CHAPTER 461: DRACONIC

Draconic.

He frowned. That meant whatever this was, it wasn’t the work of demons or of Dythrael’s kin, it was something native, something that had once belonged to the land itself.

The voice spoke again, this time from within the sphere. "You reek of the Old Flame. Of blood not your own."

Lindarion’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. "Then you know who I am."

"A thief of breath. A half-formed heir of storms." The voice deepened, resonant enough to shake the roots. "You should not exist."

"Yet here I stand."

The mist convulsed suddenly, tendrils of blackness lashing outward. Lindarion cut through them before they touched him, golden light searing the darkness to ash. The forest howled around him, branches thrashing, the air twisting in protest.

Each strike of his blade sent ripples through the air, mana bursts strong enough to make the ground quake. He wasn’t fighting a creature. He was fighting the infection of the world itself.

Ashwing’s voice returned, faint but urgent.

’Lindarion! The trees are going wild! Whatever you’re doing—’

’Then hold the line!’

he snapped silently, and drove his sword into the earth.

The world exploded in light. Golden arcs spread outward, piercing through the black mist. The roots screamed, a thousand voices wailing at once, and then silence.

When the light dimmed, Lindarion stood within the hollow chamber, breath slow but steady. The core floated before him still, but its blackness had lessened, the gold veins brighter, steady now like a pulse rediscovered.

He reached forward, touching it with his fingertips. The moment his skin brushed the surface, the [System] stirred.

[World Fragment assimilated.]

[New Function Unlocked: Sanctify. Allows purification of corrupted mana at cost of user’s core energy.]

[Warning: Extended use will destabilize core integrity.]

Lindarion withdrew his hand, the core’s glow softening in response. The forest above seemed to exhale, the oppressive weight lifting slightly, the roots no longer writhing.

He looked up. Sunlight trickled faintly through the cracks in the canopy.

Nysha’s voice cut through the distant haze, faint but frantic. "Lindarion! Are you alive?"

He turned toward the sound, stepping out of the hollow. His cloak was torn, streaked with shadow, but his eyes gleamed like molten light. "Still breathing," he called back.

When he emerged from the darkness, the soldiers froze. The air around him shimmered faintly with golden motes, drifting from his armor like embers. Wherever he stepped, the corruption receded.

Ashwing swooped low overhead, landing beside him in his smaller form, tail twitching. "You know," he said, voice hushed but awed, "you really shouldn’t look that cool after nearly dying."

Lindarion smirked faintly. "Nearly?"

"Fine, definitely. You were glowing. That’s usually a bad sign."

Nysha approached cautiously, her expression a mix of irritation and relief. "Next time," she said flatly, "you tell someone before walking into hell."

"I’ll consider it."

"I doubt that."

He didn’t deny it. His attention shifted instead to the now-calm forest. The rot still lingered in patches, but it no longer spread. For now, the corruption had been stopped.

But his core... it thrummed differently now, deeper, heavier. The new function lay within him like a heartbeat not entirely his own. He could feel the [Sanctify] skill pulsing quietly beneath his ribs, waiting.

Ashwing tilted his head, studying him. "You’re stronger again."

"Stronger," Lindarion murmured, "and closer to something I don’t yet understand."

He turned his gaze toward the southern horizon, where the corruption had first begun. "Whatever caused this wasn’t just rot. It was a message."

Nysha frowned. "A message from what?"

"From whatever sleeps beneath the old roots," Lindarion said softly. "And if it can reach even Lorienya’s heart, then Dythrael’s shadow is already stirring faster than we thought."

The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of ash and ozone.

Ashwing’s tail flicked. "So... we’re heading south again, huh?"

Lindarion’s expression hardened. "Yes. But this time, we won’t wait for the darkness to come to us."

The elves behind him bowed silently as he passed, none daring to speak. In their eyes, he was no longer just the prince of Eldorath. He was something else, something born between light and storm.

And as the forest closed behind him, golden motes continued to fall where he walked, like fragments of dawn refusing to fade.

Morning came muted, the light subdued beneath the canopy. Dew clung to the silver-green leaves, catching the faint gleam of sunrise that filtered down through the boughs.

Yet the air, normally crisp and full of song, hung still. Watchful.

Lindarion stood at the edge of the Lorienyan terrace, cloak drawn close, staring southward where the horizon dissolved into mist.

The corruption he had purified had left the forest quieter than usual, as if the land itself was catching its breath.

Behind him, camp preparations murmured like a distant stream: soldiers tightening armor, mages packing rune-crystals into leather satchels, scouts whispering prayers to the World Tree before departure.

Nysha approached without sound. Even her shadows seemed subdued in the solemn morning. "They’re ready," she said quietly.

Lindarion nodded once. "Good. The sooner we move, the better."

"You’re not going to rest, are you?"

His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. "I rested enough when I was buried in the dark."

Ashwing, perched on a nearby railing in his smaller form, chirped lazily. "He says that, but he hasn’t eaten either. Or slept. Or done anything that normal people do."

Nysha shot the dragon a look. "He’s not normal people."

"Yeah, I noticed."

Lindarion turned then, golden eyes glinting faintly under his white hair. "The scouts said the southern ridges have gone silent?"

Nysha’s tone grew grim. "No birds, no mana beasts, no flow. Just emptiness."

"That’s not silence," Lindarion murmured. "That’s fear."

He turned to the gathered soldiers, Lorienyan and human alike, a strange alliance forged by shared desperation.

The commanders waited at the front: Vareth, the human with the scarred brow; Elwen, the elven ranger who had guided their first approach; and Thalan, staff in hand, still bearing faint bruises from their sparring match but with eyes full of pride.