Consternation.
No other word for it.
Behemoth was the most powerful elemental. A being that could dominate anyone. Even the most draining of their previous fights had never substantially dented its prodigious health.
And yet—
Here—
Never had he seen it take this much damage, teeter on death’s door.
“H-how…?!”
“Impressive. I struck the weakness, yet six blows were not enough. If I were specced further into offensive magic, could I have managed it?”
Still the voice was flat, betraying no emotion. It was like he was facing a completely different undead.
Wh-what is even happening?
The wave of confusion began to ebb—replaced with fear.
His earlier notion returned.
Was this undead actually stronger than him?
“Behemoth! Protect me!”
The elemental did as it was told. It moved to block the undead’s line of sight and began swinging its fist.
I have you now! Huh? What?!
Behemoth swung its other fist. This could only mean the first blow had not finished the undead off!
Two blows landed, yet he could see the undead standing there behind Behemoth.
Intact.
Those fists had crushed all foes yet could not budge this undead.
“Triplet Maximize Magic: Cacophonous Burst.”
And before his very eyes, the invincible great elemental—was reduced to so much soil.
An immense sense of loss.
Like something had been torn right out of his heart. Leaving a gaping hole behind.
“A tad overkill… I thought you might have a skill, so I don’t regret the choice. What do you say?”
“Eep!”
Impossible.
That elemental was all-powerful, his other half. It could never be defeated.
But it was no longer there.
What now?
What was he supposed to do?
What was this undead—?
“Don’t be so scared. Reality Slash.”
Incredible pain.
Pain the likes of which he’d never felt before.
“Ah…ahhh!” He looked down and saw blood gushing from his chest, staining clothes still wet from the rain. “Ow…owww!”
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
That singular thought pounded at the inside of his skull.
“I get that. Were I not in this body, the pain from that blow would have driven me mad. I suggest you surrender. I guarantee I will hurt you no more. Surrender and you will be saved.”
“Ah…ahhh…ahhhh…owww… Y-you mean that?”
Tears welling up from the sheer agony, Decem directed his question at his grandchildren.
They jumped, and the girl said, “Yes!”
“See? My mistress granted permission. Surrender your arms. Never fear—we’ll return them once we’re sure they’re not a threat. I promise. I tell no lies. I swear on my masters’ bond. Trust me.”
The undead’s voice was earnest, sincere. He almost believed it.
Ow.
Mercy of Shorea Robusta was likely healing his wounds a little, but the cut ran deep, and it did nothing for the pain.
For a moment, Decem considered surrender might be worth escaping this. But he had his pride.
He’d been king a long time, ruled this country. He could not beg younger dark elves for his life, even if they were his grandchildren.
Ow.
No magic left. Well, some, but using that to fight this undead? He could not imagine winning.
Should he try to close in?
No, he had no reason to be confident there. If that undead used a spell like that again, he’d be dead.
Ow.
Decem’s eyes turned to the stairs behind it.
No one there.
Then—
He ran. That was all.
It hurt.
He was scared.
In pain.
Shaking.
And yet, Decem ran.
The still-flowing blood was a sign his life was ebbing away.
Fear of death overwhelmed his mind. He had a magic item that resisted fear, but it did nothing for the emotions generated from within.
And so—the fear lent wind to his sails. His body did what his mind demanded. He ran faster than he ever had before.
The world sped past him. He was right on top of the undead.
“Stop! I will kill you!”
He ignored the warning. As he passed the undead, it cast a spell.
“Stop Time!”
No pain. No, perhaps there was—but running kept aggravating the deep gouge in his chest, and the torment of that overwhelmed him so much, he could feel nothing else.
So Decem ran on. The stairs were right before him.
The pain in his chest was astounding, but his feet never wavered.
“Aura!”
Had the undead cast something? If there was a spell, it did not affect Decem.
He kept running.
Once he reached the stairs—the ground below his feet exploded. Three times.
The shock lifted him, and he strained every muscle he had to keep himself upright, to avoid slowing down. His feet didn’t hurt much—or rather, the pain in his chest and the fear left him numb to anything else.
He heard the undead speaking behind him but could not care.
Decem leaped down the stairs.
No sounds of pursuit. As he started to relax, the pain in his feet caught up with him.
He almost shrieked but bit it back. Loud noises would be bad.
He glanced down and found his legs shredded. These fresh injuries had been caused by those explosions.
The sight of these injuries added to the pain.
Decem looked over his shoulder. He spotted a trail of blood in his wake. Even with no tracking abilities, they could easily follow him.
Ow.
He didn’t want to run.
But he had to. Else even more pain awaited him.
And—he did not want to die.
That alone forced his legs through the pain.
Why is this happening to me? Why did my grandchildren not help?
It made no sense.
Why would they not help the elf race?
Damn it!
He swore inside—saying anything aloud might give away his position—and ran off, shedding tears as he went.