Exhausted but undeterred, the elves toiled through the night, diligently clearing the temple grounds of debris and orcish remains.
Their industriousness, a stark contrast to the despair following Vorgruth's ambush, spoke volumes of their renewed hope.
The clan's defeat had transformed the atmosphere; a vibrant energy replaced the oppressive gloom.
Even the stoic Faelar, usually impassive, displayed a surprising lightness, actively coordinating the cleanup efforts.
The task to clean these mess, ofcourse, was monumental.
Days, perhaps even months, would be needed to completely restore the ravaged sanctuary.
The work extended beyond the immediate aftermath of the battle; it encompassed not only the wreckage and the orcish corpses but also the grim toll amongst their own kin.
The trauma of Vorgruth's invasion would leave lasting scars, a lengthy recovery process inevitable.
Lost in contemplation, I was startled by an elf's sudden cry.
"The Chosen One! Everyone, it's him!"
A wave of joyous elation washed over me as the elves, faces alight with gratitude, greeted me with spontaneous reverence.
They knelt, their expressions brimming with heartfelt thanks, unbidden and deeply moving.
"Thank you, Chosen One! You are a blessing from our ancestors!"
"Thank you for restoring our home! We can finally rest in peace!"
Their overwhelming appreciation was both humbling and unexpected.
Feeling overwhelmed by their devotion, I demurred, "Please, don't mind me," and retreated to the relative quiet of the temple.
The night air, cool and gentle, offered a moment of respite as I entered the deserted hall.
Sylvana awaited me, not in her throne room, but in a secluded chamber within. The anticipation was palpable.
I located the hidden entrance and knocked softly.
"Sylvana, are you there?"
A hesitant, almost nervous, "Yes…" followed, then, "Come in, Alstair. I'm ready."
The unspoken weight of her words hung heavy in the air, promising a meeting fraught with significance.
A wave of intoxicating perfume washed over me as I entered the room.
The air thrummed with a peculiar warmth, and the opulent chamber, clearly a private sanctuary, felt intimately Sylvana's.
She lay upon a plush bed, clad only in delicate lingerie, her face flushed crimson as she shielded her exposed cleavage.
An awkward silence descended, thick with unspoken tension.
Had I arrived at wrong moment?
I had knocked; she'd declared herself ready.
But *this* level of preparedness?
With being almost naked?
"My apologies," I began, retreating. "I blundered in thoughtlessly."
"No, Alstair," she interrupted, gently restraining me.
With swift, decisive movements, she secured the door, imprisoning us in a bubble of breathless intimacy.
"Sylvana, are you certain about this? Perhaps you'd prefer to—" Her voice softened, her hand finding mine before settling upon her breast.
"The key you seek, Alstair, resides within me. Literally."
So, the key inside of her chest?
Well, at first I never thought that would be that way inside.
ANyway, I understood the implication, but the blatant display—the alluring lingerie, the undeniable allure of this exquisite blonde elf with her flawless skin and captivating physique—was undeniably distracting.
Her form was undeniably human.
"Sylvana, your beauty is breathtaking," I managed, striving for composure.
A shy smile touched her lips.
"Truly? Such praise from a human... I never anticipated it."
Despite the strong surge of desire, I detected a unique energy emanating from her chest—a flow of mana, elusive and ungraspable.
A clever safeguard, perhaps, but utterly vulnerable should anyone resort to violence.
The fragility of her situation struck me with chilling force.
Her beauty was a beacon, and the key she guarded, a dangerous secret held within a heart vulnerable to brutal attack.
Curiosity gnawed at me.
"How did that key end up inside you?" I asked, gesturing towards her chest. Sylvana's face clouded with sorrow.
"The key belongs to any clan that conquers another in this realm," she began, her voice heavy with grief. "But after my parents' demise, a power struggle fractured our family, weakening the Lythandor clan and leaving us vulnerable to the orcish invasion."
"So, you're the last of the Lythandor?" I asked.
"Yes," she sighed, settling onto her bed. "Here, on the forty-fourth floor of the Abandoned Tower Dungeon—its lowest level." She paused, gathering her composure.
"This key unlocks the sixty-sixth floor, where you'll find my sister—or, perhaps more accurately, *my former* sister, Elanor."
I pieced it together.
"Elanor is your former sister? Was she a Lythandor before the clan's downfall?"
"Precisely," Sylvana confirmed, the bitterness palpable.
Her voice cracked with suppressed rage. "Her treachery burns within me still!" She wrestled with the lingering trauma, her agony evident.
"I bound the key to my very essence, ensuring it would only fall into enemy hands with my death."
"No other way to access it?" I pressed, concern tightening my chest.
A wry smile touched her lips. "Not for the orcs, no," she said, her tone laced with cynicism. "But a sorcerer… a sorcerer might collaborate with me to extract it. You likely know the ritual."
The memory of Lisa extracting poison from my body flashed through my mind.
Seeing Sylvana clad only in undergarments, my conjecture become forim.
That kind of ritual would be a first for me—the elves believed as much—but desperation left me no other choice.
The key was indispensable; I needed it to reach the highest floor, to attain the holy water that would save my family.
Even if it meant traversing the darkest depths, I would proceed no matter what.
Observing the crimson current of mana emanating from Sylvana's chest, the procedure became crystal clear.
"I understand," I declared, approaching the bed.
I summoned the system, requesting the removal of my robes and garments.
Sylvana gasped, a strangled cry escaping her lips, as I seated myself beside her on the bed, my presence looming over her.
"It won't be pleasant," I murmured, my fingers closing around her chest.
The contact sparked a tremor through her.
Crimson mana, like a river of molten ruby, pulsed beneath my touch, tethered to the key locked within her soul.
"Ahn...!"
Sylvana's moan was a strangled whisper, her body arching with the sudden invasion.
Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp against the sheets as I pressed deeper, attempting to snag the elusive mana strand.
The exertion left both our skin slick with sweat, the bed damp beneath us.
It was agonizingly familiar – a mirror of Lisa's agonizing yet effective poison extraction.
Every creature in the Monster Realm possessed this life force, this mana – a flow of power that held its secrets.
The air thrummed with her rising panic.
Each exhaled breath, hot and heavy, painted the room in a haze of warmth.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, tracing paths through her tangled hair.
Her moans, initially pained cries, became pleas.
"Alstair! Hah...hahh... I'm sorry...!"
The prolonged struggle sapped her strength, her exhaustion a palpable thing in the humid air.
One more moment, and she would lose consciousness – a risk that threatened to shatter her soul.
Focusing every ounce of my will, I channeled my own mana, a surge of golden light meeting the crimson river.
Slowly, painstakingly, I grasped the fiery thread, coaxing it outward until the key, a miniature replica of the one I held, materialized in my hand.
With a sharp pull, it freed itself, leaving Sylvana's body shuddering violently on the bed, a wave of reaction rippling through the room.
"Ahhh...!" The final moan faded as her eyes fluttered shut, her breath still ragged.
The sweat plastered us to the sheets.
My own arousal was a disquieting contrast to the near-death experience we had just shared.
Ignoring the strange wetness, I secured the key in my pocket.
"Sylvana, it worked! I—"
Sleep claimed her, deep and heavy.
The first rays of dawn painted the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, a slow bleed of color into the darkness.
I grabbed a blanket, covering her lightly.
The exhaustion tugged at my own body, but the relief of success was a powerful counterweight.
I settled into a wooden chair nearby, the scent of dust and damp earth filling my nostrils, and watched over her.
The celebration could wait.