Defeat Vulwin Lythandor!
Witnessing Vulwin, the elf of Lythandor's clan leader, strike through despite his falling troops of orc warriors before me, was a shocking display of desperation.
His quest for Azhog's red key had driven him to this abject submission.
The Return to Earth spell, amplified by Magical Magnification, pinned him to the ground with crushing gravitational force.
Yet, his resilience was evident; he knelt, refusing to succumb fully to the magical weight.
Unfazed by the ten ice javelins poised around me, ready to pierce him at my command, he glared, his voice a venomous blend of fury and despair.
"Zeta's curse-bearer," he hissed, "how dare you manipulate my daughter, the jewel of Lythandor?"
Sylvana, ever quick-witted, interrupted before I could reply.
"Father, this wasn't manipulation! Alstair didn't coerce us; this was our choice!"
Elanor's voice, sharp with indignation, cut through the air. "You condemned us to suffering, Father! You forced that forbidden spell upon me, and now you feign innocence? Your naiveté is astounding!"
Vulwin's astonishment was palpable, his face a mask of disbelief and regret.
He seemed unprepared for the realization that his daughters now stood as equals, wielding power comparable to his own.
"You treacherous deceiver!" Vulwin roared at me, his voice cracking with rage. "Your spell is not only perilous but mind-bendingly insidious!"
"Your daughters speak the truth," I countered, my voice firm. "If you truly care for Lythandor's survival, listen to them. Your reckless ambition nearly destroyed your clan." His fury only escalated.
"Silence, curse-bearer! You are the architect of chaos, the bane of my clan!" he bellowed, his armor groaning under the relentless pressure of the gravity spell.
His anger, a potent drain on his energies, was finally overshadowed by a harsh reality: Azhog's orcish horde surrounded him.
His own army, shattered and routed after his desperate attempt to seize the red key, was nowhere to be found.
"Your rage is self-destructive, Vulwin," I warned, sensing his desperation. "Look around you. These orcs are primed to obliterate you. Your mana is depleted; you're far from your former strength."
Vulwin's outburst ceased, his words choking in his throat as the orcs' malevolent gazes locked onto him, weapons raised in anticipation.
Their murderous intent hung heavy in the air. Minutes stretched into an eternity, Vulwin remaining motionless.
His initial fury and disappointment gradually yielded to a look of profound apprehension.
He was trapped, undeniably, but I perceived a subtle shift in the ambient mana, a peculiar allure hanging in the tense silence.
A subtle mana surge, emanating from Vulwin, hinted at a malevolent ritual in progress.
His deactivated dual blades further confirmed his sinister focus, a redirection of magical energy from some unseen source.
Then, two figures, Sylvana and Elanor, materialized behind me, gasping for air.
Etched upon their skin, glowing runes traced the path of a horrifying enchantment.
"Alstair... flee," Sylvana gasped, wracked with a violent cough.
Elanor, clutching her chest in agony, echoed the desperate plea, "A forbidden spell! He wouldn't..."
Their words trailed off, swallowed by the searing pain consuming them.
No ordinary orc could inflict this.
Only one individual possessed such dark power: their father, Vulwin Lythandor.
Instinctively, I unleashed ten ice javelins, aiming to disrupt the incantation before it utterly possessed them.
But five retaliatory magical spears, far exceeding the capabilities of any common elf— except perhaps Elanor — obliterated my attack.
Before I could react, a whirlwind of magically enhanced blades tore through my Fire Pillar barrier from behind.
The assault was ferocious, merciless.
I spun, but it was too late.
A searing agony pierced my abdomen; Sylvana's blade, empowered by Elanor's sorcery, had found its mark.
"Sylvana? Elanor?" I stammered, the agonizing pain threatening to overwhelm me.
Their crimson eyes, devoid of recognition, confirmed the terrible truth: Vulwin's forbidden control spell had claimed them.
Sylvana's brutal kick sent me sprawling, the magical sword ripping a gruesome wound.
My lifeblood flowed freely, the Return to Earth spell automatically deactivated, releasing Vulwin from my gravitational hold.
The weight of betrayal pressed down harder than any magical force.
> Health Power: 25%
> Mana Power: 100%
Agony wracked me, pinning me to the ground.
Before I could rise, I was forced to consume a healing draught.
Sylvana and Elanor, a whirlwind of motion, raced to Vulwin's defense, shielding him from Azhot's brutal orc troops onslaught.
The clash was ferocious: orcish axes met the elves' shimmering blades, a ballet of death.
The elven swords, superior in both might and resilience, gradually repelled the orc troops horde.
"This," Vulwin declared, a chilling pride in his voice as his forbidden magic took hold, "is the resurgence of Lythandor's true destiny! You, curse-bearer, are unworthy of its glory!"
The crimson torrent from my wounds silenced me.
I could only watch, impotent fury burning within me, as Sylvana and Elanor channeled their life force into Vulwin, empowering his ascension.
With a breathtaking display of power, they soared into the heavens, escaping the encircling orcs.
I would not let them escape their treachery!
Raising my Dragon Scepter, I prepared to unleash the full fury of Lightning Bolt and Raging Tempest, a devastating combination.
But a searing, invisible agony pierced my veins, disrupting my mana flow.
Ignoring the excruciating pain, I channeled every ounce of my remaining strength, forcing the spells to launch.
A shattering crack echoed through my body as the unseen torment impaled my very bones, throwing me to my knees.
The system's stark warning of my dire state arrived, a cold confirmation of my suffering.
>Warning! Your flow of mana had been cursed!
>You only can cast two Active Spell: Lightning Bolt and Gaia Endowment Spell!
>Active Skill:
Lightning Bolt Gaia EndowmentDivine Thunder
>Passive Skill:
Fire Pillar Mana RegenerationHealth Regeneration The Eye of Sorcerer Air Walk
Damn it!
Only two spells left?
This is utterly infuriating!
I never anticipated Sylvana's attack wasn't just a simple stab; it was a cursed blow, crippling my spellcasting ability.
Vulwin, Elanor, and Sylvana had already vanished into the distance, beyond the reach of my Lightning Bolt.
Their escape gnaws at me; retribution is a burning ember in my soul.
Vulwin will face utter annihilation.
As I fought for breath, allowing my wounds to mend, the surrounding orcs approached.
Uncharacteristically, they displayed no aggression, no bloodlust.
Their heavy footfalls heralded Azhog's arrival—the Bazhura chieftain.
Though hobbled, his presence radiated an oppressive power; even wounded, he exuded formidable strength.
Yet, as he stood before me, I sensed no malice.
A system notification flashed, confirming my success: Azhog's life was spared.
> You get 350.000 Monster Diamonds
> You get Spirit of Berserker (x1)
The notification of monster diamond rewards – a boon for replenishing my dwindling health and mana – faded as a more pressing matter demanded my attention.
The Spirit of Berserker remained an enigma, its utility eluding me.
Then, Azhog's blunt query shattered my contemplation: "Zeta's curse-bearer, why did you save me?"
I dismissed the system notifications, desperately searching for a suitable response.
"Vulwin's assaults have crippled your tribe. I acted as I saw fit," I replied, my tone carefully neutral. His gaze was sharp, his words accusatory.
"You rescued me, despite the presence of two Lytahndor elves under your command. I question your motives." Azhog's articulate speech was unexpected; I'd never encountered such a clear-thinking orc.
Honesty felt unavoidable.
"The red key, Azhog. Its possession is important for me. I won't allow Vulwin to claim it, no matter the cost."
A slow nod. "As I suspected. I sensed your desire for the key, human sorcerer."
"Precisely. I need it to reach the Abandoned Tower's 1111th floor."
His surprise was palpable, a stark contrast to the bewildered expressions of the surrounding orcs.
Only Azhog grasped the significance of my declaration.
"A bold ambition, human sorcerer. But be warned: the 1111th floor is the apex, a realm teeming with unimaginable terrors."
"I am aware, and I will not falter. I seek the holy water there – the only means to heal my family." My resolve was firm.
Then, a challenge: "And you, Azhog? You crave the immortality rumored to exist on the 1111th floor, don't you?" A long, weary sigh escaped him.
"If my tribe truly sought that Vulwin-like immortality, we would have already risked the ascent." Curiosity burned.
"You've been to the 1111th floor?" A profound silence followed, his countenance shifting, betraying a painful memory.
"The Bazhura tribe – myself, Cavaska, and others – ventured there. Our quest wasn't immortality, as other clans sought. We aimed for freedom from this cursed Tower," he explained, his voice heavy with disillusionment.
"This tower is an artificial construct, a magically-wrought prison, trapping us within its labyrinthine levels. This is no place for life, only endless struggle."
I was stunned.
Azhog, the Bazhura leader, possessed an unexpected depth of perception.
His words resonated with a profound truth, far exceeding my initial expectations.
"We attempted the daunting 1111th floor, only to be nearly annihilated by the Wyvern Dragon, the monstrous guardian of the Abandoned Tower's peak. However, it's not as our expected. Its destructive power obliterates all who dare challenge its dominion. Azhog, recounting our catastrophic failure, explained our subsequent retreat: Vorgruth plummeted to the 444th floor, Caveskan to the 666th, and he himself to the 999th. Our plan to regroup was shattered by the sudden emergence of Lythandor's elven forces.", Azhog tell his story.
This explains the orcs' desperate plight.
I recall my confrontation with Vorgruth on the 444th floor, his relentless pursuit of Sylvana's palace and temple seemingly a suicidal obsession.
Now, I understand his true objective: securing the red key to return to the 999th floor.
Caveskan's plight mirrors this, though his ambition was tragically twisted by Elanor's derangement.
Amidst my thought, my regenerative abilities, coupled with potent healing potions, swiftly mended my wounds.
Rising to face Azhog, I offered him a potion. "For your recovery," I stated.
He hesitated, his orc troops echoing their warnings.
Yet, curiosity overcame his apprehension; he drank, and his scars visibly vanished.
His troops gaped at the potion's miraculous effect.
Knowing he needed more, I offered another.
"My actions are not questionable," I declared, offering the second potion. "I seek to aid your recovery, and also require your red key. The horrors of the 1111th floor are undeniable, but my family's fate compels me. I must acquire the holy potion—no matter the cost, for saving my family."
Azhog's slow nod signaled his comprehension. After a long silence, he asked, "What is your name, human sorcerer?"
"Alstair," I replied.
Azhog, chieftain of the Bazhura tribe, regarded Alstair, the human sorcerer burdened by the Zeta's malediction, with a mixture of grudging admiration and steely resolve.
"Your bravery in venturing to the tower's eleventh hundredth and eleventh floor, your noble quest to rescue your kin—I commend it," Azhog stated, his voice a low growl. "Yet, Orcish honor demands adherence to principle, even at peril to my own life." His posture shifted subtly, betraying a transition from amicable discussion to imminent combat.
The challenge hung heavy in the air.
Was this a duel for the key?
Azhog's words confirmed it: "To earn Bazhura's respect, Alstair, you must prove your mettle. We value only the Legendary Orcish Axe. Without it, your methods will be deemed nothing but savage force."
Defeating Azhog—that was the path to the red key.
But a daunting path it was.
The vile curse of Vulwin Lythandor had crippled my active spells.
Relying solely on passive abilities was suicide.
Desperate for a solution, I accessed my System's inventory.
My gaze landed on the 'Spirit of Berserker.'
The description spoke of fragments of legendary Orcish warriors, remnants of their valor and duty, capable of forging the axe itself; three fragments were required.
A surge of elation coursed through me as I realized I possessed the precise number obtained from my recent quest.
Instantly, I combined the spirits, summoning into existence the Legendary Orcish Axe—a colossal weapon with a blade of crimson fury, crafted for Orcish might.
> Utilizied Spirit of Berserke (x3)
> You get Legendary Orchish Axe!
The axe bit into my grip, a brutal weight that stole the breath from my lungs. Gaia's Endowment blessing pulsed in my veins, the only thing keeping me from collapsing under its monstrous heft.
Azhog and his orcs stared, mouths agape, as I wrestled the Legendary Orchish Axe free from its resting place – a seemingly impossible feat.
Azhog, his scarred face a mask of awe, sank to one knee.
His warriors followed suit, a guttural murmur rising from their ranks.
The scent of sweat and blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the air.
Their respect, raw and untamed, was palpable; a stark contrast to the brutal monsters I'd expected.
My preconceptions shattered, replaced by the weight of their silent homage.
"You have proven your worth, Alstair," Azhog rumbled, his voice a low growl.
He produced a red key, its crimson surface gleaming dully in the dim light on the barrack.
My gaze flickered to the far wall, where the flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows. "Keep it, Azhog," I said, my tone sharp with urgency.
"There's unfinished business before we reach the 1111th floor." A flicker of understanding crossed Azhog's face, his brow furrowing.
"Vulwin Lythandor?"
"Precisely," I confirmed, the metallic tang of blood still clinging to my tongue. "My Mana Drain is temporary. Vulwin and his elves regenerate. This peace… it's a fragile thing. Prepare yourself."
Azhog nodded heavily, the movement jarring against his still-healing wounds.
"Vulwin and his cursed elves surround our barracks. They gather their power, a slow, agonizing build-up. My comrades… they are gone, felled by their unholy beam sword. We are trapped."
Despair, a palpable thing, clung to him like the dust of the battlefield.
But then, something shifted.
A primal roar ripped from Azhog's chest, shaking the very ground beneath our feet.
He rose, a shattered king defying his fate.
His orcs mirrored his defiance, their own battle cries a wild symphony of fury and desperation. The barrack throbbed with their raw, untamed fighting spirit.
Despite the key in my hand, my task was unfinished.
Vulwin, shielded by his possessed daughters, Sylvana and Elanor, remained a lethal threat.
The Orcish Axe, a symbol of my victory, was useless in my spellcaster's hands.
My gaze swept the area.
Five feet away, lying discarded, lay a pair of dual swords – Vulwin's weapons, abandoned in his reckless attempt to reclaim the red key.
He'd left them behind, his power now channeled through his daughters in a dark, forbidden ritual.
The swords, cold and unassuming, seemed to whisper of a different kind of battle.
"Azhog," I remarked nonchalantly, presenting him with the magnificent Orcish axe. His astonishment was palpable.
"Alstair? What's the meaning of this?" Azhog stammered, a mixture of bewilderment and incredulity in his voice.
"Accept it, Azhog. Consider it a token of my esteem," I replied, my attention already drifting back to the mesmerizing Vulwin twin blades.
I relinquished the legendary weapon, barely registering his continued protests, and seized the dual swords.
An immediate, vibrant surge of mana pulsed through my veins, a potent current rapidly forming a new conduit of magical energy towards the gleaming blades.
The influx intensified with each passing moment, the weapon practically singing with arcane power, until the system finally acknowledged my mastery with a notification of a newly acquired spell.
> You Activated Dual Magical Sword!
> You Activated New Special Spell!
> Blade of Fire
> Blade of Ice
The fire roared, licking at the steel of my blade, a searing kiss that transformed it into a burning inferno. Simultaneously, a glacial chill snaked down the other, freezing it solid, a razor-sharp icicle of death.
*Dualis Glacies*, the spell shrieked to life within me, its name a burning brand on my soul. These weren't mere weapons of offense; they were conduits, amplifiers of raw power, a terrifying symphony of heat and cold.
As I raised the fiery blade, a sun blazing in the twilight, the orc warrior troops roars swelled into a deafening dissonance, a wave of savage sound that vibrated in my very bones.
The air itself shimmered, distorted by the heat radiating from their magically enhanced bodies – a hellish furnace fueled by my very magic.
The icy blade, a counterpoint to the inferno, hummed with a chilling resonance, weaving a shimmering wall of ice, a glacial fortress against their frenzied onslaught.
Azhog's guttural scream ripped through the air, a sound born of disbelief and primal fear.
"Alstair!... What sorcery is this?! You... you empower the *orc*?!!" His eyes, usually blazing with savage energy, were wide, reflecting the impossible scene unfolding before him.
He, the warlord, was witnessing the unthinkable.
But doubt gnawed at me, a serpent coiling in my gut.
This wasn't merely a tactical decision; it was a gamble, a desperate, heart-wrenching play for survival.
To empower these brutal beasts... it felt like selling my soul to the very darkness I fought against.
Yet, the vision of Vulwin Lythandor's encroaching legions, a tide of blood and fire threatening to consume everything, spurred me on.
"Azhog," my voice rang out, clear and unwavering over the din of battle, "we share a common enemy; Vulwin Lythandor's treachery will engulf us both. This alliance... this offering of power... is our only hope. We stand together, or we fall alone." I thrust the blazing blade toward him, a beacon in the gathering storm.
The legendary orcish axe in Azhog's grasp seemed to pulse with a dark energy mirroring my own.
Hesitation warred with primal survival within his gaze, then vanished, replaced by a grim determination.
My heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
The system's confirmation had been cold, clinical; but the weight of this decision, the potential for catastrophic failure, pressed down on me with crushing force.
It was a path forged in fire and ice, and I walked it alone, carrying the fate of two warring races on my burning, icy shoulders.
> Quest Activated: Defeat Vulwin Lythandor!
"Alstair," Azhog growled, his voice a guttural rasp that scraped against the screaming wind, "we feast together! The red key is yours, once our business with Vulwin Lythandor is done!" His legendary Orcish axe, a maul of obsidian and fire, met my blade with a deafening clang that echoed the bloodlust roaring from his army.
The stench of sweat, ozone, and the approaching slaughter filled the air.
My magic had unleashed a feral tide; their confidence, a tsunami of sharpened steel and hate.
Azhog, a brutal symphony of muscle and rage, led the charge, his axe a comet of destruction slicing through the pre-dawn gloom.
The elf barracks, a beacon of complacent light, were shattered by the impact of the horde.
Their rest, a nightmare of splintering wood and screaming terror.
Azhog's first swing cleaved five elves in twain – a crimson geyser erupting as the axe's obsidian drank deep.
Their desperate resistance, fueled by fading magic, was a flickering candle against a wildfire.
Hundreds fell, their cries swallowed by the thunder of Azhog's advance and the crunch of bone beneath Orcish boots.
My ice barrier, a crystalline shield against the retaliatory strikes, shattered and reformed, the biting wind a cruel reminder of the carnage.
The air throbbed with the dissonance of clashing steel, the crackle of burning tents, and the nauseating coppery tang of spilled blood.
Fear, raw and animalistic, clung to the air thicker than the smoke.
Elves scattered, desperate to escape the maelstrom, their once-proud bearing broken, their faces etched with terror.
This wasn't a battle; it was a butchery.
We pushed on, leaving a trail of corpses and shattered dreams in our wake, until we stood before Vulwin's great tent, the fabric stained crimson, the air heavy with the metallic reek of death.
Vulwin, his eyes wide with a stark, incredulous terror, stared at us.
Sylvana and Elanor, usually stoic and serene, were pale ghosts beside him.
"The… the curse-bearer!" Vulwin's voice cracked, his composure shattered like a fallen statue. "He wields power like… like me?! This is an abomination!" His gaze locked onto me, radiating pure hatred. "You will die, by my hand!"
Sylvana and Elanor, their faces contorted with fury, unleashed their vengeance.
A storm of magical swords, hundreds of shimmering blades of light, hurtled towards me – a lethal swarm.
But Azhog, a whirlwind of motion, intercepted them.
With a diagonal stroke of his axe, he ignited a maelstrom of fire, a scorching inferno that devoured the majority of the projectiles.
The remaining blades, few but deadly, still aimed for my heart.
The air crackled with anticipation, the scent of ozone, blood, and burning magical blade remaining that delivered toward me.
But all of those remaining magical blade slammed against the icy bite of my icicle shield under my Fire Pillar barrier.
Vulwin, Sylvana, and Elanor stared, their faces etched with disbelief as their enchanted blades shattered against my defenses – a symphony of splintering steel and crackling magic.
Their surprise was short-lived. Before the elves could regroup, Azhog, a whirlwind of rage and muscle, launched himself at Vulwin, his axe a blur of death.
The air reeked of blood and the scream of the elf was swallowed by the roar of Azhog's attack – a brutal, efficient slaughter.
Sylvana and Elanor reacted with terrifying speed, conjuring a shimmering barrier that barely held against the force of Azhog's blow.
Sparks erupted, the stench of ozone mingling with the acrid bite of burning wood as the tent threatened to ignite.
Azhog's laughter – a guttural, chilling sound – echoed through the flames.
He pressed his assault, a relentless storm of axe blows, each strike capable of cleaving a man in two.
But Sylvana, eyes blazing with furious defiance, wove a new blade of shimmering energy, driving it deep into Azhog's back.
He roared, the sound raw and animalistic, but he didn't falter.
The crack of the barrier, the splintering wood, the suffocating heat – none of it mattered.
He would crush them all.
I could taste the fear, but beneath it, a cold calculation.
This wasn't just brute strength; it was a terrifying, focused rage.
This orc was a weapon of destruction, and I knew even his legendary resilience wouldn't withstand this maelstrom of attacks forever.
The clash of steel and magic, the screams and roars, the stench of sweat and blood – it was a chaotic ballet of death.
But they were all so absorbed in their brutal dance, oblivious to my presence, to the icy dread settling in my gut.
My own enchanted blade thrummed with power, a weapon of both defense and vengeance.
Azhog and his remaining orcs were still a terrifying force, a storm I couldn't afford to ignore.
I knew the source of the curse clinging to me like a shroud – Sylvana and Elanor.
Without hesitation, I hurled a blade of pure ice at Elanor, catching her mid-incantation, her eyes widening in startled horror as the icy projectile slammed into her, shattering the spell and severing half the curse's hold.
The rush of released power was exhilarating, a wave of relief washing over me.
The system's notification sang in my mind – a cold, mechanical confirmation of my victory.
This was merely a prelude.
The fight was far from over.
> Half of Cursed Power had been diminished!
>Active Skill:
Lightning Bolt Gaia EndowmentDivine Thunder Fire Storm Mana Drain
>Passive Skill:
Fire Pillar Mana RegenerationHealth Regeneration The Eye of Sorcerer Air Walk
"Elanor, no!", Vulwin's scream ripped through the air, a sound of pure, agonizing terror as he watched his daughter fall, the ice blade embedding itself in her flesh.
The deadly stare he leveled at me, however, was laced not just with hatred, but with a desperate, pleading kind of pain that mirrored the turmoil tearing at my own soul.
My plan, to neutralize the curse controlling his daughter, required inflicting pain, maybe even death, on her.
This went against every fiber of my being; I'd sworn an oath to protect the innocent, not inflict suffering on them, even for their own good.
"Sylvana, the spear!" Vulwin roared, his voice raw.
Sylvana's magical spear, a streak of lethal light, found its mark in Azhog's shoulder.
The orc's grunt of pain was a grim counterpoint to the gnawing guilt in my gut.
Every blow I landed felt like a betrayal, a violation of my own principles.
My assault on the magical barrier was brutal, efficient.
Each ice javelin felt like a hammer blow against my own conscience.
But even as I watched the barrier crack and crumble, a sickening dread coiled in my stomach.
I wasn't just fighting Azhog and Vulwin; I was fighting my own sense of right and wrong.
The clash with Sylvana's magical swords was a furious ballet of destruction, each strike a painful compromise.
I felt a searing pain as one of her swords sliced into my hip, a physical manifestation of the moral wound I was inflicting upon myself.
The moment of truth arrived when I struck Sylvana, the blade of fire searing her flesh, tearing at the forbidden spell.
Her scream, devoid of words but filled with unimaginable agony, echoed in my ears, a horrifying soundtrack to my own internal battle.
I had to stop her father.
I had to save Elanor.
I also had to Sylvana.
Seeing her collapse, unconscious, was not the relief I'd anticipated, but a chilling confirmation of my transgression.
The return of my magical power felt less like restoration and more like a tainted gift, bought with the currency of my own soul.
>The curse had been lifted up!
>You can use your active spell!
>Active Skill:
Lightning Bolt Gaia EndowmentDivine Thunder Fire Storm Mana Drain Ice Javelin Frost Bite Return to Earth Magical Magnification Invisible
>Passive Skill:
Fire Pillar Mana RegenerationHealth Regeneration The Eye of Sorcerer Air Walk
Looking at my recovery, Vulwin's words failed him.
He couldn't believe how my plan had shattered his elf warriors and broken the forbidden spell controlling his daughter.
Now he stood alone, his remaining power a fragile thing in his hand.
A cold dread, deeper than the bone that comprised my form, clawed at me.
This wasn't victory; it was a sacrifice one, bought with the suffering of innocents, including his daughter.
"Let's finish this gently, shall we? I ask you to duel," I offered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
The "gentle" was a lie, a cruel mockery.
Vulwin took it as a personal insult, a disgrace.
"You pitiful damned skeletal slave! I will end your life with my own hand! It's my oath, Alstair!" he roared, the rage a palpable thing.
Despite his fury, I forced myself to remain calm, a mask of icy composure.
I signaled Azhog to stand back, the decision heavy in my heart.
This duel, this killing, had to be mine alone.
But even as I said the words, the memory of the innocent elves, of the girl's terrified eyes, gnawed at me.
Had I become the monster I fought against?
Vulwin manifested his magical barrier, his clenched fist birthing a beam of magical energy, a sword of pure force.
"Die, skeleton slave!" He lunged, malice burning in his eyes.
I knew I should meet his aggression with respect, but my spells were fueled by desperation, not honor.
This wasn't a fair fight.
This was an execution.
I didn't have time for Magician Magnification; I double-cast, Ice Javelin and Lightning Bolt exploding from my skeletal hands in a desperate flurry.
He deflected the Ice Javelin, his barrier holding against the Lightning Bolt, but the rapid barrage cracked his defenses.
An Ice Javelin struck his shoulder, a Lightning Bolt his hand, paralyzing it.
Yet, he pressed on, his magical sword slashing towards me.
His weakened beam was deflected by my Fire Pillar barrier, but the relief was fleeting.
"I…win…! I'm the one….who will get the immortality…! The strength of gods! The remarkable power among any monster in this realm…!" he shrieked, his words a desperate clinging to delusion.
He was hallucinating, lost in his fantasies of power, and in that moment, I saw my chance.
I activated the counter-parry of my Fire Pillar, the surge of released energy throwing him off balance.
But even as he teetered, I felt a surge of guilt, a sickening awareness that I was toying with him, using his madness to secure my victory.
He hadn't even been fighting at full strength for a while.
I had been letting him.
Without hesitation, I double-cast again, the Ice Javelin and Lightning Bolt finding their marks.
The Ice Javelin shattered his magical barrier, a sickening crunch echoing in the stillness.
My lightning bolt followed, a searing pain that paralyzed him, but a flicker of satisfaction was immediately replaced by a cold dread.
Vulwin's scream, a raw blend of agony and fury, sliced through me.
He was strong, impossibly strong, even now, his magical beam swords vanishing only to reappear in a weaker form, a testament to his stubborn will.
The sight of him kneeling, blood blooming across his armor, should have brought triumph. Instead, a bitter taste filled my mouth.
This wasn't the victory I'd envisioned. I'd trained for this, prepared for this, but the reality was far more brutal, far more… messy.
My hand trembled as I raised my Dragon Scepter, the point aimed at his broken form.
"I win, Vulwin," I said, the words hollow in my ears.
The arrogance in my voice felt alien, a mask I wore to hide the turmoil within.
His defiance ignited a fresh wave of conflict.
His rage, his desperate clinging to Lythandor's glory, mirrored a desperate part of myself, the part that whispered of a shortcut to power, a path littered with sacrifices I'd tried to ignore.
His accusations cut deep – the alliance with the orc, a choice born of necessity, yet now twisted into a betrayal.
"You took everything from me!" Vulwin roared, spitting blood and hate. "You used an orc! A disgrace to Lythandor!"
The words echoed the doubts that gnawed at my conscience.
Was this victory worth the compromise of my ideals?
Had I become the very thing I fought against?
My counter, about Sylvana and Elanor, felt hollow even as I uttered it, a justification I barely believed myself.
The truth was far more complex; it was a desperate attempt to silence the growing unease in my own heart.
Vulwin, defying death, staggered to his feet, a weak magical beam sword flickering in his hand.
The image of his defiance pierced my resolve.
Was this necessary?
Could I have found another way?
The answer was a crushing weight in my chest – yes.
But the path of compromise, of avoiding bloodshed, seemed impossibly distant now, lost in the smoke of battle and the echoes of his hate.
I cast the second Ice Javelin, which felt like a betrayal, a violation of the warrior's code I once held sacred.
His final, hollow stare haunted me – it wasn't the satisfying defeat I'd imagined.
It was a reflection of my own crumbling morality.
The system notification, declaring his death, brought no relief, only the bitter taste of victory stolen at a terrible price.
However, after long experienced as dreadful system, I can no longer understend my own moral compass.
All I care is fulfilling the quest and its reward; to create a safe place for my family.