The three undead ascended into the air, moving toward the gathered race leaders.
They stopped several steps away from the race leaders.
Spartan was the first to speak.
"We should begin moving," he said calmly.
The elf did not respond imdiately.
Instead, she shook her head.
Her gaze shifted downward.
It lingered first on Michael.
The unconscious youth lay completely naked in Spartan's arms.
Then her eyes moved to Lily.
Then to Beginning.
Both undead giants were equally unclothed, their forms entirely unconcerned with modesty or concealnt.
Her gaze paused for half a breath longer on the lower half of Beginning's massive fra.
She said nothing. But sothing in her expression tightened.
Spartan followed her gaze, then looked back at her.
Seconds passed.
The elf finally realized sothing.
The undead were staring at her in confusion.
It took her a mont to understand why.
Undead did not care. They had no instinctive sense of sha or cultural attachnt to clothing.
Even Spartan, who wore robes, only did so because he was trying to maintain the scholarly image he had ford after reading certain notes.
Aside from this, he had no special thoughts about clothing.
The realization made the elf representative clear her throat. "...Clothing," she said.
Spartan blinked.
"Is it required for healing?" he asked.
The elf paused, then shook her head slowly.
"No," she admitted. "But it is required for entering another realm without causing unnecessary complications."
"Then provide clothing," he said simply. In any case, he could not do it himself, as he had no spare clothes. Even his own robe, which had survived the battle, was tattered in many places. Compared to the other two, however, he appeared dressed.
The elf nodded, lifting her hand.
Vines of pale green light unfurled from her sleeves, weaving rapidly in the air.
Within monts, the light solidified.
Simple garnts ford.
Loose robes for Spartan and Michael.
Dense, reinforced coverings for Lily and Beginning, ford from layered vines capable of stretching and reshaping to accommodate their size.
They were not elegant per se. But they were sufficient.
If Michael had seen this, he would have clicked his tongue in awe of how one could actually use the mysterious magic to make clothes.
It was oddly convenient.
The robes settled over the undead forms.
"Now," Spartan said, "we move."
The nodded as she turned to the races beside them, not excluding
the silver-haired Amazari elder.
"We will not leave yet."
This was essentially the answer from all of them.
And their reason was valid.
Before heading anywhere, they wanted to confirm their territories
were safe. They had been fighting for so long, and no one knew whether the enemy had done anything to those places in their
absence.
The elf understood them, as she planned to do the sa.
After all, to reach her ho realm, she first needed to pass through
the elven territory on the fifteenth floor of hell.
After speaking among themselves and carrying the corpses of their fallen comrades, the various races said nothing more as they
imdiately departed for their own territories.
The undead and the old man followed the elves to theirs.
Unlike so of the other floors of hell with their bizarre worlds, the fifteenth floor looked relatively normal. It appeared very untouched, more like a pristine forest world.
The elven territory lay within this floor. Since everyone in the group was rank 3, they reached their destination quickly, in just a couple of flashes using spatial teleportation.
The elven territory was a forest within the greater forest world of the fifteenth floor of hell.
Tall trees grew close together, their trunks straight and ancient-looking, their branches interwoven overhead to form a natural canopy that filtered the light rather than blocking it.
The forest floor was clean.
Paths of packed earth and flattened roots ran between the trees,
clearly walked often. Low shrubs and wild grass grew freely at the
edges.
The air beneath the canopy was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of
leaves, soil, and wood.
Elven dwellings were scattered throughout the forest, built with restraint and care.
So hos were set directly into the trees, shaped around living trunks, their wooden platforms supported by natural growth rather than cut beams. Others stood on the ground, modest wooden structures reinforced with stone at the base, blending into the surroundings instead of dominating them.
Bridges of wood and rope connected higher dwellings. There were no
towering walls or grand gates, only watch posts placed at natural vantage points, where elven guards stood quietly among the
branches, observing.
There were no signs of battle.
No scorched ground.
No broken structures.
No blood.
Everything was intact.
Orderly.
And calm.
The old man, standing beside the elf representative, scanned the
territory carefully before speaking.
"It seems the evildoers were only after the races gathered for the battle," he said. "They did not strike your territory."
The elf's gaze remained forward as she replied. "Or they were confident they could deal with this later."
No one responded after that.
Both turned their attention to the unconscious Michael in Spartan's
arms, odd expressions on their faces, before looking at each other
again.
A sudden disturbance rippled through the air above the forest. The elven guards in the branches reacted instantly, hands tightening on bows as a figure cut through the air between the trees.
Soone was coming.
Fast.
She moved with urgency until she felt a strange pressure.
Her body stiffened midair as her montum faltered. She stopped abruptly, hovering several dozen ters away, eyes
widening as a heavy, restrained aura brushed against her senses.
Rank Four.
Her gaze snapped toward its source.
The old man.
Then her eyes shifted again.
To Spartan and the two huge figures behind him.
To the unconscious human in his arms.
And finally, to the figures behind them.
Several elves were carrying bodies. So were wounded. So were
very still. The sll of blood followed them, faint but unmistakable.
The woman's breath caught.
Her lips trembled.
Tears welled up and spilled freely down her cheeks before she even
realized it.
She flew closer slowly, arriving beside the elf representative.
"Sister..."
Her voice broke as she spoke.
For the first ti since the battle, the tight control in her expression
cracked.
"Sister Lirien," she said quietly.
The two elves stared at each other for a heartbeat longer.
Then the woman took the elf representative's hand. "What happened?" Lirien asked, her voice trembling. "Why is there a
Rank Four here? Why are there wounded or dead brothers and sisters
brought in from every direction?"
She swallowed hard.
"Why do I feel so many lives missing?" The elf representative closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them again, her voice was steady, but the weight
behind it was undeniable.
"There was a battle," she said. "One we could not avoid."
Lirien's fists clenched at her sides.
"Who?"
"We'll talk about that later, but for now there is sothing else to deal
with. I need to take the youth back ho for healing," the elf representative said.
Lirien wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve and forced herself
to breathe.
Her gaze shifted once more to Michael.
"Who is he?" she asked softly.
Before anyone could answer, her eyes lingered on his pale face. She
stared for a few more seconds, a strange expression on her face,
before speaking again.
"Is this a half-elf?"
As she spoke, there was a hint of disdain in her voice.
If one understood elven culture, it was not hard to see why. Among the elves, such a reaction was not uncommon. In the wider universe, elves were known as a proud race. To
outsiders, that pride often appeared as grace, discipline, and an unyielding sense of tradition. But within elven society itself, that sa
pride cut far deeper and far sharper.
Blood mattered. Purity mattered.
To elves, lineage was not just heritage but identity. Their long lives,
slow births, and deep connection to nature had shaped a culture that
valued continuity above all else. Anything that disrupted that continuity was seen as a flaw. Half-elves were part of that disruption.
They were living reminders of dilution. Neither fully elf nor fully of another race, half-elves occupied an uncomfortable space that elven society never truly accepted. They aged faster. Their affinity with nature was inconsistent. Their mana patterns were unstable by elven standards. To many elves, these traits were proof enough that half-elves were incomplete beings.
Impure.
Half-elves were often barred from positions of authority, excluded
from sacred groves, and quietly pushed to the edges of elven settlents. Even when allowed to live among elves, they were
reminded constantly, through silence more than words, that they did
not truly belong.
And among more traditional factions, the re existence of a half-elf was considered a stain on elven dignity. That was why Lirien's voice carried that edge. That was why her eyes lingered on Michael with a mixture of scrutiny and discomfort.
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