Chapter 112: The Elven Queen's Last Hope

Wielding power that wasn't yours always exacted a price.

Not even gods could be exempt. The God of Liches, Valarun, had become a deity only by accepting a gift from the Lord of Storms—and even he could not endure the resulting cost. In the end, he had fled.

How could mere mortals, without the tempering of long centuries, hope to command legendary strength?

Catherine had used her own legendary boon to forcibly elevate others. Half the elves had gained power through her hand—and with it, inevitably, came mana addiction.

The power, which had been fused with their bloodlines, could not be excised. It was used subconsciously in daily life; and with each use, the addiction deepened. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if the elves were short-lived. With enough caution, they might have easily died of old age before the addiction fully manifested.

But elves were a long-lived race.

By conservative estimates, even if they vigilantly prevented themselves from using that power, their mana addiction would still reach a critical peak around the age of three hundred.

At first, they would feel nothing more than increased appetite. Ordinary food would no longer produced a sense of satiety; they would need food or drink imbued with magic. Certain invigorating beverages, for example.

Then, as the addiction worsened, they wouldn't be able to do without such beverages at all. Without them, their minds would grow sluggish, their bodies beset by all manner of discomfort.

And as the condition worsened, their mana would begin to drain rapidly even when they were lying still. At that point, they would have to consume alchemical potions as if they were meals—yet nothing could fill their ever-expanding void by then.

The sensation of being drained of mana drove elves mad. It was no mere physical torment; even their souls began to warp. Normal emotions blurred and faded, leaving only violence and cruelty, as though they sought to transfer their suffering onto others in order to ease their own pain.

Dozens of elves had already begun to show the aftereffects of mana addiction, an ominous sign that the first great wave of catastrophe was imminent.

If the elves did nothing, the addiction would ultimately plunge the race into extinction.

To solve this, Catherine had once turned to prolonged prayer, hoping for guidance from the gods. What the elven gods proposed, however, left her shaken to the core.

They had told her to abandon those already infected and to preserve those not yet afflicted. A quarantine.

Catherine could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

On the surface, it sounded reasonable. But the gods' proposal meant sacrificing fully half of the elven population.

She could not accept this outcome. She could not understand why the gods who had always cherished the elves would make such a cruel decision.

Risking blasphemy, she pressed them further, but only received a question in reply. "What possessed you to do such a thing in the first place? Was there some existential crisis so great that you had to forcibly implant legendary strength into half the population?"

That question left Catherine speechless.

The elves had faced no internal strife or external peril. Catherine herself had lost the restraint she should have maintained upon receiving such a powerful boon.

If in her reign every elf might possess legendary strength, she would have been the greatest queen in elven history.

She could not resist that temptation, and had committed this catastrophic error as a result.

The elven gods had never abandoned their chosen. They lavished blessings upon them, making them the most gifted of races while teaching them patience, kindness, and restraint.

For countless years, the elves had lived apart from worldly conflict. No matter how other kingdoms rose and fell, even during the age when demonic dragons ruled, sufficient respect was always shown to the elves.

This was the protection granted by the elven gods: external dangers had never posed a true threat.

Instead, the threat had come from within.

Perhaps only an ugly scar could teach the race a lasting lesson and force it to truly mature. Losing half their population would be a grievous wound for the elves, but the race would one day flourish again if they took this lesson to heart.

The elven gods cherished the elven race as a whole, rather than any one particular generation.

For a civilization to advance, it had to be capable of correcting its own errors.

It might have seemed cruel, but in the eyes of the gods, the elven race had, and always would endure. Birth and death were interwoven. The elves of the present were long removed from the first elves; the number of those who had died across history far exceeded the living many times over.

Death was insignificant. If it could realign the course of elven civilization, such sacrifices were, to the gods, worthwhile.

But Catherine could not accept this outcome. She could not stand by and watch half her people die—especially when they did not even know that death awaited them.

With the first wave of mana addiction about to erupt, Alkhemia had fallen into chaos, its kingdom teetering on the brink of collapse. Catherine saw an opportunity. After deliberating with the elven leadership, she decided to launch a campaign of conquest.

Alkhemia still retained vast alchemical pipelines. If the elves could seize all that infrastructure, they could mass-produce inexpensive alchemical potions at low cost, significantly reducing the mortality rate during the first outbreak of mana addiction.

At best, it would only delay death—but with enough time, wouldn't there be a chance for a miracle?

Moreover, the desert dwarves would also contest Alkhemia's territory. This would be a brutal war. If her people were doomed to die, why let them perish in despair? Better that they fall on the battlefield, where the end would be swifter and less agonizing. At least they would be remembered as heroes of war in elven history—not as faceless numbers who died because of their queen's folly.

This was why the elves had to march to war.

It was also why all locals had to be expelled. The elves could not allow outsiders to discover the truth of mana addiction. Such exposure would bring about catastrophic consequences.

The isolation of the Court of the Silver Moon had been for the same reason. No information could be allowed to leak.

The war had begun.

The magical contracts signed by the Twilight Wardens with those lords were, in truth, a special form of legendary power.

It was well known that rangers could choose a race as their "bane."

Against such an enemy, a ranger gained overwhelming advantages: increased accuracy, increased evasion, enhanced resistance, and more. Upon reaching the legendary rank, these effects were further amplified.

By sharing her legendary power, Catherine allowed even non-ranger elves to gain the ability to designate a "bane."

Any lord who signed the contract and then violated it would be marked as a bane. Within those territories, elves would gain tremendous advantages in battle. In practice, an arrow loosed at random might miraculously arc over the city walls to blow a defender's head apart—while an incoming magitech cannon blast would somehow miss most of its targets.

With such advantages, the elven offensive would proceed smoothly, swiftly capturing cities that possessed critical alchemical infrastructure.

Then, production could begin around the clock, allowing the elves to stockpile alchemical potions in preparation for the coming outbreak.

Yet despite the apparent success on the battlefield, Catherine felt no joy.

Regardless of victory or defeat, the elven race would be gravely wounded.

Catherine produced a letter and handed it to the old king at her side. "This is a message from a young elf, bearing news of a lich of Alkhemia. I do not know how to respond."

The old king read it. The contents were simple: some Twilight Wardens had been captured. As a local lord of Alkhemia, the lich wished to sit down with the elves and negotiate.

The old king sighed. "There is no benefit the other party could provide us. Nor do we have any reason to avoid casualties."

"I know," Catherine replied. "But are we truly going to give up like this? How am I supposed to answer that child?"

She felt like an executioner, driving her own people to their deaths again and again just to conceal her mistake. Countless times she had thought that, if she could sacrifice herself to fix everything, she would do so without hesitation.

But that would only hasten the elves' collapse. Once mana addiction fully erupted, the elves would become madmen, inflicting devastation far beyond the loss of half the population.

She had no options left.

The old king sighed again. He knew Catherine was nearing her limit.

Though the war had barely begun, yet the elves had already suffered heavy casualties under her reckless tactics. Questions had been raised more than once, but by and large, the elves could only watch as the Twilight Wardens, those who had received her shared power, were sent to die. She was unable to tell the elves the truth.

Every casualty report burdened Catherine with deeper guilt. The pressure was building. Her mind teetered on the brink of collapse.

"Your Majesty," the old king said softly, "we should speak with this lich. If I recall correctly, Cicero did not accept your boon. He should be able to survive."

Catherine's eyes lit up. Was there, at least, one elf whom she could save?

It felt like a single beam of light piercing through the endless night. She could not help but cling to it with all her hope.

"Then prepare at once," Catherine said urgently. "I will negotiate with the lich myself."

The old king hastened to caution her. "There is no need for such ceremony. If you go in person, you will only give that lich side an excuse to demand an outrageous price. Liches are not benevolent beings. They have no humanity. Let me handle this. In your current state, you are far too likely to make a fatal misjudgment."

Catherine shook her head. "Please, give me this chance. You and I both know that only hell awaits me. This is my final request. I want to save who I can with my own hands. I beg you."

Faced with Catherine's desperate, pleading expression, the old king knew he could scarcely refuse.

This was the lifeline keeping her going. To deny her now would be to carve another wound into her already fraying mind.

Catherine could not collapse. If she did so, the elven race would truly face utter annihilation.

"I will arrange the negotiations as soon as possible," the old king said at last. "But Your Majesty, you must remain calm. You cannot expose our secret even for the sake of saving their lives. Any price that defies reason will arouse suspicion..."

He counseled her earnestly, while inwardly resolving to thoroughly investigate this lich before any talks took place. Under no circumstances could this lich be allowed to discover the crisis facing the elven race.