CHAPTER 271: CONFRONTATION, UPHEAVAL, AND KIN

At the border of the dwarven kingdom, in the Ironforge Bastion where the elves were encamped, Gewen sat alone in a wooden hut, his gaze fixed on the emerald leaf in his hands. Upon its glossy surface, faint words shimmered into view—etched not by ink, but by life itself. His brows furrowed, the weight of what he read settling into his expression like a shadow.

"The elves' perception of the dwarves has been distorted. Our allies, under the influence of devils, have become objects of suspicion and disdain. Gewen, you appear to be the most affected—both due to your disposition and the unusually high concentration of corruption around you."

This was a one-time communication sent through a leaf from the Tree of Life, taking advantage of the sacred link between leaf and tree.

"That baseless hostility and paranoia I felt toward the dwarves... My thoughts were twisted by a devil's power.

"I became obsessed, convinced that the dwarves were the ones responsible for the Tree's ailments. That's why I insisted on coming here personally. They wanted me out of the way... but why me, of all people?"

Gewen laced his fingers beneath his chin, deep in contemplation. Of all the elven elders, he was among the least powerful. There was no strategic reason to isolate him.

"There's no way to return now. Still, Liaheim should be able to withstand any threat. I can only hope that all is well."

He sighed heavily. If it were possible, he would have returned at once, but he was simply too far away to return in time.

A knock broke the silence. Gewen turned and lifted a hand. Vines curled back like obedient serpents as the door opened to reveal a stocky figure crowned with a thick, rust-colored beard—Tobey Bronzebeard.

"I heard you folks ran into some trouble. Thought I'd come see for myself," Tobey said in his usual gruff tone, as though nothing had passed between them.

"I owe you an apology," Gewen replied solemnly. "My behavior was inexcusable. I believe I was corrupted by infernal influence."

He meant every word of his apology. Elven pride might have left Gewen aloof and stand-offish, but it also meant that he would own up to his mistakes.

"No need for apologies." Tobey waved it off. "If devils were involved, then that's who we should blame. What I want to know is what they were after. Liaheim? If that's their target, then as your allies, we'll stand with you."

The dwarf dismissed the apology and cut to the chase.

Dwarves tended to be direct, earnest, and fiercely loyal. They would never hold the elves' behavior against them, not if devils were to blame.

Devils and dwarves had a long-standing enmity, after all—a devil had been behind the infamous theft of the dwarven king's legendary hammer during its rite of succession.

Dwarves were generous with friends but also remembered every slight and grudge. Most kept a little notebook in which they recorded any such incidents—and they would always take the opportunity to settle the score.

"We've received reports of a massive worm called the World-Eater," Gewen said, tapping his temple. "That's all we know for now."

Now that the effects of the distortion were fading, he was belatedly recalling what staunch allies the dwarves were. The elves would never have worked with them despite their stubbornness otherwise.

"Hah! Then this is perfect," Tobey grinned. "Our Iron King Bogul could use a challenge. Don't be fooled by his bulk—he's faster than he looks."

Gewen raised a brow, both grateful and confused. "Isn't the Iron King... sacred to your people? Are you really willing to deploy him so readily?"

"A miracle that happens once is a treasure," Tobey said, voice rumbling with pride. "A miracle that can be replicated is true power. We need data. The Iron King wasn't made to sit in a museum. He was made to fight."

Far into the distance, a line of black appeared in the sky, steadily growing as it advanced. Around it, countless specks fluttered in unnatural motion. The elves knew then that the enemy had arrived.

The stench of decay and withering lifeforce reached them before the beast itself. A paradoxical vitality pulsed through the air. The World-Eater was like a gluttonous parasite bloated on stolen strength—yet barely having digested any of it.

At the edge of the Forest of Origin, the war-trees shuddered as they bore alchemical cannons on behalf of the elves. Their leaves rasped against one another as they twisted uncomfortably, recoiling from the foul presence of the World-Eater.

"Easy, friend," murmured a druid standing atop one tree's crown. A shimmer of green magic spread from his hands, calming the agitated giant. "Once we blast it out of the sky, that stench will vanish. Stay focused. Steady your roots."

The war-tree settled, adjusting the immense alchemical cannon mounted on its shoulders. Around it, other trees followed suit as they aimed in unison.

"It's a behemoth," said the elven commander, watching through a scrying array. "Pull the rangers behind the cannon line. Their arrows won't do much. Have them handle the spawn that break through."

The forest stirred. Rangers retreated into the gaps between the war-trees, bows drawn, arrows nocked. They waited for the World-Eater to come within range.

A deep tremor rose from within the forest. Vines burst from the earth, clearing the way for something below.

A bright green crystalline shard broke through the surface. Magic pulsed within it, resonating with the spire of vines beneath.

All around the elves, more spires erupted, forming a ring around the forest's heart. These crystal spires were the outermost nodes of the elves' great web of enchantment, the maze-locks. They formed the first layer of defense against external incursion, akin to the skin of the human body.

And though this was "only" the outer layer of defense, the crystal spires boasted formidable power. Under the command of elven magicians, they could unleash torrents of arcane energy that obliterated anything short of legends.

"Crystal offensive arrays are ready. Target will be bombarded once within range—power will escalate with sustained lock."

Floating beside one spire, a magician relayed the status of the defenses. The elves' outermost defense against the World-Eater was now fully primed.

This was a mere probe to test the World-Eater's strength, but it was already nothing short of cataclysmic.

The World-Eater came fast, its full strength driving its vast body through the air. As it closed in on the Forest of Origin, its limbs slowed, and its motion grew deliberate.

From its bloated form, flying spawn scattered in all directions. Maddened and ravenous, they streaked toward the forest.

Drawn by the vitality below, they had been tasked with harvesting it before returning to their progenitor—but they were greedy, and that greed overrode even instinct.

The sky darkened. A swarm of corrupted spawn plummeted toward the forest like a blighted storm, blotting out the sun.

"Cannon fire—every fifth cannon. Disperse the swarm. Let the rangers handle the rest."

The elven commander calmly gave an order. The elven druids obeyed at once, channeling natural energy into the war-trees' enormous weapons.

The cannons roared. The recoil dragged the massive trees backward, gouging trenches in the earth. Every fifth cannons fired in rhythm, shaking the world with scorching firelight and thunderous noise.

The dwarves' craftsmanship was impeccable. Even the alchemical fuel was the highest grade possible. The shells burned red-hot, magic fluctuating chaotically within—but mostly, they burned with raw, violent energy.

The swarm shrieked, their ringed maws opened wide—then blazing shells plowed through the air and exploded within the horde, lighting up the heavens in a cascade of destruction.

All at once, the timed detonations triggered, merging into one vast eruption that set the sky ablaze and drove back the creeping darkness.

Against the war-trees' artillery, the chitinous armor of the lesser spawn had no effect whatsoever. Those nearest the blast were simply vaporized, their rotting bodies and the corruption within them reduced to scorched dregs beneath the fury of raw heat.

Even death didn't end them—some liquefied into foul sludge that drank in the life force of anything it touched.

A few of the corrupted spawn, those unfortunate survivors of the aerial bombardment, plunged downward with reckless abandon.

Where their sludge-like remains touched the ground, life was consumed with terrifying speed. Grass, stone, bark, and root—all withered and died. The sludge writhed, pulsing as it began to gestate new aberrations of rot and ruin.

Spheres of emerald light hurtled down from the sky and burst against the seething muck, annihilating the monstrous offspring. Crystalline plants bloomed in translucent green. Luminous motes drifted outward from their blossoms, returning the stolen life force to the wounded land.

That attack had come from the elven druids perched on the shoulders of the war-trees. As guardians of nature, they would not permit the World-Eater to harvest the world's vitality while they stood idle. They had fought such aberrations of overgrowth and corruption before, and they knew what to do.

Arrows blazing with light and wreathed in fighting spirit ripped through the sky.

The elven rangers embedded among the war-trees' artillery formations had been waiting for just this moment to pick off the stragglers who had evaded the cannon fire.

Not every ranger was a master archer, but poor archers made for poor rangers—unless they used cannons, of course.

Stationed in disciplined formations, these rangers were marksmen of the highest order. Their arrows rained upward in a reversed storm, each shot piercing and felling a corrupted worm with unerring precision.

Within the creatures' bodies, the arrowheads detonated with the power of fighting spirit and the words of nature, ripping through their vital cores and leaving nothing but carcasses too broken to reanimate.

The first wave of corrupted spawn had been dealt with decisively. But above, the World-Eater, that great airborne worm, continued to approach the Forest of Origin.

Its titanic, rotting eye swept over the forest below, unblinking and filled with naked hunger. It saw its prey. It saw a forest brimming with life force—a veritable feast.

And then, it exploded. The cannons didn't care about size—the spawn and their progenitor were all alike to them.

Moments earlier, only a fifth of the elves' overwhelming artillery had fired. Now, all the cannons unleashed a devastating salvo together.

The creature's massive frame proved a liability—it offered a target so vast that the elves barely needed to aim. A slight adjustment of the cannons was all it took to get the beast into range.

Hundreds of alchemical shells surged skyward. Some struck the World-Eater directly, tearing through its armored hide and detonating within, spraying foul flesh and carapace like fetid confetti.

Others burst nearby, their concussive shockwaves and blistering heat scouring its exterior, peeling back its shell, and searing everything they touched.

When the bombardment ceased, the elves saw a creature torn and ravaged. Gaping wounds marred its flesh, and viscous fluid oozed from its body in putrid rivulets.

"Unexpectedly frail defenses... Keep firing. Grind it into pulp."

The commander's tone was laced with suspicion. Even a grand knight would have been slain by a single blast of such power, but he had anticipated that a creature as large as the World-Eater to have commensurate defenses—a legend's, at the very least.

That said, he certainly wasn't about to look a gift horse in the eye.

Then came a guttural gurgle. Deep within the beast, some ancient organ awakened in response to the grievous damage it had sustained.

Within a space known only to the World-Eater—akin to the pocket realms in which dragons stored their colossal bodies—a reservoir of life force stirred, accumulated over decades. A fissure opened, and a sliver of that energy spilled forth.

Before the elves' eyes, the World-Eater began to regenerate. Its wounds sealed shut. Flesh bubbled and reknit. Eyes regrew. Like a grotesque sculpture forming layer by layer, the entire monstrosity reformed in under half a minute.

"So that's why your defenses are so thin—you rely on this obscene regeneration of yours... but that won't be enough."

Indeed, the creature's regenerative ability was terrifying. The elves' artillery recharged only once every two minutes. Unless they staggered their cannon fire, they could never hope to overcome its recovery.

Fortunately, the elves did not rely on artillery alone. Even if the World-Eater could regenerate at an incredible rate, as long as the elves could deal damage faster, they would be able to overcome its insignificant defenses and take it down outright.

"Crystal spires, fire."

A harmonic hum erupted across the battlefield. The towering crystal spires began to resonate with power. Energy surged up from the buried leylines through their base and poured into the crystals, which then released blinding white beams skyward.

The beams struck the World-Eater like lightning. Its newly regrown armor plates shattered and melted. The beams drilled into its body, disintegrating its insides.

As the crystals continued to draw upon the deep magical foundations of Liaheim, their beams thickened, shifted beyond visible light, and transformed into pure, unseen waves of destruction. To the naked eye, it was as if the worm was being shredded by an invisible blade.

Its monstrous form was torn open, again and again, grievous wounds yawning across its body. The beams came from every spire, each unleashing its full destructive might.

And yet the World-Eater endured.

Its inner organs once again poured out torrents of life force, bathing its form in ceaseless renewal. Unholy restoration clashed with divine destruction in a delicate balance. The worm pressed forward, heading inexorably toward Liaheim.

"Fire!"

Balance, however, was a fragile thing. A second wave of artillery struck. Blazing shells tore through the smoke as the crystal beams continued their assault without pause.

The joint barrage shattered the equilibrium. By the time the smoke finally cleared, the World-Eater was no longer flying. Its battered body tumbled earthward as it crashed into the Forest of Origin. Its limbs twitched no more; it had lost all mobility.

"Keep firing! Leave it no chance to recover!"

The elven commander would not be fooled. This enemy, though weaker than expected, would not be granted even a moment's reprieve.

"Tut-tut... Such cruelty toward your brother. Weren't you all born of the same mother? Isn't fratricide a little unbecoming?"

A voice echoed from within the void—a devil's voice, smooth and amused, watching the battle unfold through a screen of shadow. "I've just spent the last of my distortion to influence the Tree of Life. Had it still been the ancient World Tree of old, not even the last spark of my strength would have sufficed.

"But now, with the World Tree fractured into three, and the high elves having merged with it completely... What a wonderful opportunity."

The devil's smile widened. "So, dear Mother... why not rein in your precious children, before they murder their little brother?"

The elves were the children of the Tree of Life—and so, in a way, was the World-Eater. Fed by its life force for decades, it had been born from her roots.

They were siblings.

And a mother who truly loved her children would never allow one to kill the other.

A subtle force stirred. It rippled through the invisible thread that bound all elves to the Tree. And into their souls, it delivered... a command.

"Fire!"

The commander's voice rang out once more—but this time, no response came. The elves found themselves paralyzed. The druids could not command the war-trees to fire. The magicians standing beside the crystal spires simply... stopped.

Without warning, the battlefield fell into an unnatural silence.