Defeat Vorgruth Clan!
A long corridor stretched before me, flanked by elves whose gazes, ranging from resentment to apprehension, followed my every step.
I followed Sylvana, her presence a stark contrast to the noticeable hostility radiating from the assembled figures.
She had summoned me to her chambers for a private consultation.
Faeral, shadowing Sylvana closely, couldn't entirely mask his malevolent scrutiny, a stark reminder of his lingering fear from our last confrontation.
His animosity was echoed by the numerous elves lining the hallway; their expressions – a volatile cocktail of anger, suspicion, despair, and dread – were unmistakable.
Only Sylvana seemed to accept me, as the unexpected savior, a role I still struggled to understand.
Their defeat at the hands of the sorcerer, coupled with the acceptance of a human as their leader, remained a bitter pill to swallow for many.
Their hushed whispers of discontent – "A mortal? Are there no Elven sorcerers left to avert this catastrophe?" or "Sylvana, bereft of wisdom, easily manipulated by her own kin! Lythandor's glory is fading!" – pierced the air, sharp and accusatory.
My unwavering stare silenced one particularly outspoken elf, his defiance dissolving into abject terror under the weight of my gaze.
"Alstair," Sylvana's voice, calm amidst the tempest, cut through the tension. "We haven't time for this."
Her stoicism hinted at her awareness of the simmering discontent, yet her resolute demeanor suggested a determination to forge ahead.
I suppressed my own irritation, acknowledging the wisdom in her decisive action.
The imposing sun-and-star adorned doorway marked the hallway's end, the threshold to Sylvana's private chambers.
The absence of flanking guards signaled its exclusivity.
It was here, in this secluded sanctuary, that our crucial discussion would unfold.
Faelar swung open the massive doors revealing a vast, stone-floored chamber, reminiscent of a throne room.
"Remain outside, Faelar. Alstair and I require an immediate, private consultation," Sylvana commanded, her voice laced with an icy authority as she entered the expansive space.
"But, my lady…" Faelar began, his protest cut short by Sylvana's curt interruption.
"Faelar. Outside."
He could only obey, his resentment on me palpable as he reluctantly withdrew, leaving me alone with Sylvana in the echoing grandeur of the throne room.
The chamber door sighed shut, its movement orchestrated by Sylvana's mana.
She sat upon her throne, her gaze settling upon me with a weighty concern.
"Where, then, shall we commence?" she murmured, her legs crossed, a thoughtful frown etching itself onto her brow.
The pressure of her current complicated condition was palpable.
"Simply tell me Vorgruth's location. Is it those encroaching orcs that trouble you?" I offered, attempting to alleviate her burden.
"I understand your urgency," she replied, "but you must grasp the details and the contexts of the Abandoned Tower."
"Enlighten me," I prompted. Sylvana paused, her eyes distant.
"The Abandoned Tower transcends the comprehension of most in this realm. It's not merely a structure; it's an emblem of power, signifying a clan's dominion over conquered territories."
Hearing her explanation, I know my initial guess regarding the definition of Abandoned Tower is proved remarkably accurate.
"So, this realm…is the 44th floor of the Abandoned Tower, as the System indicated. Does this reflect your clan's elevated status?" I asked curiously.
Sylvana's response was stark.
"Zeta's curse offered you a clue: the 44th floor. While seemingly high, it represents the lowest rung on the clan hierarchy. To obtain the holy water for the chalice, you must ascend to the 1111th floor."
Eleven hundred and eleven floors?
The sheer scale of the task pressed down upon me.
Yet, my family's salvation hinged upon this perilous journey.
Regardless of the obstacles, I must secure that holy water!
"Is there…a staircase? Some means of ascent?" I asked, my naiveté perhaps showing.
A hint of amusement flickered in Sylvana's eyes, quickly masked.
"There are no literal floors, Alstair. Each realm within the Abandoned Tower is guarded by a key figure possessing a unique key. This key doesn't grant access to just one or two floors; it catapults one hundreds of levels higher. In this realm, that key resides with me." She gestured to her chest.
My brow furrowed at her revelation.
"The key is with you? Then why haven't you used it to escape, to save your clan? It allows upward mobility, doesn't it? Your clan's survival depends on it!" I exclaimed, my voice edged with frustration.
Sylvana shook her head, her explanation precise and devoid of sentimentality.
"The key can transport a maximum of three individuals to a higher floor, not hundreds. To use it now would leave my clan vulnerable to annihilation by Vorgruth's forces here on the 44th floor."
I finally grasped Sylvana's difficult situation: her imprisonment on the 44th floor of the Abandoned Tower stemmed directly from the relentless Vorgruth onslaught against her clan.
Deprived of a powerful sorcerer to repel the invaders and safeguard their realm, her options had diminished.
A grim realization dawned on me: "So, it all comes down to vanquishing the Vorgruth first. No wonder you calling me out—I possess the crucial key you desperately need," I muttered.
Sylvina's affirmation was resolute: "Indeed, Alstair. The safety of my clan really depend on your victory over the Vorgruth."
While I admired her unwavering dedication and courageous efforts to protect her people, a profound sense of her naivete settled upon me.
Her plan, though born of desperation, felt tragically insufficient.
"For months, the Vorgruth have besieged us, forcing our retreat to this sanctuary," Sylvina declared, activating a magical display that projected a horrifying scene: thousands of Vorgruth orcs encircling the remaining temple, their numbers a menacing tide.
"We've built a protective barrier, but day after day, their relentless assaults chip away at its strength, inch by agonizing inch." Her voice trembled, the weight of her worry palpable.
The projection revealed a brutal spectacle: hulking, green-skinned orcs with crimson eyes blazing, their savage snarls echoing the relentless thud of axes and maces against the invisible shield.
Their ferocity was visible, the relentless assault painting a stark picture of the Lythandor clan's unending despair.
"Like all orcs, the Vorgruth rely on sheer physical dominance," Sylvina explained, her tone laced with grim determination. "Our magical barrier has held, but we underestimated their relentless tenacity."
I observed the monstrous horde, my future enemies, the very obstacles barring my ascent to the upper floors.
A system notification confirmed what my instincts already told me: I was obligated to intervene.
Sylvina's voice, edged with desperation, cut through my contemplation: "What is your assessment, Alstair? In this dire situation, I cannot tolerate pessimism or doubt."
I saw the fear reflected in her eyes, mirroring the anxieties plaguing her fellow elves.
Their hatred was irrelevant; my focus remained fixed on the task at hand.
The system's mandate reinforced my resolve.
> Quest Activated: Defeat Vorgruth Clan!
"I need to witness the magical barrier firsthand," I declared emphatically.
Sylvana hesitated, then rose from her throne.
"What is your objective?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"To fulfill your clan's desperate request," I replied nonchalantly. "What else would I be doing?" Sylvana regarded me with intense scrutiny.
After a protracted silence, she led me from the throne room, guiding me through the temple's imposing corridors to its exit.
Sunlight, blindingly bright after the temple's dimness, assaulted my senses as I emerged.
Yet, even amidst the radiant blue sky, the dissonance of war was palpable.
The guttural roars, the ferocious clang of orcish axes and maces, painted a grim soundscape.
Though the sky appeared clear, I perceived the magical barrier—a colossal, shimmering dome encasing the Lythandor temple and its environs.
In the distance, I saw the horrifying aftermath: buildings reduced to rubble, choked with dust, blood, and the lifeless forms of fallen elves—grim testaments to the Vorgruth's brutal conquest.
Sylvana and her surviving clansmen trembled visibly, their fear visible against the backdrop of the orcish onslaught.
Even Faelar, the knight whose imposing stature seemed to defy the pervasive dread, swallowed hard, his gaze fixed upon the approaching menace.
From our elevated vantage point, I observed hundreds of Vorgruth orcs massing around the temple, their silhouettes stark against the barrier's shimmering edge.
I've faced orcs before; their relentless ferocity is infamous.
Their savage aggression, while terrifying, held a strange, unsettling fascination—a captivating horror I couldn't entirely dismiss.
Was this a divine summons, a challenge to my tenacity?
Turning to Sylvana, I posed the question hanging heavy in the air.
"The barrier's power… I sense its weakening. How much time remains before its collapse?"
The question, fraught with unspoken desperation, hung heavy in the air.
Every elf present understood the chilling implication.
After a long, agonizing pause, Sylvana's voice, barely a whisper, betrayed her fear. "Two days, at best. Perhaps only one," she confessed, her body wracked with silent sobs.
Faelar and the other elves stood petrified, their silence as deafening as the orcish clamor.
Their desperation, their faith in a miracle, their astonishment and dissapointment at my arrival—all were written on their faces.
My presence, it seemed, was the answer to their desperate prayers.
Despite the inherent peril, the System had designated this a mandatory task.
I advanced toward the shimmering, magical barrier.
Sylvana's gasp cut through the air.
"Alstair, halt! What madness is this?"
"Join me," I urged, sidestepping her question.
My request was met with immediate compliance; Sylvana, followed by Faelar and a throng of apprehensive elves, trailed in my wake.
With each step closer to the Vorgruth Orcish encampment, their savage roars intensified, a brutal symphony assaulting my senses.
Ten feet from the barrier, their frenzy escalated.
Axes, hammers, and maces rained against the magical shield, a terrifying percussion of violence.
Lythandor's clan recoiled, their faces ashen, bodies trembling with stark terror.
Even Sylvana, their most powerful sorceress, paled, primal fear eclipsing her usual composure.
The odds were insurmountable, yet my resolve hardened; the plan's success hinged on this perilous act.
"Sylvana, open the magical barrier," I commanded, my voice unwavering.
A collective gasp rippled through the elves.
Their fear mingled with outrage, erupting in a cacophony of protest.
"Insanity!" one shrieked.
"This man will be our undoing! He's Zeta's cursed pawn!"
Sylvana remained silent, her gaze fixed on me, a tempest brewing in her eyes.
I ignored the escalating accusations, awaiting her response.
Faelar, his sword drawn, pointed accusingly.
"Forgive me, my lady, but this man's treachery is blatant! He seeks our annihilation! He's colluded with the Vorgruth!"
My silence remained unbroken, a deliberate counterpoint to the rising chaos.
Finally, Sylvana's voice, laced with dread, broke the tension.
"To open that barrier, even momentarily, would unleash utter devastation, Alstair. Our destruction is inevitable!"
While I paused my reply and steeling myself, I retrieved my Dragon's Scepter from the System's inventory.
A surge of potent mana pulsed through me as I prepared to confront the oncoming Orcish horde.
Looking at the magical barrier that currently shielded us, rendering my spells useless—worse, jeopardizing the entire clan.
"Open it," I urged Sylvana, "and let me handle these orcs."
Her apprehension was palpable.
"Don't you grasp the peril, Alstair? Even a momentary breach would unleash a devastating orcish onslaught.
You'll lack the time to even begin your...ambitious incantation!"
"My timing is precise," I countered, activating Magical Magnification to triple my next spell's potency.
"I'll signal you when I already prepared, trust me." I said while fully prepared for casting Frost Bite, a devastating wide-area spell.
Faelar's dissent echoed through the air. "My lady, his plan is suicidal! He'll doom us all!"
The chorus of disapproval swelled; a hateful tide of accusations washed over me.
"That reckless human! Expel him! Let him face his folly alone!"
Sylvana remained silent, her brow furrowed in agonizing deliberation.
Our gazes locked; a silent plea for trust hung in the air.
I dared not press her further.
Then, with a heavy sigh, she turned towards the temple.
"We retreat," she declared.
Faelar's delight was immediate, a smug triumph ringing in his voice.
The elves, relieved, echoed their leader, their curses aimed at me a venomous farewell.
Alone, I stood before the shimmering barrier, a fragile veil against a hundred Vorgruth orcs.
Frost Bite was prepared; Divine Thunder, enabled by my sorcerous enhancements, waited.
Yet, Sylvana's hesitation gnawed at me.
Doubt, a chilling serpent, coiled around my heart.
Had I failed to convince her?
Would her trust falter, rendering my plan will not be implemented?
The seconds stretched, each one an eternity.
The barrier, relentlessly battered, showed ominous cracks.
*Come on, Sylvana!* I silently pleaded.
*Believe in me! I can defeat these creatures and save your people!*
A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air from the distant temple, a shriek of elven terror.
My gaze fell upon the dwindling magical barrier; a grim smile touched my lips as Sylvana, obeying my command, relinquished her hold.
Even from afar, I felt Sylvana's unwavering faith, unperturbed by the elves' mounting fury.
Then, a relentless tide of orcish footsteps, like an army of ants, surged towards me, their homicidal intent suffocating the very air.
But my spell was swifter.
In a fraction of a second, the fully empowered, magically amplified Frost Bite erupted.
A glacial hurricane swept the battlefield, instantly transforming the orcish horde into a frozen tableau.
The ground itself became a sheet of ice, silencing their brutal roars and death-dealing advances.
Hell itself seemed to have transformed into an icy palace in the blink of an eye. Even the elves' screams ceased, replaced by stunned astonishment as they witnessed their mortal enemies petrified.
"The orcs! They're frozen solid!"
"What…what sorcery was that?! Did…did a human mage do this?!"
Let them marvel at their leisure.
My attention remained fixed on the frozen fiends.
The quest remained incomplete; strongly indicated there surviving orcs undoubtedly lurked.
As I circled the scene, a chilling gaze, filled with furious resolve, pierced my senses.
From the east, a half-frozen orc, a behemoth among his kin, glared with lethal intent.
His imposing stature and unwavering stare identified him: Vorgruth, the orcish warlord.
"Sorcerer…curse-bearer…Zeta's puppet!" Vorgruth bellowed, his defiance undeterred despite his frozen limbs.
Remarkably, internal heat melted his icy prison.
He lumbered forward, his axe a promise of swift, brutal death.
Despite his immense size, he launched himself at me with surprising agility, his frozen leg a hindrance.
I anticipated his lunge, unleashing the prepped Divine Thunder.
A blinding flash, and celestial fury descended, shattering the frozen orcs into jagged shards of ice that spread across the slick expanse.
The shattering of the orcish ice statue unleashed a deafening sonic boom, a near-crippling bombardment.
Yet amidst the frigid air and earth-shattering roar, one remained: Vorgruth.
His left leg, a mangled stump, was his only support as he knelt, half his body charred, his right foot paralyzed.
But this implacable brute, this cursed orc, refused to give up.
One of his crimson eye glared, a single beacon of furious intent, as Vorgruth dragged himself toward me, his murderous purpose undiminished.
"The fight is far from over, curse-bearer!" he roared, his voice a rasping defiance.
"I am Vorgruth, and even this ravaged body will crush you! My clan's pride is at stake!"
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm.
Vorgruth, despite his grievous wounds, was no foe to underestimate.
I prepared a triple-threat spell sequence.
First, Magical Magnification amplified my next attack.
Then, I unleashed Raging Tempest, its almost-invisible wind blades slicing through anything in their path.
Vorgruth, halfway to me, shrieked in agony as the wind blades, tripled in power, cleaved his hands.
He collapsed, a tapestry of wounds, yet his relentless spirit refused to break.
He used his teeth – his teeth! – to pull himself forward.
"I still possess strength! I still have… resolve! None… shall defeat me!" His voice was a death rattle, a testament to his indomitable will.
His unwavering determination sent a tremor through me, a potent cocktail of fear and grudging admiration.
Beneath the orcish savagery, I perceived a stoic dignity, a fierce commitment to purpose – a truth revealed in Vorgruth's harrowing tenacity.
Raising my Dragon Scepter, I summoned the last sequence of my triple-threat spell sequence, ten glacial spears from the heavens.
They impaled Vorgruth, pinning him to the ground, his body awash in blood.
Even as his life ebbed, a desperate lunge brought one sharp tooth dangerously close to me – deflected only by my fiery magical barrier.
His gaping maw, a final, desperate attempt to seize my life, haunted me.
Never had I witnessed such a brutal weaponization of natural anatomy.
Despite the dimming fire in his crimson eye, Vorgruth's breath grew shallow.
I paid him the ultimate tribute: respect.
The ferocity of my spell was no match for the unconquerable spirit of Vorgruth.
"Vorgruth," I said, inclining my head in profound admiration, "you have earned my deepest respect. Though our destinies may diverge, your unwavering resolve will forever inspire me to surpass my limits."
His final words, a ragged whisper, echoed the weight of his sacrifice: "Curse-bearer... reclaim... the orcish spirit... as Zeta did... before..."
I nodded, the cryptic message still shrouded in mystery.
Time slowed, marked only by Vorgruth's weakening breaths and the crimson tide flowing from his grievous wounds.
His life force diminish, his heart a fading drumbeat until silence finally claimed him.
The chill wind carried a mournful dirge between us, a stark testament to his valiant struggle.
With solemn reverence, I gently closed his eyes, granting him the eternal peace he had so richly deserved.
A system notification, crisp and clear, then announced my triumph, illuminating the significance of the fallen warrior's legacy.
> You get 300.000 Monster Diamond!
> You get Orc Blood Vial (x5)!
> You get the Soul of Berserker!
Ah, such a good reward!
Speaking of my monster diamond, I had lot of monster diamond that exceeding my expectations, which I might can used it for buying a house or another car in human realm later on; another option is to buy a useful item from Magician Gear Shop later.
If I remember correctly I can but a special item that can save me from near death, which I know it's necessary, but I still need time to consider it due to its expensive price.
As I see the Orc Blood Vial, its quite a bold item that will give me booster of extreme physical energy, but at the same time will hold my spell used until the effect of this vial stopped.
It's a pretty weird item for me, a full-pledged sorcerer, to utilize such item.
Maybe I just put it in the System's inventory anyway.
Regarding the Soul of Berserker item, it only explain I can activate a unique skill if I can collet five of these items.
I believe I can utilize it later after next several venture on various of dungeons in the future.
"Alstair…!"
I stopped checking the system as I can hear the sound of woman running toward me; it's Sylvana.
I look Sylvana coming with a joyous smile and relief face.
"Y-you really did it! You managed to defeat Vorgruth clan alone with your spell! You are truly remarkable sorcerer, Alstair! As a leader of Lythandor clan, You earned my full respect and appreciation!", Sylvana bowed then kneeled at me.
Behind her, those elves who're initially hate me now turn off all of his hate since they no longer had any reason to not trusting me.
Followed by their leader, those elves kneeled with respect to me.
Faeral who initially almost killed me also put a kneel and respect to me, no longer had any hate, only embarassing feeling since all of his judgment is false.
Well, since they acknowledge me and accept their judgment is mistake, I must take what I had right for it.
"Rise, Sylvana. I had fulfilled my promise, now it's time for you to proven it to me just as you promised.", I said it firmly.
Sylvana's face suddenly blushed in red.
She avoiding my gaze, with her body shaking not in regular way, if I observe.
"Y-yes… of course… I… but… emm… do you reallly want it right away? C-can't we do it after we had a night rest while cleaning all of these mess?", she begged, which I surprisingly barely heard.
I can feel Sylvana's change's her character, become soft out of nowhere.
Is she become like this due to her promise to give me a special acces to upper floor?
I mean, what's wrong with that?
Well, whatever it is, I just want to make sure my way to the upper floor of Abandoned Tower Dungeon is available for my main mission: to get holy water in this dungeon.
"H-how about this night, Alstair? In my room?", Sylvana speaked half whispered with red blushing face.
"Sure, if you want to.", I answered casually.
Sylvana smiled.
I really don't understand the reason, but there's a weird tension that come from her rapid breath when she whispered her intention.
Maybe it will be a special night between me and her?
Just maybe.
***
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.