CHAPTER 496: DARK ELVES (3)

Lindarion’s lips curved faintly but he didn’t respond. His senses were already spreading outward, mana threads extending into the mist like invisible roots. He could feel the hum of life below: not human, not elven, not even beast. The earth here remembered being alive.

Hours passed in the same steady rhythm, footsteps, fog, faint whispers of wind. Then, just as the sun sank behind the clouds, the ground changed.

The mist thinned slightly, revealing what looked like the remains of a colossal root, so large it split the landscape, a massive rib of stone and fossilized wood rising like a bridge across a shallow ravine.

"That," one of the commanders murmured, "can’t be natural."

"It’s not," Lindarion said. "We’re standing on what’s left of the First Root. The Tree of Origins, the one the gods tore apart when they remade the world after the First Epoch."

Ashwing whistled low. "So, this whole valley is basically... a grave?"

"A grave," Nysha said, "or a womb. Depending on which story you believe."

They crossed the root slowly. The air above it shimmered faintly, a distortion like heat haze even in the cold. Every few steps, the system in Lindarion’s mind flickered.

[Environmental fluctuation detected.]

[Residual Divine Energy — Type: Primordial / Fathen Lineage.]

[Warning: Mana distortion field increasing.]

The interference made his head throb faintly, but he pressed on. The valley beyond opened wide, flat plains broken by standing stones carved with runes that had not seen sunlight in millennia. Each stone pulsed faintly as they passed, as if acknowledging him.

Ashwing dropped lower, his tone unusually subdued. "You feel that, right? It’s like the world’s... watching again."

"Yes." Lindarion’s voice was quiet. "But this time it’s not hostile."

Nysha frowned. "Not hostile?"

He touched one of the stones as they passed. The runes glowed briefly under his fingers, flaring gold before fading again. "Recognition," he murmured. "These were placed here by the demi-humans of the second age. They tied them to the World Tree’s roots. I carry its resonance. To them, I’m..."

Ashwing finished for him. "A descendant."

Lindarion didn’t deny it. He simply continued forward, eyes scanning the growing darkness.

As the last of the daylight vanished, the mists parted enough to reveal what lay ahead. A vast basin stretched before them, circular, sunken, rimmed with broken pillars and collapsed statues. At its center stood a structure half-buried in stone and vine: a colossal gate formed of obsidian and gold, shaped like the petals of an enormous flower frozen mid-bloom.

The Gate of the Hollow Sun.

Even Nysha stopped walking. The human commanders muttered prayers under their breath. The gate radiated quiet power, not the violent, oppressive weight of Dythrael’s corruption, but something older, deeper, unbending.

Lindarion stepped to the edge of the basin. His system pulsed again.

[Unknown Structure Detected.]

[Designation: "Root Interface – Fathen Type"]

[Status: Dormant.]

[Key Signature Required: Root-Sigil of Tirnaeth.]

He drew the shard the Matriarch had given him from his belt. The runes carved into its surface pulsed faintly in answer. The moment he held it aloft, the gate shuddered. Lines of light began to spread across its surface, slowly, like veins waking from long sleep.

"Lindarion," Nysha said sharply, "are you sure this is wise? We don’t even know what’s beyond that thing."

"We don’t have the luxury of caution," he replied. "If the seal weakens here, it weakens everywhere. Whatever sleeps under this Vale, Dythrael will try to claim it first."

He stepped down into the basin. The air grew denser, the pull of mana stronger. Each breath burned faintly in his chest, like breathing through liquid fire. The shard in his hand grew hot until it nearly burned.

Ashwing’s voice wavered slightly. "Uh, just a thought, but maybe—"

Too late. The shard flashed blindingly white.

The gate’s petals began to open.

A deep, sonorous sound filled the air, half song, half lament, echoing through the bones of the valley. The earth trembled. Stones shifted. The ancient runes carved into the pillars around them flared to life one by one.

[Activation Sequence Detected.]

[Root Interface Online.]

[Warning: Accessing Subterranean Plane — "The Hollow Sun."]

Nysha took a step back, shielding her face from the light. "What is it doing!?"

"Opening the path," Lindarion said. His voice was calm, though the wind ripped at his cloak and hair, golden strands whipping through the growing storm.

And then the light collapsed inward.

The basin fell silent. The wind stopped. Everything hung weightless for a breath, before the world inverted.

The ground beneath their feet dissolved into shadow.

And the group fell into darkness.

The fall felt endless, like sinking through the roots of the world itself. There was no up or down, no air to scream into, only motion and the low, steady pulse of something vast and alive beneath them. Then, without impact, Lindarion stopped.

His boots met solid ground, soft as ash but warm beneath his feet. When he opened his eyes, there was light, gold and black at once, flickering like the dying breath of a sun. They stood not in a cave, but within an inverted sky. The Hollow Sun.

Above them, though here, "above" had no meaning, a massive sphere of molten gold floated in the darkness. Tendrils of energy drifted from it like the roots of a tree turned upside down, threading into the ground below. The terrain stretched in every direction, layered with stone terraces, glowing rivers, and titanic crystalline structures that resembled the veins of some long-slain god.

Ashwing hovered beside him, eyes wide, pupils contracting. "Okay. This is officially worse than the underground sanctum. Where even are we?"

Lindarion’s system flickered to life.

[Location: Subterranean Divine Plane — "Fathen’s Hollow."]

[Ambient Mana Density: 342% normal levels.]

[Stabilizing user field...]

The golden energy wrapping his body settled into calm equilibrium. He exhaled slowly, looking around.

Nysha landed a few paces behind him, one knee bent, her spear still clutched tight. "This isn’t natural," she said, her voice low and sharp. "This is a forged world."

Lindarion nodded. "Forged, and buried."

He started forward. Each step triggered faint ripples of light across the obsidian ground, illuminating faint glyphs underfoot. They formed lines that stretched toward the heart of the Hollow, converging at the base of a distant structure, a tower, tall as a mountain, suspended upside down from the molten sphere.

"That’s our destination," he murmured.

Ashwing tilted his head. "You’re sure?"

"No," Lindarion said. "But it’s calling."