Undead were split in two with each precise swing of Althirion's blade. He gave them no time to react, attacking with swift, merciless strikes. The other elves moved with similar grace and deadliness, their formation flowing like a single living organism through the dark. The first corridor they had tried led nowhere, completely submerged beneath ancient floodwaters. It appeared Thalion’s group faced the same fate, having already moved to the adjacent floor. From what Althirion could tell, both human forces were engaged in fierce combat. They had hoped their path would be easier, but reality had proven otherwise.

Through crumbling corridors and shattered chambers, they advanced. In some of the ruined palaces, entire floors had collapsed, exposing different levels like open wounds in the stone. The elves pressed forward, elegant and lethal, cutting down everything in their path. Their elite warriors led the charge, determined to bear the brunt of the fighting. Every fallen elf was a tragedy that could not be accepted. No one was left behind. Each time an elf was injured, the others rallied to cover them while healers worked quickly to restore their strength.

For Althirion, this type of battle felt almost refreshing. The endless squabbling between noble houses had vanished, replaced by unity in the face of a shared enemy. Yet he knew this peace was temporary. Once the war ended, the old hunger for power and influence would return stronger than ever. He had little patience for that game, perhaps because there was nothing left for him to gain. At the moment, he stood unchallenged atop the elven hierarchy.

Still, one thing troubled him. Elaria. Since the death of her son, she had changed. Power radiated from her, vast and unsettling. He could feel it even though she tried to hide it. That mystery bothered him. He too held back some of his strength, but what she concealed felt far greater. Something about it did not make sense.

Could grief alone have driven her to such growth? That seemed unlikely. She remained at level eighty, and her physical cultivation had progressed at a pace similar to his own. A hidden bloodline, perhaps? But he had observed her closely over the months, even during her hunts. She had fought powerful beasts and pushed herself to her limits, leaving no hint of such hidden strength. Bloodline evolution was slow, taking thousands of years to unfold. And even then, the changes were usually subtle. What she showed now was no minor increase. It was as if her strength had doubled.

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He wondered if a new title had been bestowed on her. Perhaps she was the last of her lineage after her son's death. That might unlock some ancient legacy. Yet if that were true, many others—especially among the humans—would have experienced similar changes. And still, Althirion had never seen such a transformation. He had not yet spoken with his patron, but he knew something unusual had happened to Elaria, and he was determined to find out what.

The undead beasts themselves were not the problem. They were being used as tools, their presence carefully orchestrated to slow the elven advance. Someone had herded them into the catacombs and was now releasing them in waves. Even with their overwhelming strength, the elves were struggling to move forward. The narrow corridors restricted their movements, forcing them to proceed with caution. Every time an elf was injured, they had to shift formation and fall back slightly. The endless pressure made progress excruciatingly slow.

The vampires, strangely, remained hidden. That concerned Althirion more than if they had attacked. So far, they had advanced only three hundred meters since encountering the undead. If the pillar stood in a similar position as in the last catacomb, they could still make it. But if it had been placed deeper, the chances of Ankhet's death would diminish with every moment.

"Send someone to the humans," Althirion commanded, his voice firm as it echoed through the corridor. "Ask them how they are holding up, and whether any elite warriors have started fighting them."

As he spoke, he drove his fist into the chest of a grey undead tiger, smashing it into the wall with a sickening crunch. If the elites had truly moved against the humans, then now was their chance. The elves would need to increase their pace. Reaching the pillar quickly might be their only hope.