Thalion found himself enjoying the duel more than expected. There was a primal thrill in testing his strength against the vampiress, even as a gnawing suspicion lingered—she was holding something back. A hidden trick. A last resort. Until she revealed it, he would continue to sear her.

He had discovered how to concentrate the flames around her, raising the temperature to unbearable levels. Her skin now blistered and charred, her regenerative powers struggling to keep pace. Thalion, ever the tactician, had already deciphered most of her techniques. He used this knowledge with surgical efficiency, positioning himself so that any blocked strike would land on one of her own minions. It was a simple tactic, but devastating. She, meanwhile, struggled to see through the thick veil of crimson fire—something he realized when she accidentally skewered four of her vampires with a flurry of blood thorns meant for him.

He didn’t need to strike anymore. His energy shifted to dodging and fueling the inferno. Occasionally, he would sneak in a quick jab or a sharp kick. The more enraged she became, the sloppier her responses. Still, Thalion couldn’t help but wonder how much mana she was burning through. Between rapid healing and power enhancements, her reserves had to be dwindling fast.

To conserve his own strength, he’d already withdrawn his support from the peripheral flames throughout the chamber. There was no reason to waste mana. He wanted to ensure he had enough left to use his bloodline ability not once, but more than once, if needed. And something told him he would need it. Through his battle-honed instincts and the eerie awareness granted by his title, he sensed the vampiress was building toward something devastating. A last stand. A final weapon. His danger sense flared steadily, like a rising storm on the horizon.

He had even ceased attacking the vampires caught outside the fire. Every ounce of his energy had to be preserved for what was coming. And it would be big.

--

Althirion, by contrast, was not waiting. He had descended into pure, unrelenting fury. Tunnel vision narrowed his world to one target: the abomination that wore his prince’s body. His thoughts were simple now, destroy the undead filth. Tear him apart. Nothing else mattered.

Elias, the lich who had defiled the prince, was toying with him. He didn’t fight to kill, only to dodge, effortlessly avoiding every swing with a trifecta of movement abilities. He blinked through shadows, dissolved into clouds of toxic miasma, or vanished with bursts of sudden acceleration. All the while, he mocked.

“I remember the peace,” Elias said, voice rich with venom. “So quiet. So dull. You should’ve heard how your dear prince screamed as I carved the runes into his flesh. Breaking him? Easy. Devouring his soul? A delight.”

His laughter echoed across the battlefield like a drumbeat of humiliation. Every elf who heard it felt their blood boil. To have one of their own desecrated in such a way, it was unforgivable. They surged forward, abandoning caution, unity, and discipline. Rage replaced strategy. They fought harder, faster, but also dumber.

And that was exactly what Elias wanted.

The elves, normally precise and cooperative, were now charging like wild beasts, exposing themselves to ambush. From the shadows, Lucius struck. A phantom of death, he slipped from the darkness, silenced a life, and vanished again. None suspected. All were too blinded by vengeance to notice.

Meanwhile, the ritual was advancing.

The pillar in the chamber’s center now pulsed with dark energy. Runes along the skull at its summit glowed, then blackened, veins of raw power spreading through the stone like ink in water. The entire structure hummed with dark resonance. If Elias’s timing was correct, they were only minutes, perhaps moments, from completion.

The elves were far too scattered to stop it in time.

“You know,” Elias continued, turning back to Althirion with a wicked grin, “I might not have destroyed his soul entirely. It’s still with me—bound like a pet, a battery, feeding my strength. You could still join him, you know. Just give up.”

He launched a spear of concentrated miasma toward a cluster of younger elves. It struck with explosive force, crashing against one of their shields before detonating in a burst of green-black light. Bodies flew through the air, some limp, some screaming. Shields shattered, armor torn, the floor slick with blood.

And still, Elias laughed.

The pillar continued to hum. The ritual marched on.

Hearing Elias’s cruel mockery and witnessing their kin fall in battle drove the elves into a frenzy. Cries of anguish and fury tore through the battlefield as they hurled themselves at the vampires with reckless abandon. Fearless, they screamed, charged, and struck without regard for their own lives. Elias merely had to dodge, weaving through the chaos with calculated ease. Althirion, despite his fervor, was too crude, too predictable to pose a true threat, not against Elias’s new body, and certainly not against the power of the elven bloodline now flowing through him.

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What surprised Elias most was the strength of that very bloodline. It elevated every one of his abilities to a level he hadn’t anticipated. His spells struck harder, his reflexes sharpened, and even his endurance had grown. He had to hold back just to avoid standing out too much. So far, the elves considered him a threat only their council leaders could face. That perception was useful. Letting them rage and fall into disarray was far more effective than confronting their commanders head-on, at least for now.

Elias was confident he could kill the elf charging him, but doing so would undoubtedly trigger the others to retaliate. And he wasn’t sure how long their uneasy alliance with the other undead would last after this "tutorial." Just because they were undead didn’t mean they wouldn’t turn on each other. In fact, the only thing that had kept them united was the looming fear that the living races might band together to exterminate them. On the new world, only humans, elves, and orcs would remain. If these factions couldn’t even cooperate during a cataclysm like Ankhet’s awakening, there was little hope of unity on a planet with no shared threat.

Althirion gave everything he had, hurling his body forward with reckless abandon in his attempt to destroy the prince’s corrupted body. He wasn’t sure if the elven royals would allow him to live if they ever discovered what had become of their prince. If the lich survived, Althirion’s fate was sealed. That certainty pushed him past his limits. His muscles swelled, veins bulging with power, and the air around him shimmered with vibrating pressure, like a war drum being struck in a thunderous rhythm. Each swing of his blade came with the intent to end the battle in a single, decisive blow. But Elias was always one step ahead, fading out of reach and retaliating with waves of cold, grey miasma that blasted Althirion backward.

Explosions erupted across the battlefield as the undead clashed with the elves. Magic roared, steel clashed, and cries of the dying echoed through the smoke-choked air. Fighters fell on both sides, but the vampires had numbers. With losses roughly equal, it was a battle of attrition and in that arena, the undead were winning. The elves had lost formation. In their fury, they’d devolved into one-on-one duels, where vampire magic and blood-fueled powers gave them a cruel advantage. While elves bled and died, the vampires used their fallen foes as fuel, healing themselves and casting spells with borrowed strength.

Althirion saw nothing of this. He was still lost in the crimson haze of rage. But others on the council, those not facing such overwhelming opponents, began to see the larger picture. “Regroup!” shouted Vaelinor, his voice amplified with mana and cutting through the chaos like a bell toll. A master of plant magic and one of the council’s four leaders, he had taken on a supporting role during the battle watching, analyzing, guiding. His warning was the first true wake-up call. Scattered elves looked around for the first time, realizing how badly the battle had turned.

Others began to shout, echoing Vaelinor’s call. Slowly, then quickly, the elves began to retreat and reform. The vampires fought to prevent it, unleashing barrages of fire and blood magic to scatter them again, but it was too late. Discipline reasserted itself. The elves regrouped into tight squads, their coordination returning like muscle memory. The undead struck harder, hoping to break them again, but they held. The other council members, except for Althirion, fell back to the front lines, shielding the weaker fighters and coordinating the resistance.

Elaria, her rapier flashing like a streak of silver lightning, became the spearhead of the counterattack. She danced through the battlefield with breathtaking precision, her strikes too fast to follow. Vampire after vampire fell to her blade as she weaved through them with barely a scratch. Her presence alone reinvigorated the elven lines. The tide of the battle began to shift. Now they fought as one. When one elf was wounded, another covered their retreat. The vampires, once dominant, now found themselves losing ground. Slowly, but undeniably.

Elias watched it unfold, his satisfaction fading. The elves were adapting faster than expected. If they continued at this pace, they might reach the final pillar in time to stop the ritual. That could not be allowed. There was no more room for restraint. The liches and high-ranking vampires exchanged silent understanding. The moment had come. They would unleash everything.

None of the undead were eager to die, but their greed was stronger than their fear. Ankhet’s favor would be worth any risk. Rewards for loyalty—especially at this critical hour—could mean unimaginable power in the new world. Dark energy exploded outward from several undead. The battlefield trembled under the sudden surge. But all of it paled in comparison to what Elias released.

The air twisted violently around him as he dropped the final seals on his aura. Space itself seemed to bend, recoiling from his presence. Nearby warriors—both friend and foe—were flung backward by the sheer force of his release. Althirion staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The battlefield fell briefly silent, stunned by the overwhelming force of Elias’s true power.

Elias grinned.

The look on their faces, the awe, the fear, was worth it. “Yes,” he thought. “This should be enough.”

But then another power flared bright.

An aura even stronger than his own surged across the battlefield, forcing Elias’s presence to retreat. He turned to face its source, and there she stood.

The elven woman with the rapier. Her blonde hair whipped in the mana-charged wind, and her golden eyes locked onto him with burning resolve. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t flinch.

“Wasn’t the big guy supposed to be their leader?” Elias muttered, eyes narrowing.

His grin faded.

Things were about to get far more complicated.