Elven Lies II Chapter 160: Passing The Torch

CHAPTER 160

PASSING THE TORCH

Protect them, Atelier—

“I will.” Hans did not raise the feather.

It rose on its own.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

As if even it resisted what was about to happen.

The moment it left his hand—

the air collapsed inward.

Sound bent.

The screams—

cut.

Not silenced.

But removed.

The battlefield did not grow quiet.

It was denied noise.

The feather hovered between sky and ruin.

A single fragment of pale light—

trembling.

Then—

it began to rise.

Higher.

Higher.

The blood creatures stopped.

Not by command.

Not by fear.

By absence.

Their movements faltered—

as if something fundamental had just been taken from them.

Zilong’s claws froze mid-swing.

“…what is this…”

Even his voice felt heavy.

Delayed.

Like it did not belong here anymore.

Xandor didn’t speak.

His eyes were locked upward.

“…so that’s what it’s capable of?” he murmured.

Anfaleen stepped forward—

fast.

For the first time—

not composed.

Not measured.

He reached out.

Blood surged.

Chains erupted upward—

thousands—

a storm of crimson spears aimed at the feather.

“Stop.”

The word cracked through the field.

Not shouted.

Forced.

Commanded.

The chains struck—

—

and vanished.

Not broken.

Not deflected.

Gone.

As if they had never existed.

Anfaleen’s hand froze mid-air.

His eyes widened—

just slightly.

“…no.”

That word again.

But now—

it carried something else.

He tried again.

Faster.

More.

The entire battlefield bled upward.

A tide of crimson surged toward the feather—

walls of blood—

spears—

beasts—

everything he had built—

launched at that single point of light.

And everything—

disappeared.

Not even ash remained.

Like a memory being erased before it could form.

Anfaleen stopped.

Completely.

For the first time since this battle began—

he understood.

He could do nothing.

“…so this is why.”

His voice dropped.

Not for others.

For himself.

“The Ancient warned me…”

His eyes lifted slowly.

Following the feather as it climbed—

“…never allow the second to awaken.”

The feather reached the sky.

And stopped.

For a moment—

it dimmed.

Flickered.

Like it might fail.

Like the world itself was pushing back—

one last time.

Hans’ knees nearly gave out.

His body shook—

violently now.

Blood ran freely down his arm.

“So forcing it out has consequences…then I must bear it…come to me…” he whispered.

Not commanding.

Begging.

“Move.”

The feather answered.

It flared.

Not bright.

Not yet.

But absolute.

A point of light—

so pure—

it began to erase the sky around it.

Darkness peeled back.

Not like night ending—

like it was being burned away.

A circle formed.

Vast.

Expanding.

The clouds tore apart—

not by wind—

but by presence.

The heavens opened.

And behind it—

something vast shifted.

Zilong staggered back.

“…no…”

His instincts screamed—

louder than ever before.

Predator.

Warrior.

Demon.

None of it mattered.

Every part of him recognised it.

Wrong place.

Wrong existence.

Anfaleen did not move.

His gaze remained fixed.

Unblinking.

“…so it comes.”

The light above deepened.

Layered.

Infinite.

Runes ignited within it—

circling—

turning—

ancient symbols that did not belong to this world.

The feather shattered.

Not into pieces—

into radiance.

And from that radiance—

the sky split open.

Not cracked.

Opened.

Like an eye.

And something within—

looked down.

—

First—

the eyes.

Twin suns.

Burning.

Ringed with rotating runes—

each orbiting slowly—

each carrying meaning too vast to comprehend.

They did not shine.

They judged.

The moment they appeared—

the battlefield collapsed to its knees.

Zilong dropped—

one knee slamming into the ground—

his body refusing to stand.

“…what… is… that…”

His voice broke.

Not from fear.

From pressure.

Existence itself—

pressing down.

Anfaleen remained standing.

Barely.

Blood trickled from his nose.

His fingers twitched—

fighting—

resisting—

calculating—

failing.

“…Solunox.”

The name left him like a confession.

The sky darkened—

not by shadow—

but by wings.

They unfolded slowly.

Endlessly.

A wingspan so vast it devoured the horizon—

Feathers of crystallised light igniting one by one—

each like a fragment of a dying star—

some burning white—

others glowing in fractured colours like stained glass—

all radiating unbearable heat.

The moon vanished behind it.

No—

not hidden.

Overwritten.

Its form descended—

not falling—

not flying—

arriving.

A colossal owl—

forged from dawn and oblivion—

its body radiating unknown fire—

its talons black as ancient stone—

veins of gold pulsing through them—

each movement leaving searing scars across the sky itself.

The battlefield could not contain it.

Reality stretched—

bent—

to make space.

The blood creatures began to collapse.

Not attacked.

Unmade.

Their forms breaking apart—

threads of existence snapping one by one.

Anfaleen watched it.

Truly watched it.

And understood.

Everything.

The Mage King.

The fall.

The warning.

The reason the Ancient feared this moment.

“…it doesn’t fight.”

His voice was hollow now.

“It ends.”

Solunox descended further.

The air suffocated.

Not lack of oxygen—

lack of permission to exist.

Even the light dimmed around it—

afraid to shine.

Hans stood beneath it.

And one far away, looking up.

Barely conscious.

But standing.

The only ones who did not kneel.

The only ones—

it did not crush.

The great owl’s gaze lowered.

From the battlefield—

to him.

And for a moment—

everything stopped.

Even time.

Even thought.

Even fate.

Then—

it blinked.

And the world—

accepted judgement.

Hans clenched his bloodied fist.

And roared—

“Time for your death, Anfaleen!”

Anfaleen exhaled.

Slow.

Controlled.

He calmed.

Not because the danger passed—

but because he finally understood it.

“I have accounted for this,” he said quietly.

“There is no true spirit here.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Solunox does not judge without cause.”

Hans rose.

Slowly.

His wings expanded—

and then—

split.

Two became four.

His aura surged—

and bled away just as fast.

Burning him from within.

“Oh…” Hans said softly.

“I did not summon it to judge you.”

Anfaleen’s eyes narrowed.

Then—

For the first time—

uncertainty appeared.

“…then why?”

Hans tilted his head.

Calm.

Almost detached.

“There is a place you need to be.”

His gaze shifted—

past Anfaleen—

to the distance.

“To someone waiting for you.”

A pause.

“Someone who truly wishes you dead.”

Silence.

“My role…”

His grip tightened.

“…was to bring you to him.”

Hans tilted his head slightly—

toward the figure standing far behind the battlefield.

Still.

Unmoved.

“Since you have no desire to win, I won’t ask you for that— but you must protect them till I return. Do not disappoint me, Xandor.”

Xandor looked up.

Not in fear.

Not even strained.

While the battlefield bent beneath Solunox—

he remained… untouched.

His fingers brushed lightly against his chest.

Something beneath his armour pulsed once.

Faint.

Almost in response.

“I too want to see…” he said quietly,

“…how capable the God of Balance truly is.”

Hans did not respond.

He had already turned.

Something within him had shifted.

Not strength.

Not speed.

Purpose.

The hesitation was gone.

The weight remained—

There were many diversions, but he was at the end of his plan.

Everything aligned in.

Twin blades steadied in his grip.

For a fraction of a moment—

everything slowed.

The blood.

The wind.

Even the pressure of Solunox above.

All of it—

fell behind him.

Then—

he moved.

Not like a man.

Not like a knight.

Like a verdict.

A streak of light tore across the battlefield—

straight toward Anfaleen.

No hesitation.

No deviation.

The blood answered.

Not Anfaleen.

The blood itself.

The fallen creatures convulsed—

then rose again.

Twisted.

Incomplete.

They lunged toward Hans—

feral—

uncontrolled—

as if rejecting what was coming.

Too slow.

Hans passed through them.

Not cutting.

Not striking.

They simply—

failed to catch where he moved.

—Sirius Strike—

Everything he had left—

compressed.

Not released.

Condensed.

His wings vanished.

His light collapsed inward.

His presence—

disappeared.

For a single instant—

Hans did not exist.

Anfaleen saw it.

And something inside him—

reacted.

Not fear.

Disgust.

Deep.

By a hair he managed to dodge, and Hans passed through like a spent arrow.

“I’ll make you beg me for death. Atelier.” Anfaleen cursed—

—Shack!

The world split.

Not visibly.

But undeniably.

A line carved through space—

clean—

absolute—

unavoidable.

Anfaleen staggered.

His body twisted slightly—

as if reality itself had rejected his position.

His armour—

shredded.

Not broken.

Removed.

A deep, invisible wound carved across his chest—

bleeding into existence.

He touched it.

Slowly.

His fingers came away red.

Silence.

“A..Atelier…”

His voice lowered.

Stripped of arrogance.

“No Parvian—

—and Solunox”

His gaze sharpened.

And Understanding settled.

Heavy.

—You are an Inheritor. Aren’t you?”

The words landed.

And this time—

they mattered.

“…You know the Elven Lies.”

Behind him—

Xandor stopped.

Not visibly.

But internally.

Something in that sentence—

hooked.

And that moment—

was enough.

Zilong moved.

No roar.

No warning.

Just instinct.

His claw drove forward—

Piercing straight through Anfaleen’s chest.

For the first time—

it happened.

Anfaleen was injured.

Truly.

Zilong’s eyes widened.

Then—

a grin.

Sharp.

Victorious.

“This is your end—”

The flesh shifted.

The wound closed.

Not healing.

Undoing.

Zilong’s grin died.

Anfaleen did not react.

Not to the strike.

Not to the injury.

His eyes remained on Hans.

“Now you are spent.”

Calm.

Certain.

“The Queen’s sword cannot restore what you have burned.”

Hans did not deny it.

Did not resist.

Did not argue.

“I told you.”

His voice was quiet now.

Almost distant.

“My role ended here.”

He looked up.

Solunox hung above the world.

Silent.

Watching.

Waiting.

And for the first time—

Anfaleen followed his gaze.

Not as a mage.

Not as a devourer.

As something that understood.

This was no longer a battle.

This was a handoff.

Hans had not summoned judgement.

He had opened a path.

And something—

somewhere beyond this world—

was already reaching through it.

The sky did not break.

It yielded.

And the boundary between realms—

thinned.

The spirit world was no longer distant.

***