Elven Lies II Chapter 161: To The Spirit World

CHAPTER 161

TO THE SPIRIT WORLD

A blood creature dragged itself forward—

half-formed—

its limbs collapsing beneath it.

It reached—

toward the nearest survivor.

No one moved.

One of the infected staggered back—

not in relief—

in hesitation.

“…it won’t die.”

Another raised his weapon—

then stopped mid-swing.

The thing dissolved before the strike could land.

It returned again—

closer.

Worse.

No one cheered.

Even survival—

felt uncertain.

Xandor paused.

“Inheritor..”

“…then I stay.”

Solunox did not strike Anfaleen.

The creatures did not die.

They failed.

Again.

And again.

Hans exhaled.

Slow.

Steady.

“This is not judgement…”

A pause.

“…this is correction.”

His gaze shifted.

Locked.

Anfaleen.

Zilong.

Nothing moved.

Yet—

something narrowed.

The air tightened.

The edges of the world—

slipped.

Space bent.

Not everywhere.

Not violently.

Only—

there.

“I’ll do what remains.”

His gaze shifted upward.

Between three points.

The battlefield remained intact.

The sky remained vast.

But around them—

distance folded.

Zilong felt it first.

“…what—”

The ground beneath his claws—

lost meaning.

Anfaleen reacted instantly.

Blood surged—

—Nothing answered.

A pause.

Small.

Deadly.

“…connection…”

His fingers tightened.

“…gone.”

Zilong pushed back.

Muscles straining.

Claws digging—

into nothing.

“Where are you dragging me, boy—”

It didn’t matter.

Hans stepped forward.

And distance—

ceased.

Anfaleen did not resist again.

He understood.

Too quickly.

Too late.

His eyes sharpened.

“…the spirit realm.”

A breath.

Something older surfaced.

“…so this is how you took Martys.”

The world peeled.

Sound stretched—

into silence.

Weight loosened—

then vanished.

Light twisted—

then inverted.

And—

Everything—

cut.

They stood elsewhere.

There was no sky.

No ground.

Only an endless expanse where direction held no meaning.

Zilong staggered.

His form flickering—

unstable—

as the Red Demon power tore against something it could not dominate.

“…this place—”

Anfaleen exhaled.

Slow.

Measured.

He reached—

for blood.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

No flow.

No regeneration.

No response.

“…hah.”

A faint smile formed.

Not frustration.

Recognition.

“So this is your design.”

A pause

“Good.”

His eyes lifted.

Sharp again.

“But I am still a warlock.”

Hans’s legs gave first.

His hands supporting his knees.

The wings were gone.

The light had faded.

What remained—

was just an elf.

Breathing hard.

Barely holding.

“…figures.”

He lifted his head.

Slow.

Heavy.

“Zilong.”

The red demon commander did not answer.

His form twisted—

corruption still clawing through him.

“You fool… space magic fails here.” Anfaleen amused. This became easier. “You just signed death to your strongest card. And now you can’t even hold your sword. What a pathetic end to the relic of the past.” He mocked.

Hans remained calm. “Sword—

—I don’t need one”

He stood.

Exhaled hard.

“Not enough… not like this—

—Human Codex.”

The words left his mouth and he began to change.

It was not instant.

It crawled.

Bones shifted beneath skin.

Muscles tightened, then reformed.

His frame shrank—

light bleeding out of him with every second.

Hair darkened.

Eyes burned into red.

The elf vanished.

Human remained.

With every shift,

Anfaleen’s face contorted.

“So it was all you.”

A visible anger.

“How dare you play me—Hans Parv.”

Hans didn’t look at Anfaleen.

His hand rose—

unsteady—

but precise.

Zilong’s body convulsed.

The red corruption writhed across his form—

fighting.

Clinging.

Refusing to leave.

Hans reached—

not for flesh—

for what lay beneath.

His fingers closed—

on something unseen.

And pulled.

A wet, tearing resistance answered him.

Black-red matter surfaced—

dragged out of Zilong’s core like rot ripped from bone.

Zilong roared—

not in pain—

in release.

Hans pulled again.

And again.

Each time—

more of it came free.

The red began to fade.

Cracks of clarity spread across his form.

Limbs shifted.

Reduced.

Refined.

The monstrous bulk collapsed inward—

reshaping—

reforming—

stabilising.

Until—

it stopped.

The last trace of red slipped free.

What remained did not tower.

It stood.

The excess was gone.

The violence.

The distortion.

All of it stripped away.

Lean.

Refined.

A frame built for movement—not force.

Skin pale—unnaturally so.

Not fragile.

Untouched.

The lines of his face—

the calm in them—

carried something familiar.

Too familiar to ignore.

The same stillness.

The same distance.

His eyes opened.

Cyan.

Clear.

And far too old.

“…I can hear myself.”

Zilong exhaled slowly.

As if returning from somewhere far too deep.

“…finally.”

His breath steadied.

The tremor left his body—

but the weight of the unknown realm did not.

He wanted to ask, but priorities were different.

His eyes shifted to take a look.

Hans remained where he stood.

Barely.

The heat around him—

subtle—

rising.

Not visible.

Not yet.

But he could feel it.

The presence he had met two years ago.

The Parvian delivering on his promise.

Across from them—

Anfaleen adjusted his stance.

No blood answered him.

No hidden reserves.

No second chance.

Only himself.

“…good,” he said quietly.

Not relieved.

Not shaken.

Measured.

Light gathered along his fingers—

thin—

precise.

Darkness followed—

not opposing—

aligning.

Then—

he moved.

There was no wind.

No warning.

A line of light cut forward—

too fast to follow—

vanishing midway—

—and reappearing behind Hans.

Zilong moved first.

Water did not appear—

it shifted.

The space behind Hans thickened—

dragging—

pulling—

slowing the strike just enough—

Hans tilted.

The light missed his throat—

grazed instead—

a shallow burn carving across his shoulder.

Too close.

Anfaleen was already somewhere else.

Another strike—

from the side this time—

but the angle was wrong.

It bent—

slightly—

as if reality itself had been nudged.

Zilong stepped through it.

Not blocking.

Redirecting.

The attack curved past—

sliding into nothing.

“…you’ve lost the blood,” Zilong said quietly,

“but not the arrogance.”

Anfaleen did not respond.

He was watching.

Hans.

The stillness.

The restraint.

The heat.

“…so that’s your answer.”

The next attack came faster.

Light fractured into multiple lines—

each slipping into shadow—

—then emerging from different directions at once.

Zilong’s eyes sharpened.

The ground—if it could be called that—shifted beneath Anfaleen.

Not sinking.

Dragging.

His footing slipped—

just enough.

One of the light strikes missed.

Another bent off course.

The third—

grazed Zilong’s side—

cutting shallow—

but clean.

He didn’t flinch.

Hans still hadn’t moved.

But the air around him—

tightened.

Something above—

Far beyond this realm—

answered.

Anfaleen felt it.

“This…is from outside.”

A delay.

Subtle.

But real.

“…you’re still drawing from it.”

For the first time—

his expression changed.

Not fear.

Urgency.

He moved again—

faster—

dropping precision for pressure.

Darkness spread beneath his step—

not wide—

but deep—

folding the space between them.

He appeared directly in front of Hans—

hand already formed into a blade of condensed light—

Zilong wasn’t there.

He couldn’t be.

Too far.

The strike fell—

And stopped.

Not blocked.

Held.

The space between them—

thickened—

like a current resisting its flow.

Zilong’s voice came from behind—

calm—

controlled.

“You’re rushing.”

Anfaleen twisted—

immediately disengaging—

slipping out before the current collapsed around him.

He landed at a distance.

Still intact.

Still precise.

But now—

he understood.

This wasn’t a clash.

It was a setup.

His gaze shifted once more—

to Hans.

Still standing.

Still gathering.

Still not striking.

“…if I let this continue,” Anfaleen murmured,

“…I lose.”

The air grew sharper.

And this time—

he didn’t hold back.

Light and darkness surged together—

no longer balanced—

but forced—

compressed—

pushed beyond stability.

Anfaleen moved first.

Not faster—

earlier.

The moment intention formed—

he was already gone.

Light fractured.

Not into lines—

into points.

Each one slipping into shadow—

—and reappearing across the field.

Zilong stepped forward.

The space around them shifted—

not solid—

not fluid—

something between.

The first strike curved.

The second slowed.

The third—

landed.

Hans’ side tore open.

Not deep—

but clean.

Zilong reacted instantly.

The current tightened—

dragging the next wave off course—

forcing distance—

buying breath.

Too little.

Anfaleen didn’t pause.

Darkness folded beneath him—

compressing space—

launching him forward again—

closer—

faster—

wrong.

This time—

he didn’t aim for Hans.

Zilong.

The blade of light struck—

then split—

one above—

one below—

one behind.

Zilong turned—

redirected one—

Slipped past another—

—the third cut through.

A shallow line opened across his shoulder.

He didn’t slow.

But his control did.

For the first time—

the current faltered.

Anfaleen saw it.

“…there.”

He pressed.

Light surged—

not precise now—

overlapping—

layered—

forcing space to misalign.

Zilong’s footing slipped—

the field distorted—

his control stretching too thin—

Hans still hadn’t moved.

But the air around him—

tightened further.

Heat gathered.

Not spreading—

condensing.

Anfaleen felt it.

And adjusted.

One hand shifted—

darkness expanding—

not outward—

inward.

The space around Hans—

compressed.

Pressure dropped—

then inverted.

A killing field.

Zilong reacted—

too late.

The distortion closed in—

collapsing toward Hans’ position—

—Photonise—

Hans moved.

Not to escape.

To release.

A single point of something formed at his fingertip—

small—

unstable—

compressed beyond balance.

—Longshot—

It fired.

The distortion split.

Clean.

Absolute.

The object tore through space—

forcing it back into alignment—

and continued—

straight toward Anfaleen.

He twisted—

barely.

Zilong had already adjusted the flow.

The object curved.

Its trajectory adjusted.

The shot grazed Anfaleen.

But this time—

it mattered.

Blood followed.

Real.

Anfaleen landed—

sliding a step back.

His hand rose—

touching the wound.

He looked at it.

Then at Hans.

Levitating.

Looking down on him.

“…so you can still hit me.”

No anger.

No frustration.

Only calculation.

And beneath it—

urgency.

The air sharpened again.

This time—

he didn’t refine the balance.

He forced it.

Light and darkness surged together—

unstable—

compressed—

pushed past control.

The next attack didn’t follow rules.

It broke them.

The spirit world cracked.

Zilong felt it immediately.

“…Hans.”

Too fast.

Too wide.

Too wrong.

The pressure spiked—

and for the first time—

his controlled flow began to fail.

The fight—

was no longer stable.

***