'I Reincarnated But Have No System? You Must Be Kidding Me!'
Chapter 60: Elves, Assemble!

Chapter 60: Elves, Assemble!

The Nighthral’s voice thundered through the forest like a wrathful god, booming with such primal rage that even the skies seemed to darken in fear.

The tremors in its voice traveled through bark and bone alike. Skitterbolts abandoned their tunnels. Needlewings bees fled their hives. All animals knew that real trouble was coming. The Runewood itself held its breath.

Beneath the cloak of foliage and illusion, two figures darted through the trees.

Anast’cia ran like the wind, her breath shallow, her legs surging with magical wind vortexes. Strapped to her back was the broken, bloodied body of Mathes, and despite his weight and condition, she moved like a lightning bolt through the undergrowth.

"Come on, faster!" she hissed through gritted teeth, sweat pouring from her brow. "How the hell am I outrunning you when I’m the one carrying him!?"

Behind her, Leondo stumbled forward, his face pale with exertion. His robes were soaked in sweat, and in his hands was a glowing, rune-carved stone. He wasn’t built for this—not like Anast’cia—but his mind was still sharp, and his pockets jingled with small circular orbs covered in red runic patterns.

As he ran, he hurled the orbs into the underbrush and muttered incantations under his breath.

Each orb was a miniature bomb designed to stun or repel Night Stalkers—his personal and best creations aside from his traps.

"Don’t mind me!" he called out, voice shaky. "Just keep running!"

"And then what!?" Anast’cia snapped. "So I have to come back and rescue your sorry ass!?"

"The Aetherthorn’s just fifty branches away! That thing won’t catch up—!"

THUD!~

The sound that followed froze their blood.

Anast’cia glanced back.

"Holy crap," she whispered.

The Nighthral was behind them—closer than she feared.

Its massive blackened form was still wreathed in smoke from the earlier explosions. Scorched fur, deep burn marks, and raw skin covered its upper torso and shoulders. But none of it seemed to slow it down as it recovered at a terrifying rate.

And on the contrary—it had only made it angrier.

And it was gaining on them.

Fast.

"Damn it!" Anast’cia cursed as she poured more mana into her legs. The whirling vortex at her feet intensified, kicking up leaves and dirt in her wake.

They hadn’t even faced a single Night Stalker during the Test of Fang. But the unnatural roars, the flashes of lightning, and the blasts that echoed across the Runewood made it clear—something was horribly wrong.

When they’d moved to investigate, they found the remains of a battlefield—and beyond that, Mathes, barely alive, being brutalized by the monster now chasing them.

But unlike the rest of the elven folk, they didn’t hesitate.

They made their decision to save him.

And now they were paying the price for it.

"Hurry!"

Anast’cia grit her teeth, feeling the heat of the Nighthral’s breath not far behind. Every instinct screamed at her to drop the burden on her back and flee—but to do so would mean dishonoring her tribe and her kin.

It would make all their efforts meaningless.

’Not today.’

"We’re almost there," she whispered. Ahead, through the thick trees, the bark-gates of Aetherthorn loomed. It was their sanctuary. Once inside, they’d be safe.

That is, given If they made it.

Then—

Leondo’s footsteps stopped.

"Keep going!" he shouted.

"What? What do you mean stop-?"

Anast’cia turned back, and her heart nearly stopped. Leondo stood far and firm in the clearing, facing the incoming Nighthral head-on.

In his hand, the glowing runestone pulsed with concentrated mana.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

"I said keep running!" he yelled back, his voice firmer this time. "I’m buying you time. GO!"

"You IDIOT!" she shouted, eyes wide in disbelief—but she didn’t argue again.

With clenched teeth, she turned and ran. Faster. Harder. The unconscious Mathes bounced against her back, and the Aetherthorn’s gate grew larger with every stride. The elves at the gate were already moving, scrambling to open the way.

Behind her, Leondo stood alone.

His face was pale. Sweat dripped down his neck. His hands trembled. But his eyes—

His eyes were unshakable.

The Nighthral roared, seething with hatred as it locked eyes with him.

"YOU RUNT! DIE!"

It lunged forward, paw raised to crush him.

Leondo didn’t flinch. "Gotcha."

He channeled all of his remaining mana into the runestone, which glowed brighter—until it pulsed, triggering every last bomb orb he’d planted along the way.

BOBOBOBOBOOOM!~

At least twenty miniature bombs erupted in succession.

Fire. Thunder. Shrapnel.

Explosions lit up the forest, creating a chain reaction of chaos and flame that engulfed the Nighthral’s body and path. Each blast alone could knock down a Night Stalker. All together, they should’ve been enough to vaporize one.

Leondo staggered backward, coughing from the smoke. His lips trembled into a hopeful smile despite the signs of mana shock on his body.

But then-

From the heart of the inferno, something stepped through the flames.

The Nighthral.

Its massive frame pulsed with dark mana, absorbing the fury of the blasts like a living void.

Smoke curled around its limbs, but no wound marked its flesh. Not a scorch and not a bruise. It had learned- refusing to be burned by the same trick twice.

Unscathed. Unbothered. Unstoppable.

Leondo’s eyes widened in horror as the realization crashed over him. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees.

"What the-" he breathed, the words catching in his throat.

All his work. All his years of enchantment. All his clever planning-

Scratched the beast at best!

"WAS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, RUNT?"

Its massive head turned toward him, one eye glowing with pure hatred. In that moment, Leondo realized-

He couldn’t move.

He had poured all his mana into that last gambit. His limbs refused to obey. His body gave out from the mana shock.

The monster stepped closer.

Leondo’s breathing quickened, then steadied. His fear didn’t vanish, but something else filled his heart.

Pride.

He turned his head far toward Aetherthorn’s gate. Anast’cia had made it and with her, Lord Mathes was safe.

A small smile played on his lips.

"I guess... this is it for me."

He raised a fist toward the sky, voice trembling but resolute.

"Long live the Runewood."

The Nighthral stood above him now, sneering.

"NICE LITTLE FIREWORKS, RUNT. NOW GO CELEBRATE IN MY STOMACH."

Its massive maw opened wide, fangs glinting in the firelight but then-

BOOOOOOM!

CRASH!~

SLASH!~

BOOM!

CRACKABOOOM!~

A cascade of magic and destruction rained from every direction.

Burning arrows.

Arcane bullets.

Fireballs. Lightning bolts. Wind spears. Flying rocks.

Dozens of spells exploded across the Nighthral’s body, stopping it mid-strike. It stumbled back, snarling in confusion as magical force battered it from every side.

Leondo blinked in disbelief.

"W-Who-?"

He turned—and what he saw nearly made him cry.

From every path, every trunk, every branch-they came.

The elves.

All of them.

Warriors, Hunters, elders, children. Archers, blacksmiths, herbalists and even cooks.

From the proud Goldhairs, the enigmatic Sylvanthir, and the fierce Velka Dar—every elven tribe had emerged from the bark-wrought gates of Aetherthorn.

Together.

No longer divided by tradition or pride, even the oldest blacksmiths, quiet herbalists, and retired warriors now bore arms. Whether their weapons were finely forged or hastily carved from wood and stone, enchanted or crude, it didn’t matter. What shone in their eyes was the same: fury. Unity. Resolve.

A fire kindled by two brave elves.

Anast’cia and Leon’do.

They had acted when others cowered. Had fought when no one else dared.

Their courage had shamed the tribes into awakening- and now, no one would let that sacrifice be in vain.

With primal roars and battle cries echoing through the glade, with spells sparking at their fingertips and rage boiling in their veins, they surged forward as one massive unit.

The Nighthral was fearsome.

But the forest was alive.

And it was done hiding.

"RAAAAAH!"

[FLAME SPEAR]

"TAKE THIS!"

[IRON BLOW]

"Ololollooooo!"

[BLADE SHOCK]

Magic erupted across the clearing in a storm of color and chaos. Flaming arrows streaked through the air. Roots burst from the ground like living spears. Spirits were summoned, stones hurled, and air split by bolts of lightning.

The very earth trembled beneath their combined might.

The Nighthral- despite its King Beast stage- staggered beneath the furious barrage of the entirety of the elven tribes. Its claws slipping against the shifting soil while It lashed out wildly.

But for every strike it landed, thirty more rained down in return.

It was like watching a monstrous wolf being mobbed by a hundred feral cats—each one small, but together, relentless and unyielding.

This wasn’t just a rescue.

It was a revolt!

And it had only just begun.

From behind the protective gates of Aetherthorn, Mathes slowly cracked open a swollen eye. His vision wavered—blurry and bloodshot—and every breath felt like dragging stone through his lungs. His body ached, drained of strength, but he was alive. Barely.

Thankfully, he had arrived just in time—collapsing into the arms of the elven healers before the darkness could claim him completely.

But he saw it.

He saw the unity. The uprising. The spirit of the Runewood reborn.

A faint chuckle escaped his broken lips.

"I...idiots," he muttered, barely audible.

And then—

From deep within the Runewood, a roar answered them.

A roar of wrath. Of desperation.

Of vengeance.

ROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAARRRR!