the strongest to stand."
---
Far away, in a realm where magic and mortality intertwined, an ominous plot was taking shape. Tom, a powerful sorcerer, had fallen, yet his death had not been broadcast to the world. The loyal followers he had secretly dispatched to inscribe magic circles across the land continued their work, unaware of his demise. These intricate circles, though incomplete, were enough to stir the forces of the underworld.
The magic, once a harmless ornamental craft, had evolved. It awakened an ancient concept, one long buried and forgotten. This idea; this entity, had been ravaged in previous conflicts, its regenerative abilities stripped away by its adversaries. Yet now, it adapted with a primal instinct: to restore itself by draining vitality from its surroundings.
As the circles grew in complexity, the entity stirred once more. With each passing moment, its dormant power was reignited.
---
Oliver, suddenly felt the shift in the air. He glanced around, sensing a heat that was all too familiar. The team behind him stirred uneasily, their faces etched with discomfort as the oppressive warmth grew. Only Lucy, a companion who had only recently begun speaking, seemed oblivious, her gaze darting about in confusion.
Oliver gripped his longbow tightly, its cool surface grounding him. He hadn't let go of the weapon since the first encounter, and now he knew why. 'It' was back.
The ground trembled slightly as the figure emerged from the shadows, a young man with wild eyes and a face contorted in rage. His body bore fresh scars, wounds that had yet to heal, but his fury overshadowed any pain. His gaze locked onto Oliver, filled with a hatred so raw it seemed personal.
The boy's movements were feral, almost animalistic. He charged forward without strategy, driven purely by emotion. Oliver held his ground, his fingers tightening on the bowstring. "He's faster this time," he muttered, barely audible, as the figure lunged toward him.
But Oliver was not alone. Hidden among the trees was a second figure, a shadow poised to strike with precision. This had all been planned. Oliver had carefully briefed his ally on every detail of the strategy, ensuring that they would be ready when the moment came.
Plamon, the hidden figure, was the eldest of the group but surprisingly naive about the young man's existence. While he knew of the so-called schools of magic and warfare, he had never imagined facing something or someone, like this.
Lucy, sensing the danger, instinctively cloaked herself in the shadows. Oliver, however, stood firm, positioning himself as the team's shield. His longbow felt steady in his hands, the cool sensation calming his nerves. As the wild boy closed in, Oliver's thoughts were razor-sharp.
"He won't use his hands this time," Oliver calculated, observing the boy's stance. "It'll be his legs; kicks, stomps, maybe even knees."
Anticipation coiled in his chest like a drawn bowstring, ready to release at the perfect moment. The battle was about to unfold, and while the plan was precise, one thing was clear: the unpredictability of this creature would test their resolve.
In the echoes of the clash, the message from the statue resonated deeply. The strongest may fall, but in their fall, they force others to adapt; to learn. And through adaptation, they find strength anew.
Oliver's mind sharpened like a blade as he read his opponent's intentions in an instant. His body moved instinctively, his left foot pressed firmly into the ground while his right heel hovered, poised to pivot and dodge at the perfect moment. Every muscle was taut, ready for the inevitable collision.
The enemy charged with a fierce swipe of his foot, the air around the attack whistling ominously. Oliver had already assessed his opponent's speed; a mere shadow of its former intensity due to the lingering injuries. Timing his move perfectly, he sidestepped. The strike missed, the sole of the enemy's foot slicing through the air so close that the wind alone left a stinging burn on Oliver's side. He winced but refused to falter.
'Pain is fleeting. Stay focused.'
Without hesitation, he retaliated. Gripping his longbow tightly in his left hand, he swung it upward with surprising force. His aim was precise: the enemy's leg. Yet the speed of his attack exceeded even his own expectations, and the longbow collided with the enemy's head instead. The impact was devastating. The opponent spun mid-air, somersaulting helplessly before crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
But Oliver knew better than to celebrate too soon.
---
Just as he steadied himself, a sudden gust of violent wind roared into the fray. Lucy had entered the fight. Unlike the calm breeze she had summoned before, this was a tempest, wild and untamed. The force of it swept Oliver off his feet, hurling him backward as he scrambled to regain his balance.
He staggered to his knees, his gaze locking onto Lucy. What he saw made his breath catch. The wind around her had transformed, not merely an element, but something tangible, alive. It coiled around her in a protective sphere, shimmering like a deadly veil. This wasn't natural. This was controlled chaos, and it radiated power.
Her rapier, glinting ominously, absorbed the swirling winds like a conduit. The winds compressed, gathering with an intensity that sent a shiver down Oliver's spine. He felt it then, the unmistakable pressure of magic at its breaking point.
"She's going to detonate it," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the howling storm. The realization was chilling. This wasn't an ordinary attack. It was an explosion waiting to happen, and there was no stopping it now.
Oliver's instincts screamed at him to move. He bolted toward the nearest low ground, knowing it was his only chance to survive. His longbow, the trusted weapon that had seen him through countless battles, offered no solace against what was coming.
The world shifted in an instant.
Color drained from the landscape, replaced by a blinding white light. All sound was swallowed by an oppressive silence, leaving only the piercing ring of tinnitus in Oliver's ears. He lay sprawled on the ground, coughing as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. His chest heaved, each breath a battle of its own.
The explosion had been catastrophic. Elemental energy compressed to its limit had released in a violent burst, ripping through everything in its path. Oliver hadn't seen the exact moment of impact, but the aftermath was clear. The sheer force had been far more powerful than any attack he had ever witnessed, stronger than even the legendary sunbursts of old.
Slowly, Oliver pushed himself up. His body ached, and the air smelled of scorched earth and burnt magic. He scanned the battlefield. The onlookers, wisely, had fled long before the explosion. But the one who had taken the brunt of the attack lay motionless. Their skin was shredded, blood splattered into the air before the winds had dispersed it like a crimson mist. The once-feral fighter was utterly still, their fate seemingly sealed.
"Did we win?" Oliver muttered, his voice hoarse. He steadied his breathing, preparing to lower his guard; until his hand refused to release the longbow. It was stuck fast, as if fused to his palm. Panic set in as a nauseating sensation coursed through him. The world seemed to twist, bending and warping as if reality itself were being torn apart.
He realized too late what was happening.
A large-scale forced teleportation engulfed him, dragging him away from the ruined battlefield. His surroundings blurred and reassembled, depositing him onto a vast, flat terrain. A massive magic circle pulsed beneath his feet, its intricate lines glowing faintly with stolen vitality. Around him were scattered remnants of black crows; silent witnesses to the chaos.
Oliver's heart sank. He recognized the magic circle's purpose immediately. Long ago, this kind of teleportation had been used as a desperate, suicidal measure, to drag invaders into the depths of lava pits, ensuring mutual destruction. His opponent, even in defeat, had unleashed one final gambit.
As he steadied himself, his eyes met the crows. They stared back, their dark feathers ruffled in confusion. The battlefield had shifted, but the war was far from over.
Oliver gritted his teeth, gripping the bow tightly. "So, this is how it ends," he muttered, his voice grim. But deep down, he knew; it wasn't the end. It was only the beginning of the next fight.