Elven Lies II Chapter 162: The Turning

CHAPTER 162

THE TURNING

The sky did not return to normal.

It remained split.

Yet high above—

Solunox lingered.

Not descending.

Not acting.

Just watching.

Below—

the battlefield struggled to exist.

The blood creatures still rose.

Still reached.

Still failed.

One clawed its way across broken stone—

half-formed—

its body collapsing between movements.

A tendril stretched—

then dissolved before it could touch anything.

It reformed again.

Closer.

Worse.

No one advanced.

Weapons remained raised—

but unused.

Even the bravest hesitated.

“…they won’t die,” someone muttered.

A second later—

it wasn’t there.

Then it was.

The cycle continued.

Unending.

Unnatural.

Zilong was gone.

Theodred was gone.

Anfaleen—

gone.

Just like before.

“Theodred…” one of the survivors whispered.

No one answered.

Xandor stood apart from them.

Unmoving.

His gaze was not on the creatures.

Not on the survivors.

On the sky.

On Solunox.

Something in his posture had shifted.

Not fear.

Not awe.

Recognition.

“…so that’s how it works.”

The wind didn’t move.

The air didn’t breathe.

And the battlefield—

waited.

Not for victory.

For something to return.

The wait did not break.

It stretched.

And somewhere beyond that stillness—

it was already breaking.

The flow around them no longer followed Zilong’s will.

It still shifted—

late—

then all at once.

Zilong stepped—

and the response came after.

A fraction.

Too slow.

“…it’s slipping.”

The current resisted him.

Not violently.

Wrongly.

Anfaleen moved through it—

not against—

not with—

through.

Light appeared—

not from him—

but around Hans.

Zilong turned—

pulled—

redirected—

Missed.

The strike carved across Hans’ side—

clean—

precise—

real.

Hans didn’t react.

Only stunned.

“Space magic—impossible.”

He touched his wound.

Blood slipping through.

The photonised heat around him—

faltered.

Rapidly healing him.

For the first time.

Anfaleen saw it.

And pressed.

“How long can you keep up, Human?”

The Darkness folded beneath his step—

space collapsing inward—

shortening distance—

breaking direction—

“How is he wielding it?” Hans traced him.

Tried his ManaVision.

Got only a flicker.

— he is only a mage—”

Anfaleen appeared above them.

No transition.

No motion.

Just floating like a steady kite.

“That is what light and dark—capable of you, illiterate human.”

Zilong moved—

forcing the current upward—

dragging the angle—

twisting the descent—

The space resisted.

Anfaleen raised his hand.

The darkness and light struggled around his arm.

Like twin snakes fighting for dominance.

He winded it down.

It formed a crescent slash.

Zilong tried.

But failed.

The strike landed anyway.

He didn’t stop.

But his flow control did.

For a moment—

it wasn’t his anymore.

Anfaleen stepped into that moment.

And widened it.

Light and darkness surged together—

Again —

unbalanced—

overlapping—

interfering—

creating fractures in the space itself.

Zilong tried to pull it back—

tighten—

stabilise—

It slipped again.

“What is happening…boy?”

No answer.

Hans just stood—

barely—

the heat around him thinner now—

uneven—

interrupted.

He was healed but was not ready.

Anfaleen adjusted.

His hand shifted—

darkness compressing inward—

not spreading—

locking.

The space around Hans collapsed—

pressure inverting—

movement denied—

A killing field.

Anfaleen mocked.

“Feeling familiar, Human?”

It feels like my VoidZone.

Just what is he?

“No time for the dreams, boy—

focus.”

Zilong cried, forcing the current sideways—

straining—

dragging—

breaking his own control to reach—

Too late.

From the other hand.

A combined slash of light and dark.

Once again, the strike fell.

This time in volleys.

Hans dropped.

Still in Anfaleen’s killing field.

Still unmovable.

The crescent blades passed above—

close—

stealing what remained of his build.

Yet Anfaleen twisted them mid-motion—

reversing—

correcting—

Aiming at Zilong—

“It is mine.”

Zilong roared, demanding the flow control that was denied.

His face erupted with simmering scales.

The antlers crowned

And the control obeyed.

Barely—

forcing the angle off—

“Still not enough.” Anfaleen mused.

The second impact drove Hans back—

hard—

the heat around him scattering—

lost.

They separated.

Further this time.

“It looks like you are at your rope’s end, Human.”

He shifted to Zilong.

“And you—what a disappointment. You thought it was enough to stop me. Me? I am Anfaleen Torceran—the man who has beaten Death. So stand up, Zilong—I didn’t have my fill yet.”

Zilong tilted his head upward, steadied himself—

breath shorter—

control thinner—

the current answering in fragments.

Hans also rose—

slow—

the photons around him gone—

Anfaleen didn’t rush.

He didn’t need to.

He stood—

perfectly aligned with the distortion around him.

The space—

answered him now.

“…you.”

His gaze fixed on Hans.

“I will take my time with you, Parvian.”

The next attack didn’t form.

It collapsed.

Light and darkness compressed—

into nothing—

—then reappeared between them.

Too close.

Too sudden.

Zilong moved—

too late.

Hans reacted—

too slowly.

The implosion dragged inward—

space folding—

crushing—

tearing—

Zilong forced the current outward—

straining—

using the implosion as propulsion—

Just enough to avoid catastrophic damage.

“You’ve evaded, but the Parvian’s fate is sealed—”

—Invincible Armour—

Hans cried out as the implosion.

Darkness ate the light.

Light faded the dark.

Hans appeared unscathed.

Stilled mana coating him like a mother’s embrace.

“My fate was written a long time ago,” he hissed.

—“I won’t be dying today.”

Anfaleen watched them.

Annoyed.

“Pesky resilience of the Parvian bloodline.”

He stepped forward.

“Then I will rewrite that damned fate now.”

Two spheres rose from his hands.

One burned white—

pure—

blinding.

The other—

pitch black—

swallowing even the light around it.

They did not collide.

They circled.

Faster.

Closer.

Chasing each other—

as if neither could exist without devouring the other.

The space between them warped.

Began to tear.

Hans stepped forward.

The first step—

landed heavily.

Not on the ground—

on resistance.

As if the world itself—

pushed back.

His body dragged against it—

every movement forced—

every breath stolen.

His fist rose—

slow—

trembling—

every muscle tightening—

every fibre straining to hold what was gathering around.

Second step.

Heavier.

The pressure climbed.

All around him.

As if he was going against the law of the world.

And third—

—stopped.

Not by choice.

By limit.

His body refused another.

So he anchored himself there.

Above—

Anfaleen’s spheres spun faster.

White devoured black.

Black consumed white.

Balance collapsing—

reforming—

collapsing again.

The space between them screamed—

silent—

but tearing.

Hans lifted his gaze.

Locked.

“Let’s see, Anfaleen…”

His voice didn’t rise.

It pressed.

“If you are capable…”

The mana around him strained—

So much—

Stretching—

beyond what could hold.

“…of rewriting my fate—”

—ManaStorm—

It didn’t explode.

It released.

A tearing force—

invisible—

but absolute—

ripped forward.

The space in its path didn’t break—

it was peeled apart.

It met the spheres.

For a moment—

they held.

White flared.

Black deepened.

Rotation accelerated—

fighting—

devouring—

resisting.

Then—

—they shattered.

Not broken.

Overwhelmed.

The tearing force punched through—

ripping their balance apart—

scattering their existence into nothing.

And continued.

Instantly

Straight into Anfaleen.

His space tactic didn’t work.

The magic didn’t answer.

Something was wrong.

Anfaleen understood.

But was late.

The impact didn’t throw him.

It carved him.

His body twisted—

dragged—

forced through space that no longer aligned with him.

Light tore.

Darkness split.

His form broke through the distortion—

then slammed back into place.

Silence followed.

When it settled—

he still stood.

But not untouched.

Clothes torn.

Skin split.

Blood real.

For the first time—

Anfaleen looked—

He could be beaten.

His hand rose—

touching the blood.

Real.

But his eyes—

did not go to Hans.

They went—

to the space the attack had torn open.

The distortion.

The residue.

The unbalanced mana that just can’t listen to him.

“…You held the fabric of pure mana…”

A pause.

“…used the tension…”

His gaze sharpened.

Tracing.

Calculating.

“…And set it free.”

Then—

he looked back.

At Hans.

“…you can’t repeat that. Can you?”

Hans didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His breath was heavy.

ManaStorm was always a double-edged sword.

The backlash was severe.

His photons were gone.

He was no longer the solar mage.

He couldn’t heal.

He tried to, but his access to the outside world became restricted.

Anfaleen was no fool in deducing that.

One more.

I can do at most one more.

Anfaleen bled but stepped forward.

No tricks now.

No distortion.

Direct.

“You won’t get the chance.”

He vanished—

—and reappeared before Hans.

The blade of darkness aimed to devour Hans.

Zilong moved.

This time—

he didn’t call the flow.

He tore it.

The space around them twisted—

violently—

unnaturally—

as if something deeper had been forced awake.

The strike met resistance.

Not clean.

Not stable.

But enough.

Zilong stood between them.

Barely.

The impact drove him down—

his body cracking under the force—

Consuming—

fracturing—

“…move—!”

Hans didn’t.

Not because he refused.

Because the space around him—

would not allow it.

The dark strike pressed further—

forcing—

breaking through what little Zilong held.

“You’re finished.”

The second strike formed—

From the other side—

the bright light—

clean—

inevitable—

Zilong’s hand clenched.

His leg shifted.

Anchored.

With one—

He held the strike of black

With another—

He stopped the bright.

His strength—

divided.

Not lost.

But not enough.

His eyes shifted—

to Hans.

Still standing.

Still trying.

“…not like this. You made a promise, Parvian. So move.”

Hans’s body convulsed.

Not because he wanted, because there was a third invisible pressure.

The space which affixed him.

Made him still.

Pressed on.

Trying to flatten him.

Zilong saw

And something in him—

broke.

“No..”

His arms trembled—

not from weakness—

but from something tearing through them.

“No..please no.”

Bones strained—

veins darkened—

his breath hitched—

once—

—then steadied.

“…not meant…”

The words came low.

Not complaint.

Fact.

His vessel—

was not ready, not for this.

The current came to him.

Surging

Harder.

And this time—

Zilong didn’t guide it.

He accepted it.

“Then break.”

The words didn’t echo.

They cut.

The flow snapped into alignment.

Not smoothly.

Violently.

Something inside him—

cracked.

Not fully.

But enough.

His form shifted.

Not expanding.

Straining.

Scales tore across his skin—

breaking through.

The pale skin was gone.

Only the shining scales remained.

Antlers surged—

much bigger than before—

forcing space to accept them.

The distortion around him twisted—

then—

—stilled.

Anfaleen felt it immediately.

His control—

slipped.

“…you’re tearing it apart—”

Zilong didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t.

Holding it—

was already too much.

His hands tightened.

The black.

The white.

Both still resisted.

So he stopped balancing them.

And forced them together.

They screamed.

Once again

Light devoured dark.

Dark swallowed light.

Neither stabilised.

Both—

collapsed.

Zilong roared—

not in fury—

in strain.

And threw it.

Upward.

The combined force tore through the space above—

not breaking it—

—splitting it.

A crack formed.

Thin.

Unnatural.

And beyond it—

something answered.

Light.

The red light of the Deadlands.

It poured through.

Not gently.

Like something long denied—

finally forcing its way back.

The spirit world recoiled.

The distortion shattered.

Anfaleen staggered—

for the time—

his control breaking completely.

“…no—”

Below—

Hans felt it.

The moment it touched him—

everything returned.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Heat surged.

Photons flooded his veins.

The strain vanished.

Replaced.

His head lifted.

Eyes steady.

Alive.

But Zilong’s body gave.

Not collapsing.

Shedding.

The human frame split apart—

not torn—

abandoned.

Form followed truth.

He surged above.

In an instant—

he was no longer contained.

A vast serpentine body unfolded across the fractured sky—

hundreds of metres long—

scales like flowing iridescent water—

each one reflecting the light that had forced its way in.

Antlers crowned wide and old—

branching like living currents—

cutting through the distorted space.

His body did not move through the spirit world.

The spirit world—

moved around him.

The current returned.

Not summoned.

Not controlled.

Commanded.

Every fragment of flow—

every broken strand—

every resisting force—

fell into place.

Absolute.

Anfaleen staggered back.

For the first time—

distance mattered.

“…sky serpent…”

No disbelief.

Recognition.

Above—

the massive head lowered.

Cyan eyes—

endless—

fixing him in place.

No anger.

No fury.

Only weight.

The flow tightened.

The space—

no longer answered Anfaleen.

His water filled the whole spirit world—

Not drowning.

Just another layer.

Below—

Hans did not hesitate.

He stepped—

then rose—

drawn upward—

carried—

His hand clutching one of the antlers.

His body swinging before he finally settled into the mane.

Anfaleen hovered—

level with the Anfaleen’s gaze.

Both in skies.

No fear.

No distance.

Only amusement.

“Does being bigger mean advantage? Did you forget how we captured you—”

“This time—is different” Zilong hissed.

“This time—I’m not the one bleeding.”

A pause.

“And I’m not alone.”

The current shifted.

Subtle.

Almost nothing.

His vast form lowered—

just slightly.

Like a breath.

Then—

he moved.

Not forward.

Down.

A sudden dive—

not to strike—

Too fast.

Anfaleen reacted instantly—

light forming—

darkness folding—

space bending—

—But the angle—

was wrong.

Zilong’s mane surged—

not flowing—

parting.

And within it—

already there—

Hans.

No motion.

No reveal.

Only aim.

—Longshot—

The Bullet didn’t travel.

It arrived.

Anfaleen twisted—

space tearing—

trying to slip—

—Too late.

Zilong’s current tightened.

Just enough.

The shot carved through—

clean—

absolute—

For a moment—

everything stilled.

Then—

blood followed.

Right through Anfaleen’s stomach.

***