The room they stepped into was vast and still, thick with the hushed breath of memory. Shadows stretched long across smooth stone, and silence lay like a burial shroud. Both sides of the chamber were lined with elegant glass cases—ten in total, five on each side—each one containing something old, yet trembling with latent power.
At the far end, against a pristine white wall that seemed to defy time itself, stood a portrait that radiated gravity like a forgotten god.
Icariel's gaze snapped to it like metal to a magnet.
The man in the painting had long, straight dark hair and silver eyes that gleamed like a blade unsheathed. His features were sharp enough to carve silence, his expression a calm, knowing smile that dared the world to speak. Upon his brow rested a golden crown—simple, regal, perfectly fitted—as though it had never belonged to another.
"That's one of the founders," Elena said gently. "There were three in total. But he… he built this part of the elven tribe. Our home."
Icariel's breath hitched. "So that's what a founder looks like..."
But the portrait, for all its grandeur, faded from his focus.
What seized his full attention were the cases.
More precisely, what slumbered inside them.
He could see it—pure, undiluted mana, lingering in each relic like restless spirits that refused to fade. His WhiteSense surged, reacting instinctively to the hidden pulse of power before him.
"I see… but what are those?" he asked, pointing to the nearest cases, eyes flickering with curiosity and hunger.
"They're sacred relics," Elena replied, voice hushed and reverent. "Precious echoes left behind by the legends of our tribe."
She led him to the first case on the left.
"This dagger belonged to a warrior who stood alone against a horde of monsters. He died there. But not a single other life was lost that day."
The dagger was small, straight-bladed, its edge dulled by time. The handle was wrapped in faded green leather, cracked with age. A weapon long buried, but never dead.
Icariel could feel it pulsing. Even now, the blade bled faint traces of power—subtle, stubborn, alive.
The next four cases held broken armor—each scorched, shattered, and kissed by fire.
"These were worn by the guardians of the Tree of Life. When a dark force tried to claim its heart… these warriors stood and died. This is what remains."
Icariel's eyes lingered on the scars left behind.
"The Tree of Life is really that important to the elves, huh…" he murmured.
Elena's voice turned sharp, iron beneath silk. "It is our breath. Our heart. If it falls, we fall. It's better to die than live after failing it."
Her conviction stung.
Icariel tilted his head. "Sorry if I sound cold. But I don't get that kind of thinking. A tree… even a powerful one… it's still a thing. If you give everything and still fail, dying over it makes no sense to me."
Elif opened her mouth, but Elena raised a hand as soft, almost mournful laugh escaped her.
"You're human," she said. "You won't understand. And I don't blame you. It's good that you value your life. It means you'll fight to keep it."
Icariel didn't respond. He just looked away, jaw tight.
He turned to the five cases on the right side of the room.
The first held a small green crystal orb, swirling faintly with life.
"What's this?"
"Nature Orb," Elena said. "It deepens your bond with nature. A relic left behind by a genius mage. No one's dared use it. It rests as a symbol of what she was."
The next box cradled a black pouch sewn with dark blue thread.
"This…" Elena's voice shifted—pride threading through. "This was crafted by my grandfather."
"Your grandfather?" Icariel raised a brow.
"Yes. He's gone now, but… he was a master of enchanting gear. That pouch holds more than it should. Near-infinite space. A masterpiece."
Icariel's eyes narrowed. A memory flickered—Galien's pouch. The one he always claimed to have found in the mountains. But Elektra… she had said it was given.
"I've seen something like it," he muttered.
"Really?" Elena blinked. "They're rare. If someone had one, they must've been important."
"They're not alive anymore," Icariel said flatly.
"I'm sorry," Elena said softly.
"It's fine," he shrugged, though his mind was burning.
With quiet steps, she moved to the next cases. Inside were battle garments—deep green, light as breath, but etched with defensive enchantments.
"These were forged by the founder's wife. She made them herself. Designed to dance with both magic and war. They've survived centuries."
But it was the final box that stopped Icariel cold.
Inside was a single piece of wood.
Smooth. Straight. About the length of a forearm.
And yet—it thrummed with mana so fierce, it felt like it might awaken and speak.
"What about this one?" he asked, voice low.
Elena smiled, her gaze flicking to Elif.
"That," she said teasingly, "is Elif's dream."
"Huh?"
Elif looked away, shy. "Mom…"
"It's called Elonora," Elena explained. "It belonged to the previous Elf Queen. Infused with mana, it can shift shape—blade, staff, armor… even a carriage. The more mana you give, the greater its form becomes."
Icariel's eyes lit up.
"To form anything… without limits. With my ability to breathe in mana like air, this would be perfect."
"How does one claim it?" he asked, voice threaded with heat.
"Every ten years, a tournament is held between the three tribes. The winner may claim one relic."
"I see..." he said. Then, casually: "Never mind. Too much work."
Elena smiled knowingly. "Want to see more of the castle? The balcony upstairs has the best view."
"Sure, why not?"
They climbed the curved stone steps.
Meanwhile…
In a private war chamber, a round table loomed—etched with the Tree of Life, its carved roots twisting into the stone like veins.
Around it sat the kingdom's beating heart: Princess Virethiel, calm as ice; Lonor, the still eye in the storm; Warleader Aelar, all silent fire. Beside them, Adviser Valandor, the sharp-eyed strategist, and Tessara, elegant and severe. Others followed—officers, captains, thinkers and killers.
Princess Virethiel leaned forward, her voice low.
"Valandor. The situation?"
Valandor adjusted his glasses. "Two more guards vanished today. That's six in total."
Silence coiled.
"We estimate three—four days before full-scale invasion. Their goal is clear: the Tree of Life."
Eldrin, the Royal Captain, spoke like a blade unsheathed. "Chances of success?"
Valandor answered plainly. "We face the Godless Abyss. A collective of mages, swordmasters, superhumans. Humans, beasts, elves alike. They've shattered cities in the human world."
He paused.
"If all goes perfectly, our success rate is 70%. That means—"
"A 30% chance of failure," Eldrin finished, eyes narrowing.
"And that's best-case," Valandor said. "A single error, and we lose everything."
Aelar folded his arms. "We'll execute the plan. But I'll add my own contingencies. I won't gamble with this."
"Good," Virethiel said, tension breaking in her voice. "Adviser, inform the others."
Valandor did so, detailing strategies, shifts, traps, and fallback routes. Each sentence was a sword. Each step, an unspoken prayer.
When he finished, Virethiel stood. "Let's hope the storm passes. And that we remain standing when it does."
One by one, they left.
Outside the chamber, Aelar walked with Valandor.
"The human boy," Valandor murmured. "He's strange."
"Oh?"
"He has no core, no magic circle. But his body is soaked in mana. That's unnatural."
"I know," Aelar said. "That's why I took him in."
"Is he strong?"
"Not at all," Aelar said, lips twitching. "He's learning."
"But if they knew…" he thought. "If they knew he mastered Vital Surge in one month, they'd tear down kingdoms for him. I won't let them ruin him before he chooses who he wants to be."
"I'll leave him to you," Valandor said.
Castle's Second Floor, Balcony
Icariel stood with Elif and Elena, wind kissing his face as he drank in the horizon.
"Like the view?" Elena asked.
Icariel's voice was quiet. "It's… incredible."
Behind him, the Tree of Life towered, glowing like a god's heart. Beneath it, elven houses shimmered like carved dreams, nestled in trees that swayed with centuries of memory.
"What a view," he whispered.
A voice behind them.
"Oh! So this is where you were hiding," Aelar said, approaching.
Icariel turned. "Didn't mean to vanish on you."
"Enjoy the castle?"
"A masterpiece," Icariel said.
Aelar nodded, then turned serious.
"We'll prepare in the next four days. I'll find a safe place for you two."
Icariel looked out—
—and froze.
Far off, at the edge of the village—
Flames.
Small, at first. Like candles.
Then rising.
Flickering hells.
He blinked—above the castle.
Figures. Cloaked. Floating. Silent.
Then—red light.
A mana orb. Glowing. Descending.
The voice in his skull screamed, primal and raw.
"GET DOWN—NOW!"
He didn't think.
He grabbed Elif, slammed her to the ground, dropped flat beside her.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The balcony exploded. Stone ripped apart like wet paper. Smoke burst like breath from a wounded god.
Shards rained down.
Elif coughed, dazed. "W-what happened?"
Her eyes widened. "Mom?! Dad?! Where—are they—?"
Icariel looked up, eyes trembling.
His hands shook.
But in his chest… his fear had found something new.
His eyes burned.
[End of Chapter 42]