Elven Lies II Chapter 163: Who Am I You Ask?

CHAPTER 163

WHO AM I YOU ASK?

“I was sure there was no blood magic—”

Hans stopped.

The words died before they could form further.

Because it didn’t matter.

Hans stared.

There was a hole.

Clean.

Through Anfaleen’s abdomen.

Light passed through it.

Unobstructed.

And yet—

it was closing.

Not the flesh.

Something else.

A dark thread moved along the edge—

slow—

precise—

pulling the wound together without filling it.

The hole remained.

But the bleeding stopped.

Cuts across his body stayed open—

visible—

real—

But nothing flowed from them.

No loss.

Hans’ grip tightened.

“…what are you?”

His eyes traced the damage—

the pattern—

the refusal.

“I’ve stripped everything.”

Quiet.

“How much longer—How much I have to do for you to stay down.”

Hans questioned.

Not to Anfaleen.

But to himself.

A pause.

He exhaled.

Long.

Heavy.

He had thrown everything—

No.

Not everything.

His gaze lifted.

Something in it changed.

Not frustration.

Decision.

“…then we’ll see which breaks first.”

—Elderform—

His fingers twitched—

once—

and the skin split.

Not open.

Yielded.

Green threaded through him—

thin—

sharp—

alive.

It didn’t spread wildly.

It followed lines.

Across his arm—

along his shoulder—

down his spine—

Measured.

Controlled.

No excess this time.

No surge.

Only intent.

The growth paused—

Before the full bloom.

The size stopped before turning giant.

He stepped forward.

And it changed.

Vines pressed through—

not tearing—

not forcing—

belonging.

They wrapped—

tight—

close—

responsive.

Not armour.

Only Extension.

His breath remained even.

His gaze—

unchanged.

But the space around him—

felt different.

Closer.

Every movement—

answered faster.

Every shift—

clearer.

Not stronger.

Sharper.

No explosion.

No transformation roar.

Just—

completion.

He wasn’t huge as always.

Just enough of what he needed.

He flexed his fingers.

The vines followed—

instantly.

Perfectly.

“That’s better.”

—photonise—

The Deadlands energy didn’t seep—

it forced its way .

Through the cracks above—

through him—

filling what the spirit world tried to deny.

“If one isn’t enough—”

A breath.

“I’ll make it enough.”

Zilong moved.

Not drifting.

Closing.

His vast body curved across the fractured sky—

not to surround—

to deny distance.

Coils tightened.

Angles collapsed.

Anfaleen was no longer free—

only unclaimed.

Hans moved with it.

From the mane—

down along the spine—

each step placed—

not rushed.

Positioning.

Vines shifted with him—

tight—

responsive—

feeding on on the deadlands energy.

His hand lifted.

Not wide.

Controlled.

The air around him tightened—

then held.

One.

Then another.

Then more.

Not many.

But enough.

Each formed with purpose—

dense—

compressed—

waiting.

Anfaleen saw it.

Not the stretched mana paths.

But the momentum.

“…again?”

The bullets were placed—

—then propelled.

And Anfaleen.

He moved.

Anticipating.

Light sharpened—

darkness folded—

space bent—

At least tried to—

But it was enough to evade—

cutting angles—

creating exits—

He slipped through the first line—

clean.

The second—

missed.

The third—

should have.

Didn’t.

The trajectory shifted.

Hans felt it—

not as movement—

as pull.

Not space.

The same mana he touched—

The very thing he was taught by Treants.

But here—

it didn’t follow will.

It obeyed.

Zilong.

Same control.

Different scale.

The current adjusted—

subtle—

absolute—

removing the path Anfaleen chose—

and replacing it.

Anfaleen twisted—

correcting mid-motion—

but the correction—

was already accounted for.

The shots followed.

Not chasing—

arriving.

Impact.

Not explosive.

Penetrating.

Clean.

Right through his shoulder.

And for the first time—

Anfaleen struggled.

But didn’t retreat.

He slowed.

Just enough.

His eyes tracked—

not Hans—

not the sky serpent—

Up.

To the fracture above.

A breath.

Measured.

His left hand lifted.

Light gathered—

tight—

compressed—

Eight concentric rings formed—

bright—

stacked—

grinding against each other.

From their centre—

a lance emerged.

Pure white.

Still.

His right hand followed.

Darkness coiled inward—

denser—

heavier—

Another eight rings—

locking into place—

pulling space inward around them.

From within—

a second lance formed.

Black.

Longer.

Curved.

The two aligned.

Not touching.

But bound.

The black bent—

drawn back—

space stretching with it—

tightening—

straining—

The white remained forward—

fixed—

waiting.

For a moment—

everything held.

Then—

he pulled.

The world resisted.

And snapped.

He released.

The white shot forward—

instant—

violent—

Dragging the black with it—

space tearing between them—

a line of destruction forced into existence—

The distortion returned—

but different.

Not to move.

To cut.

The space ahead of him—

split.

Not clean.

Jagged.

Zilong moved.

The mana surged—

locking—

correcting—

forcing alignment—

But this time—

He failed.

Anfaleen stepped into it.

Not chasing them.

Following his own strike.

Upward.

Toward the fracture.

Just enough.

The line tore through—

scraping past—

harder—

faster.

The lances collided with the crack—

Not to break—

To force it open.

Another spell formed—

Six circles—

denser—

the light trembling this time—

not stable.

Anfaleen’s breath shortened.

Once.

Then controlled again.

He didn’t release it immediately.

He waited.

For the moment—

when the crack widens.

And There it was.

He didn’t move.

He launched.

The spell collapsed forward—

not toward Hans—

Toward the space above.

Towards the crack.

He Propelled fast—

exit within reach.

—then stopped.

Not from force.

By drag.

His gaze dropped.

Something had him.

Not binding—

pulling.

Vines.

Coiled tight around his leg—

alive—

pulsing—

anchored below.

Hans

Rooted into Zilong’s antlers—

his body braced—

every vine stretched to breaking.

He pulled.

Hard.

A stalemate.

Then Zilong moved.

Not rising.

Diving.

The world shifted with him.

Anfaleen’s darkness lashed—

eating vines after vines—

Erasing them.

But they returned.

Faster.

Thicker.

Each new strand stronger—

feeding from the photons flooding in.

The broken ones—

detonated

brief flashes—

forcing space to react—

interrupting his cuts.

Then came the massive pull.

Zilong snapped downward.

Violent.

Absolute.

And slammed Anfaleen—

into the spirit plain.

Impact!.

Not sound—

Collapse!

The plain beneath them fractured—

folded—

failed to absorb it cleanly.

Once—

was enough.

Anfaleen didn’t stay down.

He rose.

Struggling.

But not unchanged.

His wounds—

closed.

Sealed.

But his body—

failed to hide it now.

Blood fell—

not from injury—

From strain.

“…almost.”

Not hope.

Calculation.

“I need to be out of here.”

The next cast formed—

too quickly—

Darkness tightened around him.

Not expanding—

swirling.

The storm brew.

And he was the eye.

Everything near it bent inward—

light dimming at its edge—

space refusing to stay still.

Nine dark circles beneath his feet.

Yet its edges break—

structure incomplete—

But he released it anyway.

Because he had to.

And for the first time—

his precision—

wasn’t perfect.

He didn’t need it anyway.

The vortex rose violently.

Transforming into a whirlwind of sinister light.

“A ninth circle spell—

Hans hissed beneath his elderform.

“His final push”

Something shrieked in his hand.

Taking birth.

Forming.

Yet he stopped in mid.

“No..He can’t die here.”

“He must die where they can see it.”

Zilong’s body twirled.

Hans climbed back.

Centre.

Right between the antlers.

He felt it.

In his bones.

Something bad was coming.

He anchored himself.

Ready to brace the impact.

The whirlwind rose.

A cyclic typhoon.

Containing sinister energy.

Corrupting wind itself.

They were inside.

The sinister energies clenched to the zilong.

He was a big target.

And the scale was bigger.

Too large to miss.

Too close to escape..

Corrupting his serpentine body.

Rotting his flesh.

His scales protected him for a while.

But not for long.

The sinister energies creeped in.

Pulling his scales.

As if alive.

His body convulsed—

not in rhythm—

not in control.

Muscle fought muscle—

form breaking between movements.

He roared.

In pain.

“This..this was how I got captured before.”

Hans lost his footing his vines clenched to antlers. Few more grew and anchored him on Zilong’s head.

He tried to reign Zilong.

Leashing Zilong’s snout.

But his strength wasn’t enough—

he was the only one not moving by choice.

—Photonise—

The solar power ran through him, covering zilong.

The black receded where it touched.

Not pushed back—

erased.

The spread halted—

then broke apart.

But it needed precision.

He could seriously damage Zilong.

And amid that Anfaleen only needed a moment.

The crack was already opened.

It was his chance and he took it with everything he got.

The rotation slowed.

Not stopping—

straining.

For a moment—

everything held.

Then—

it turned.

The pull inverted—

direction snapping against itself—

dragging everything upward.

Anfaleen didn’t care if both of them were out of the spirit world.

He could deal with them easily outside.

He let go the resistance and from the broke plain.

His body lifted.

Flowing in current upwards

Zilong was writhing.

Hans steadied him.

And Anfaleen moved past them—

toward the fracture—

toward escape—

toward advantage.

“I can’t have that.”

The photons receded.

Hans leaned closer—

voice low—

measured.

“I know you want this more than I do, Zilong.”

A pause.

“So bear it.”

He jumped.

Upward.

Flying Into the pull.

The force caught him immediately—

dragging—

tearing—

refusing stillness.

“…not today.”

He crossed Anfaleen

Didn’t try to stop him.

Just fly past him.

And when he was leading.

He turned.

To face him.

The incoming Anfaleen.

—Elderform—

He stopped holding it back.

The form didn’t surge.

It returned.

Vines tore outward—

not spreading—

claiming space.

His body expanded—

not upward—

but outward—

forcing the world itself—

to make room.

Mass followed.

Relentless.

Unstoppable.

The pull intensified.

Violent.

The reversed whirlwind clawed at him—

dragging—

tearing—

trying to rip him free from the place he now occupied.

It didn’t stop the pull.

So he reached.

Both hands closed—

on nothing—

and found it.

And it stretched.

Impossible—

elongated—

thinning—

dragged into shape by opposing force.

Like something that refused—

but could not break.

The more he held—

the more it gave.

The more it gave—

the harder the world pulled back.

The whirlwind howled—

feeding the tension—

forcing it further—

stretching it beyond its nature.

He held it tighter.

So did the whirlwind.

More.

More.

His ascent slowed.

Barely

But not stopped.

Until he met the rift—

until his own size itself—

Filled it.

A living wall—

pressed into the expanded crack—

sealing it with his own existence.

No space left.

No passage.

No escape.

Hans trembled.

Not from fear.

From holding something—

that was never meant—

to be held like this.

“I SAID—”

His voice cracked through the strain—

“NOT TODAY.”

Anfaleen came anyway.

Straight into it.

No hesitation.

One push—

and he would be through.

Hans felt it.

The force he held—

stretched too far—

too thin—

too much.

It was time.

To set it free

—SolarStorm—

Everything he had—

forced into it.

From the outside world—

through him—

into the stretched mana—

into the breaking point itself.

The photons coursing through the strained Mana.

“Three steps—that was my limit—

You’ve made this possible—

Anfaleen”

Then—

The tension broke.

Nature recoiled.

Violent.

Absolute.

The stretched mana returned—

not flowing—

ripping.

The world followed it.

Heat.

Force.

Light.

All collapsing into a single direction—

Through Anfaleen.

Through the space.

Through the spirit world itself.

No explosion.

Only—

erasure in motion.

For a moment—

nothing resisted.

Then—

everything broke.

Hans remained—

for that moment.

Then—

what held him—

failed.

The green burned away.

Gone.

Nothing living remained on him.

Only char—

and the shape that refused to fall—

until it did.

He dropped.

No control.

No resistance.

The air rushed past—

cold—

distant—

unfelt.

Something flickered around his neck.

The artefact.

The blessing of the Wind.

It caught—

once.

A jolt.

His fall slowed—

—then broke.

He dropped again.

Another pulse—

weaker.

It tried to hold him.

Failed.

The rhythm collapsed.

Catch—

fall—

catch—

fall—

Each time—

shorter.

Each time—

later.

His body didn’t react.

Didn’t brace.

Didn’t prepare.

Char cracked along his arms—

fragments breaking away into the wind.

The ground rose.

Fast.

Too fast.

The artefact sparked—

one last time—

forcing a halt—

violent—

imperfect—

Then died.

And gravity finished it.

Impact.

Not loud.

Heavy.

Final.

He didn’t rise.

Zilong came to rescue—

—late his own battle unfinished.

There was a breath in Hans.

That relieved him—

Much more than his own recovering situation.

The sinister energy was dying.

He traced Anfaleen, not far.

Lying in on his own pool of blood.

Dried.

A damage that erased his all safety mechanism.

A damage that was far any could inflict.

He could feel.

There was not an ounce of mana left in the mage.

His circles no more.

He wasn’t a warlock—

He wasn’t even a mage right now.

Just the powerless he tormented—

Now he became one.

He said nothing, only looked.

And it was just a glance.

He transformed back—

Came close to check on Hans.

He reached—

Hans recoiled instantly.

No words.

Zilong looked the collapsing spirit world.

Whatever Hans pulled was killing the dimension.

Yet Hans kept darted his eyes on Anfaleen.

“Grab him.” He pointed.

Even standing on his own was painful.

Yet he did anyway.

The burn.

Alive.

The pain. It should not be expressed—

Not now—

Not in the battlefield.

He stood.

Cursing.

Wincing.

But he stood.

Pulling out a cloak that Reina gifted him.

A cloak, private enough that even Xandor can’t find who is inside.

He pulled the hood. And his presence changed.

He dragged himself—

Trying to rapidly heal—

Photonise—not working.

His pain suppressing only by OSIRIS fragment inside.

He moved.

He kept moving.

Until he reached Anfaleen.

“You were saying something before Warlock?”

Anfaleen strain his neck.

Trying to at least say things eye to eye to them.

Yet his head refused to rise.

He gave up.

But his mouth didn’t.

“I’ve lived a ife without a disruption—

There were occasions—but never the disruption.

He paused.

“My plans were perfect… leading towards my goal, every time—

Trial and error was never in my dictionary…

So why—

Who do you think you are to shake me like this?”

Hans stepped closer.

“Wha am I you ask?”

“Hansellidore Parv.”

A pause.

“The Parvian Prince.”

***