Tales of the Endless Empire
Chapter 218: A Duel of Life and Death

Thalion burned with barely contained fury. Why, without fail, did something always interfere with his work? All he had wanted was a moment to study the vampire’s bow — an artifact that had piqued his curiosity — but fate, as usual, had other plans. A message from Kaldrek had arrived, casually informing him that Josh was dueling an elf just outside the base. Kaldrek’s note had ended with a lazy reassurance: "No need to hurry, we’ve got everything under control."

Yet, when Thalion arrived, the scene was anything but under control. He saw the elf strolling leisurely toward the gate, speaking with the kind of arrogance only someone utterly certain of victory could muster, while Josh lay broken in the grass, barely clinging to life. The contrast twisted the fury deeper into Thalion’s chest.

"And who, by the hells, are you supposed to be?" the elf asked, irritation flickering across his face as he looked up and spotted Thalion hovering in the air, twenty meters above the wall, where his mistform had finally solidified.

Without lowering his gaze, Thalion’s voice cut through the air like cold steel. "Kaldrek, give me a quick rundown. And someone, get Josh to a healer — now." His eyes flicked toward the wounded man, who, despite his state, was desperately pouring a healing potion over the gaping wound nearly cleaving his body in two.

Without hesitation, Jack teleported to Josh’s side, scooping him up with practiced ease. A moment later, both reappeared atop the wall, where a medic was already rushing toward them, hands glowing with the first traces of a healing spell.

"Well... the elf challenged us to a duel over the leadership of the base," Kaldrek began, his tone heavier than usual. There was no need for him to finish the sentence. The sight of Josh, pale and motionless, said it all. Even Kaldrek, who rarely looked shaken, hadn't expected one of their stronger fighters to be cut down so easily.

"Aha," Thalion muttered, his jaw tightening as the pieces clicked into place. "And the elves were really foolish enough to think we’d honor something so absurd?" His voice dripped with disbelief, though the simmering anger beneath it never wavered.

Kaldrek remained silent, which told Thalion everything he needed to know. So, here it was: an elf standing at the gates, claiming dominion over the humans within. Killing him outright would be the simplest solution — and the most tempting — but Thalion’s mind, even in anger, calculated the risk. Slaughtering their envoy would likely ignite a war with the elves, and with an assault on the undead fortress looming, the last thing he wanted was enemies on both fronts.

Before he could settle on a decision, the elf spoke again, his voice oozing the smug superiority Thalion already despised.

"So, human," the elf sneered, "why don’t you be a good little servant and open the gate? Perhaps I’ll even spare your life after I take command."

The words hit like a slap, cutting through Thalion’s fury and freezing him in place. His mind battled between instinct and strategy, but by the time he’d regained his composure, the anger had dulled — sharpened now into cold calculation. He fought the urge to simply descend and crush the elf where he stood. Testing his new abilities in battle was tempting, but the political consequences were still a heavy weight on his mind.

Besides, the elf had managed to dispatch Josh — no easy feat, even for the most seasoned of warriors. If the rest of his kind were equally skilled, this was no reckless fool, but a carefully chosen agent.

"Tell me," Thalion called down, folding his arms across his chest, "do you speak for all elves? Or are there only a hundred fools willing to follow you?"

The elf’s confident smirk wavered, his composure cracking ever so slightly as he processed the question. His reply came slower than before. "It doesn’t matter who I represent. Your so-called champion lost the duel. The base belongs to me. Open the gate — now."

His last words burst forth with enough force that a sliver of his concealed aura slipped free, crashing against the walls like the first gust of an incoming storm.

"Just a moment," Maike interjected sharply, her voice slicing clean through the tension. A wry grin danced on her lips. "I don’t recall there being any rules. Nor did I see a referee to declare a winner."

"Your fighter was defeated," one of the older warriors in the elf’s ranks barked from the back, his voice hard as iron. "He was lying on the ground, barely breathing. That’s as clear a loss as it gets."

"Nah, that was all part of Josh’s brilliant plan!" Jack shouted back, grinning wide from where he stood at Josh’s side. "He’s not out — not even close!"

Thalion let out a dry chuckle, his voice laced with amused cruelty. "Looks to me like your man didn’t finish the job. Close doesn’t count, does it?"

The insult landed like a hammer. The elves’ auras flared in unison, raw killing intent flooding the air so thick it felt like the pressure of the deep sea crushing against the skin. Thalion remained still, eyes locked on them, mind racing. The pieces were falling into place.

No — these elves never intended to honor the duel. Even if Josh had stood victorious, they wouldn’t have simply turned and walked away. The mere fact only a hundred had arrived told him everything: they didn’t represent the full strength of the elven clans. The others, likely, were still clinging to the illusion of neutrality.

And now, the question hung heavier than ever: what was his next move?

Ignore the black fortress entirely? Focus instead on one of the catacombs — strike from above with a fleet of skyships, portal everyone inside, and avoid a siege altogether? It was the only path Thalion could see to victory now. The elves behind the so-called envoy would turn on them the moment the slightest opportunity presented itself. He could see it in their faces: they didn’t view humans as equals, only as tools, slaves, or vermin to be eradicated.

Could he kill them before they fled? Unlikely. They weren’t foolish enough to stand and die if the tide turned against them. A rematch, then — it seemed the cleanest option. A duel would at least allow him to eliminate one of them before the others scattered. And, in the best-case scenario, perhaps his victory would shame them into leaving peacefully. He doubted it, but hope was a stubborn thing.

"I’m not opening the gates," Thalion declared, his voice cold and sharp as winter steel. "And you’re too weak to lead this base anyway. I didn’t hear of any rules or see a neutral referee to declare you the victor, but I can imagine how frustrating this must be for you. So, as the rightful leader of this base, I offer you a rematch."

He let the silence settle for a heartbeat before continuing. "A fight to the death — since there’s no one to officiate. Accept, or turn tail and get lost."

Slowly, Thalion descended, letting his boots touch the grass before the gate. The tension in the air snapped taut like a drawn bowstring. The elves hesitated, caught between pride and caution, while behind the walls his own people gathered, eager to witness whether their leader could succeed where Josh had fallen.

The elf stood motionless for a moment, then raised his hand, gesturing a female elf forward. One with a staff adorned in winding runes and emerald stones. A healer, no doubt. Green light pulsed from her fingertips and wrapped around the elf, restoring his wounds and steadying his breath, until he stood once more fully restored, as if the prior battle had never touched him.

"Fine," the elf replied at last, his voice low, curling with venom. "A fight to the death, then."

A step forward, and his sword materialized into his hand with a flicker of pale light. But before the elf could take another, Thalion raised a hand, halting him mid-motion.

"One thing first," Thalion said, his tone flat but calm. "Your name. I prefer to know the names of those I kill. And once you're dead, I’ll be keeping your body and your belongings. Since this is a fair fight, there’ll be no revenge, no blood feuds. Your people can walk away."

The elf blinked, clearly caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. A beat of silence stretched between them before the elf finally spoke, that same arrogant lilt returning to his voice.

"My name is Sandor Valefaye. Son of Elaria Valefaye, you pathetic human, my—"

"Yeah, yeah, that’ll do," Thalion cut him off with a lazy wave, voice dry as dust. "Someone launch a fireball into the air so we can start. I’ve got a full list of things to do today."

One of the elves, another staff-wielder, stepped forward and conjured a blazing sphere of flame. The moment it arced high into the sky and exploded in a brilliant flash, both fighters burst into motion, faster than human eyes could follow.

The blade of the Blooded Templar appeared in Thalion’s hand in an instant. He struck first, swinging with the full force of his strength. Their swords collided, but it was no contest — Thalion overpowered the elf completely, forcing him to stumble. Yet Sandor didn’t panic; instead, he used the momentum to twist into a spin, attempting a counterattack.

But Thalion had seen this move before — trained against it, perfected the response within the halls of the golden palace. He spun in the opposite direction, his blade arcing for the elf’s neck in a clean, lethal path.

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For an instant, Thalion was certain the fight was over. But at the very moment steel should have met flesh, Sandor’s body unraveled — dissolving into swirling air, as though he’d never been there at all. No core, no magical heartbeat pulsing, just wind.

Thalion snapped into mistform, his body dissolving into crimson vapor, and reformed high above the battlefield, eyes scanning the ground below. A moment later, the gust of air coalesced, reshaping itself back into the elf’s form. No visible spell circles, no shifting auras. Not shapeshifting. Not illusion.

A title? A bloodline? Or some divine-grade skill? Whatever it was, it defied everything Thalion understood about combat magic or elementals.

There was no point swinging blindly through air — not when he had something new to test. With a sharp breath, Thalion let his form unravel once more into mist and reappeared twenty meters away, his boots hitting the ground in silence.

Then, for the first time, he let go.

His aura detonated outward like a shockwave, crimson light seeping into the earth, turning the ground beneath him an unnatural shade of red. Vines, thick and thorned, burst from the soil. Crimson flowers bloomed with eerie speed, unfurling their blood-hued petals as he used his new skill Thorns of the Crimson Garden.

The vines lashed out, moving almost too fast for the eye to follow, driving toward Sandor like living spears. The elf’s eyes widened as he twisted and leapt back, dodging the initial strikes, but the flowers had already opened. A thick, red mist began to seep from their centers, filling the air around Thalion in an expanding cloud.

Sandor unleashed a blast of wind, hoping to sweep the crimson fog away, but the mist held steady, frozen in place by Thalion’s will. Blood control kept the air heavy and unyielding, while more vines erupted from the soil like hungry serpents. The pollen within the mist pulsed with dark energy, and Thalion, feeding more power into the ability, pressed the advantage.

This was no longer just a duel — this was a test of how far his new strength could reach.

Thalion could feel it — his strength wasn’t even close to its limit. He pushed more and more mana into his spell, the vines around him growing wilder, more aggressive, twisting through the air like crimson serpents hungry for prey. They lunged at the elf with relentless precision, forcing Sandor to weave and spin, his blade flashing as he severed tendrils that snapped inches from his throat.

But Thalion wasn’t done.

The moment Sandor’s focus locked onto the vines, Thalion let the leash on his power slip further, summoning thousands of liters of blood — all collected by the ever-hungry Crimson Virethorn. The air howled in protest as a vortex formed, spinning faster and faster around him, a storm of blood and power.

The crimson mist produced by the flowers began to seep outward, stretching toward the elven onlookers at the perimeter. At first, they paid it no mind — standing still, unmoved by the red haze — until the first scream choked itself into silence.

One elf staggered as thin vines erupted from his nose and mouth, writhing like parasites. His limbs twitched violently, but only for a moment, before his body went still. Flowers, dark and crimson, began blooming from his corpse, as if nature itself were claiming him.

The healer tried, hands glowing with desperate light, but her spells washed over the dead elf like water over stone. The rest of the elves needed no further proof — they scattered, pulling back beyond the reach of Thalion’s blooming domain.

Sandor was still inside, dodging the living garden with a flicker of fear in his eyes. Thalion’s aura didn’t stop climbing — it swelled higher and higher, the blood vortex tightening around him, each droplet infused with more power than the last.

He had begun to realize something important: why waste his own strikes, when the blood could fight for him? While the Crimson Virethorn expanded his dominion, Thalion formed dozens of slender, needle-like spears from pure blood. The first swarm shot through the air like a scarlet hailstorm, streaking toward Sandor.

The elf vaulted over them, twisting midair, only to find the vines waiting for him on the other side — poised for the killing blow.

“YO, THAT ELF IS SCREWED,” Jack muttered, though unfortunately he still held the amplification stick, broadcasting his words loud enough for the entire base to hear.

But Thalion wasn’t listening. His focus had sharpened into something predatory. Another discovery had locked into place — the blood that soaked his garden, the life essence spilled by friend and foe alike, could be reclaimed. It surged back toward him like a tide, replenishing his reserves as fast as he could expend them. The spears rained down again, forcing Sandor to dance on the edge of death with each passing second.

“Enough!” Sandor’s voice cracked through the maelstrom, raw with fury. His own aura exploded outward, the sheer force of it pushing back the blood mist and even disrupting part of the blossoming garden.

The next moment his body shifted, no longer flesh and blood but that wind-forged knight, armored in swirling air, gripping an enormous sword that glowed like a pale crescent moon. With a single slash, he released a hollow arc of energy, white as frostlight, racing toward Thalion at terrifying speed. The air around the blade howled and cracked. The vines that moved to intercept it were obliterated, shredded to nothing without slowing the attack in the slightest.

Thalion didn’t hesitate. The blood vortex spiraled tighter, coalescing into a roaring river that lifted him into the air just in time, letting the deadly slash roar harmlessly beneath his feet. From his new vantage, he retaliated, forming even larger blood-spears, so dense and heavy that the elf’s wind-domain struggled to deflect them.

Sandor dropped his wind-forged form, though the pressure of his domain still lingered in the air like a thunderhead waiting to break. But Thalion was patient. This was no longer a duel of blades — it had become a battle of resources. And that was a battle Thalion knew he could win easily.

His new passive skill was feeding him strength faster than the fight could drain it. His mana pool remained deep, nearly untouched, while the elf’s transformations — powerful as they were — came at a cost. Thalion could see it in the way Sandor hesitated before shifting again. That form was no endless shield.

A slow, dark smile curled beneath Thalion’s mask. Keeping this fight at range had been the right choice. Sandor couldn’t get close, not with the garden coiling tighter around the battlefield, and so far his long-range abilities lacked both speed and frequency.

It was time to test something else.

Thalion drew the bow — the one he’d claimed from the vampire’s corpse — and wove an arrow from his own blood, anchoring it to the string. The moment the arrow touched the wood, the weapon resonated, amplifying the power channeled into it. He poured more and more mana into the shot, the bow creaking under the strain, the arrow thrumming like a living heart in his hands.

Suspended above the battlefield on an ocean of blood, fifty meters in the air, Thalion loosed the arrow.

It vanished the instant it left the string — reappearing in a blink just above the elf, striking like a bolt of divine judgment. The impact detonated, shaking the wind-domain and carving a smoking crater where Sandor had stood. The elf had tried to dodge, forsaking his wind-form for speed — a mistake.

He was thrown across the ground, limbs twisted at odd angles, but before the shock could settle, his body flickered once more into that ethereal, wind-like state, and reappeared in an instant — directly in front of Thalion.

A massive, charged windblade already drawn back, ready to strike.

Thalion felt the danger the instant the elf’s form materialized. Instinct took over. His body shifted sideways, blood manipulation dragging him clear as the windblade came crashing down, missing him by the width of a hair. Even as his feet hit the swirling surface of the blood ocean, his fingers had already released another arrow.

The projectile pierced Sandor’s air-forged chest without resistance, passing through and vanishing into the horizon beyond. But no blood. No collapse.

Disappointment crept through Thalion’s thoughts like a bitter aftertaste. Large portions of his blood ocean had been torn apart by the attack, and the elf — impossibly — still stood, unharmed.

Refusing to hesitate, Thalion unleashed a sweeping mana wave, raw and untamed, aimed directly at the elemental form. But before it could strike, the elf dissolved into wind once more, appearing several meters away, this time hitching a ride on the very mana wave meant to break him — using it to propel himself out of Thalion’s range.

When the elf’s form solidified again, not a scratch marred his body. But Thalion was certain — the arrow had hit. It must have. Somewhere beneath that magic lay a limit, a cost, a weakness.

Before the integration, perhaps this realization would have shaken him. But now? His mind burned not with fear, but with something else entirely. His eyes glinted with greed and unwavering resolve.

Whatever that ability was, Thalion would carve it from the elfs living body.