“Hee-hahhh-hee-hahhh-hee-hahhh—”
Given Decem’s physical abilities, he should not be gasping for air after this short of a run, even at top speed. But he was badly out of breath. The cause: abject fear. And the emotional disruption was affecting his physical performance.
As he ran, he perked up his ears, trying to detect anyone following.
Nothing.
No one following him.
Had he gotten away?
No—Decem mentally shook that off.
He couldn’t get comfortable.
His pride as the strongest elf no longer mattered. He just had to get away.
Defeat was not the end. He knew there were elves outside the forest. He could go far from here, found a new kingdom. He had that kind of power—should still have it.
I won’t make the same mistake.
Grandchildren, great-grandchildren—he now had proof blood could awaken not just in his children’s generation. He had to be smarter this time.
Yes. This is neither failure nor my defeat. Merely a good experience. I will not waste it. I am no fool. Only a fool repeats the same mistakes!
Exactly.
First, he should have his children mate with dark elves. Or perhaps make children with dark elves himself?
No time right now. Need to get out via the most direct route. Or…perhaps I should grab food, at least.
He considered this as he ran.
Decem could normally teleport to the location of the elemental linked to him, but now that Behemoth was down, that wasn’t an option. Thus, he had to get away on his own two feet. That said, he could use magic to fly, so on foot wasn’t his only option.
Yes, Decem had magic.
Even if he grabbed no further supplies, with the magic items on his person right now, he could manage. At least until he reached civilization and could appropriate what he needed. With Decem’s strength, no one could possibly resist.
Certainly, he had just incurred a loss—a painful thing to admit—but those grandchildren’s strength was irregular. Achievable only because they had his blood, and the odds of anyone that strong living at his eventual destination were extremely low. But throwing his strength around would attract attention. If word of Decem’s presence spread, the undead his grandchildren controlled might come after him again.
But what did they want? Were they on that floor to access the treasury? If they’re just looters, they may not care if I live or die…
Perhaps a vain hope. He found it hard to believe what they’d said—or had their undead say—was true.
Perhaps my life was their primary goal.
He had to fear the worst. His life depended on it.
In which case, I really must go as far as I can and try not to stick out like a sore thumb. Avoiding all use of magic. In which case…food.
Druid spells could make fruit. The treasury contained a staff that could cast that six times every four hours. But Decem himself had not learned the spell. And he had not learned to survive in the forest. He knew he could defend himself against attacking beasts but as for acquiring anything edible—and properly cooking his kills—he’d be at a total loss.
I had basic provisions in my room. Fruit and spirits. I should grab those and then get through the woods without using magic, as fast as I can. Then rob anyone I meet, killing them so word does not reach my grandchildren’s ears. After that, I just get as far as I can. Oh, I should bring something of value. I’ve heard jewels or precious metals can be useful?
Panting, he at last made it to his chambers.
There should be several women within, but bringing them along would attract attention, and they would slow him down. He decided to just leave them behind.
Or perhaps just bring one or two?
He was a king, and while it displeased him to even consider it, he could carry them without much trouble.
A woman who can prepare food might be worth bringing. And there’s no telling when I’ll next meet an elf once I leave the forest. It would be a good idea to bring someone to make children with.
The pain had left him sweaty, so he wiped his brow and caught his breath. He did not wish to appear any less regal before the women.
There was still no sign of that undead on his heels, and he was still looking that way as he opened the door.
“Welcome home.”
A cheery woman’s voice.
Decem was instantly furious.
Women always abased themselves before him. Yet, she dared speak in such a tone? It felt like she was sneering at him for losing to his grandchildren. Yet, when he turned to the room, his anger dissipated.
It was red.
His entire chambers had been painted a new color.
Blood.
The stench of it was far beyond what that word implied alone. How had he not noticed from outside? The smell of his own blood must have bamboozled his nose.
The corpses of the women he’d left here were strewn around, and a new woman was seated on a chair in the center—she must have brought it herself.
He did not recognize her. She wore magnificent armor, her helm in one hand, a bizarre staff in the other. At the tip were three bloodstained blades, each curved. It was impossible for him to imagine what purpose it had been designed for just by looking at it.
He got the impression she was no elf. But she bore signs of the elven race, so perhaps she was one? And those eyes—
“Nice to meet you, Dad.”
She grinned.
That explained it.
“Ah. Ah. You’re those children’s mother.”
Her expression stiffened, but then she grinned again.
“Yep, I’m…their mom! Those wounds—they beat you, huh? They’re that good? How’d they do it? Fill me in, Dad.”
Decem opened his mouth and closed it again. She was trying to buy time, and he didn’t have any.
He turned on his heel to leave.
“Get back here!”
“Gah!”
A sharp pain on his legs and he hit the floor.
One of the blades from her bizarre staff had caught his feet, tripping him—and dragged him back into the room.
Fresh wounds, more blood. But nothing as bad as the gouge the undead had opened on his chest or the injuries to his feet as he fled.
Yet—he could not comprehend it.
They’d been a fair distance apart. Yet, this woman had been on him in a flash, snaring his legs. Like she—his child—was far faster than he.
He felt a weight on his back.
She’d put her foot on him.
“Kahhh!”
Decem couldn’t budge.
Was she really that much stronger than he was? Or was this some skill?
“That chest wound come from a blade? What’s with the legs? I heard you use an earth elemental, but where is it?”
A flurry of questions. Clearly confident.
Certainly, Decem was badly hurt. And he’d lost Behemoth. But that didn’t make him weak. His physical prowess was alive and well, and he could instantly kill most run-of-the-mill creatures with a single blow. He’d put all that strength into his flight, and though the pain slowed him a bit—she should not have been able to catch up.
He was forced to admit it.
This woman had more brute strength than he did.
But that begged the question.
He had no memory of any child this powerful. He turned his head, looking up at her.
“Wh-what do you want? Why do this to me?”
All he wanted to know. She laughed out loud.
“The strong can do whatever they want to the weak. Right?”
“Gah…hngg.”
This was true.
That was how Decem had lived.
“The morals of a wild beast. But they fit a savage dwelling in these uncivilized woods.”
“D-did the women here tell you?”
“…………Hahh.”
She let out a long sigh, like she was venting heat.
And then the pressure on his back started to build.
“Gugh…gah…”
It forced the air from his lungs.
“Are you gonna answer my question? Or did you forget them already? Are you going senile?”
“Garghhh…”
Decem could not endure the force she was using. His whole body creaked, and his lips flapped, desperate for air but unable to draw any.
She clicked her tongue and eased off, but not enough that he could scramble away. It was all he could do to gasp for air.
“What hurt you like this?”
Why…is this happening to me? Since my grandchildren…it’s all gone wrong! But why is she asking about the wounds? Does she not know what her kids did? Do those necromancers have more than one type of undead…? No, is this…something else?
One child, two grandchildren, all his equal—no, superior. Three all at once. Perhaps there was some other reason for this?
✦ ✦ ✦
✦ ✦ ✦
Oh! Those grand— I thought they were mine, but the bloodline could mean— Did my father? No! They’re my cousins?!
That seemed the most likely.
His father had been an elf hero, the finest sword fighter he had ever seen.
He’d been one of the Eight Kings of Avarice—an epithet that sounded more like an insult than an honorific, to be sure. The most likely explanation was that weaklings had tried to sully his deeds with that moniker.
Decem had inherited that exalted blood, though not his talent for fencing. Perhaps this woman had taken up the mantle.
“C’mon, I need you to start talking. If you don’t, I’ll just kill you!”
“Ahhh…ah…hurk!”
He couldn’t even insist he would talk if only she’d take her foot off him. He heard another crack inside and felt a sharp pain on his chest. Like he was being disemboweled. He stiffened up, his nails scrabbling at the floor involuntarily.
“……I thought I stopped feeling any pity for my mother long ago, but the thought of having trash like this rape a baby into her…how can I not sympathize?”
This was a whisper to herself—and her foot pressed down harder. Snap. Pop. Each horrid sound made the agony worse.
He felt blood rising up from his throat. He spit it out, and it trickled down the sides of his mouth.
Everything hurt.
Agony and pain.
Why was this happening to him?
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Decem used his last bit of strength, struggling. Fighting for any air. But he could not get away. All his efforts were useless before her power.
Death.
He was going to die.
He’d felt that not long before, but this was even worse.
He was scared.
Terrified.
He couldn’t bear this.
It was too much.
Why was this—?
“…You really piss me off. A piece of shit like you and I… Mother…”
Darkness—
Why—?
Tears fell.
Why is she being so cruel?
“You really, really!”
He couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t want to die—
Help—
Save—
His consciousness returned, but the pain was not gone, and he still could not breathe.
What?
What had happened?
“……The body’s inflating? Just give it up!”
Crack-crack-crack-crack.
The sound of bones breaking.
Ow—
What is—?
Happ—
And Decem was plunged into darkness once more.