Tales of the Endless Empire
Chapter 220: You have what Skill???

“I won’t tell you anything, human. You and your little base are finished the moment my mother hears of this!”

The elf, Sandor, snarled through clenched teeth, his face flushed red with rage as he glared up at Thalion. He lay tangled on the cold stone floor of the tower, fully ensnared by coils of crimson Virethorn, the enchanted vines tightening with every minor struggle.

Thalion, unfazed, busied himself with unlocking the hidden passage embedded in the floor — a concealed route that led deep beneath the tower to his private chambers. Answers waited below. Or more precisely, a certain black pillar did. Sandor seemed too blinded by false hope to recognize the truth; he still believed his kin would arrive any moment to rescue him.

It was amusing, in a way — the arrogance of someone completely powerless, still posturing in the jaws of death. Then again, Thalion would have tortured him either way. Perhaps the defiance saved a shred of the elf’s dignity.

With a lazy flick of his hand, Thalion dismissed the thought and hurled Sandor’s bound body down the narrow stone staircase. He stood there listening, lips curling into a smile as the elf bounced and tumbled, cursing with every painful thud against the walls.

So far, everything was unfolding according to plan. His companions were already preparing for their march on the Black Castle. Once Kaldrek signaled that the undead had committed to an attack, Thalion would simply use the teleportation gate to join them in the blink of an eye. Until then, he had time for an... experiment.

Using Mistform, he drifted weightlessly into the underground chamber and materialized at the base of the stairwell, just as the elf came crashing down in an undignified heap, still swearing and wheezing from the impact. Thalion wasted no time — he reached down, gripped Sandor by the throat, and dragged him across the stone floor toward the darkened heart of the chamber, where the black pillar awaited.

“You can’t break me, human! You’re weak. Pathetic. Not even worthy of breathing the same air as me! When my mother finds out, she’ll hunt you down and flay you alive, heal you, and do it again!”

Sandor’s voice echoed through the chamber, but the sound was swallowed by the ancient stone walls, unheard by anyone beyond. As they neared the pillar, faint, ragged sobs and pained whimpers drifted from the vampires bound within.

The moment Sandor crossed the threshold of the pillar’s aura, his bravado evaporated. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow, and a tremor ran through his limbs as he sensed the trapped creatures, their endless agony radiating from the black stone like a silent storm.

“You can’t put me in there — not with those abominations!”

The elf’s voice cracked, rising into a panicked screech as his body strained against the vines. Thalion paid him no mind. With mechanical precision, he shoved the elf forward, pressing him into the living black stone until only his head remained free.

“Now,” Thalion said, lowering himself into a worn leather chair conjured from his spatial ring, “tell me everything about that wind spell of yours.”

Silence.

The elf clenched his jaw, refusing to speak, though the panic still trembled at the edges of his expression. The chamber grew still, save for the quiet drip of water from the vaulted ceiling and the occasional ragged breath of the imprisoned vampires.

When Sandor finally parted his lips, it wasn’t to confess, but to spit another insult. Thalion sighed, his form shifting fluidly as he morphed into Eagly and without hesitation unleashed a bolt of crackling lightning at the pillar.

The room pulsed with raw energy. Screams tore through the chamber, overlapping in a dissonant symphony of agony as the electricity surged through every creature bound to the stone, including Sandor. The pillar’s structure trapped the current, turning every second into an eternity of excruciating pain, the torment intensifying with each heartbeat.

“Stop! Stop it, you maniac! I’ll tell you, just stop!”

The elf’s voice shattered between sobs and shrieks, barely able to form coherent words, but Thalion’s expression remained unmoved. He funneled even more power into the storm, letting the current crackle and dance along the pillar’s surface. If the elf could still form words, it meant he wasn’t quite finished.

The torture dragged on for hours, the air thick with the scent of scorched hair and the coppery tang of blood. One by one, the vampires slipped into unconsciousness, their bodies hanging limp in the pillar’s grasp.

At last, just as another bolt was about to fall, Sandor broke.

“Please! I’ll talk! It’s a bloodline skill. I inherited it — from my family!”

Thalion’s eyes sharpened. He let the power drain from the room, the glow fading from the stone as the silence settled once more. Remaining in his Eagly form, he padded a few steps closer, keen to catch every word.

“A bloodline skill,” Thalion repeated softly, more to himself than the elf. “That’s new.”

From what little he knew, bloodlines were rare and powerful — but the existence of bloodline-bound skills was something entirely foreign to him. His mind was already racing through possibilities. Perhaps the secret wasn’t in training, but something embedded within the body — a trait passed down like hair color or eye shape.

He would have to dig deeper.

“So then,” he said, voice low and edged with hunger, “tell me everything. What exactly is a bloodline skill, and what bloodline flows in your veins?”

He leaned in, his mind already wandering to the next step. If the ability was locked in the body, perhaps all he needed was the right piece. An organ, perhaps. Or a fragment of bone. Either way, the elf would answer — one way or another.

“I don’t have a bloodline—only the skill. None of the other elves even know my family carries one,” Sandor stammered, spitting a thin line of blood onto the cold stone floor. His voice trembled, barely holding together under the weight of pain and exhaustion.

Thalion’s gaze sharpened, his pulse quickening as possibilities coiled in his mind like a loaded spring. If this so-called bloodline skill was only an extension of some hidden genetic trait... just how powerful must the bloodline itself be? And more importantly: could it be stolen?

So far, the system had allowed him to absorb abilities from slain beasts, although some skills always emerged diluted or missing entirely. But a bloodline — a complete, inherent lineage of power — was something else entirely. Could it be extracted? Could it be copied? If anyone could figure it out, it would be him. After all, few people understood the nature of blood better than he did.

“The name of my mother’s bloodline is Zephyrborn Lineage,” Sandor continued, his voice cracking beneath the strain. “When you inherit it, you become one with the wind. My skill is called Galeform — Breath of the Tempest. It allows me to dissolve into pure wind, shape weapons from air itself, and even regenerate any injury.”

His words rushed out in a single desperate exhale, his wide eyes betraying the raw fear boiling just beneath the surface. For a moment, Thalion almost considered pulling the elf free from the black pillar. Almost. But then he remembered the promises of flaying and retribution that had filled the elf’s mouth only hours before.

He’ll survive, Thalion thought coldly, fishing another healing potion from his ring and forcing it between Sandor’s cracked lips. There was still more to learn.

“What are the downsides?” Thalion asked, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “No skill is flawless. You can’t be truly invulnerable.”

Sandor swallowed hard, struggling to gather enough breath to speak. His body trembled, barely held together by the potion’s fading magic.

“The mana cost,” he rasped at last. “It’s enormous. It drains the entire mana pool in seconds. The healing is strong enough that most wounds barely register, but...” He hesitated, the words clawing their way out. “Mental attacks... they bypass it entirely. You’re helpless against them.”

As if to underscore his words, a thin stream of silvered saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. His head sagged forward, as though the invisible strings that had kept him upright had been severed. The elf had reached his absolute limit.

Thalion leaned back, fingers steepled in thought. Even with that weakness, the ability was absurdly powerful. But what intrigued him more was the idea of ownership. If he could take the skill... why not the entire bloodline? Perhaps it wasn’t such a tragedy if the other elves came hunting for him. It might even save him the trouble of finding more test subjects.

His thoughts turned toward the system shop. The recent slaughter of the vampire horde had left his credit balance well above twenty million. Maybe, if he was lucky, the shop would offer him precisely the knowledge he needed.

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“We must attack the humans with full force. They killed my son!”

Elaria Valefaye’s voice rang through the war chamber like a blade unsheathed, her fist crashing down onto the polished stone table at the center of the room. The force of the impact echoed through the ancient hall, silencing the other clan leaders for a moment.

The news had reached them only hours ago. Sandor Valefaye — her son, heir to their house — had fallen in combat against the leader of a human stronghold. The words tasted like ash on every elf’s tongue.

Althirion stood motionless, his face carved from stone, his mind racing. He had spent months weaving delicate alliances, binding the fractured elven tribes together to finally strike at the vampires’ strongholds. Now, everything hung by a thread. No elf would tolerate the insult of a human slaying one of their own, let alone a noble heir. War would be inevitable.

And yet, part of him wasn’t ready to mourn. Sandors death, tragic as it was, created an opportunity. His political rival had lost a son — and in elven politics, that loss shifted power as surely as a sword through the heart.

Before Sandor’s death, Althirion had intended to broker a quiet understanding with the human base. The plan had been to strike the vampires simultaneously from multiple fronts: one catacomb assaulted by the elves, another two by the humans. Coordinated chaos. The undead would be forced to divide their strength, and the humans had already proven themselves more than capable of surviving against impossible odds.

In fact, the newly discovered human base seemed large enough to house thousands — a fortress unlike anything the scouts had encountered before. Even so, the undead had struck before proper contact could be made, and yet the humans had endured.

Now, the situation teetered on a blade’s edge. The other human factions had already prepared their assaults on two separate catacombs, and the elves were preparing to strike the third. The Black Fortress, where the vampire elites and reinforcements waited, would eventually intervene, teleporting their most dangerous assets onto the battlefield — but timing was everything. The plan had always been to let the humans bear the brunt of the reinforcements, then strike once the enemy was stretched thin.

But now, with this new human base in play and the death of Sandor hanging over them, the entire strategy threatened to collapse. Would the new humans join their efforts against the undead ? Would they fortify their position?

A solution was needed, and fast. Althirion’s mind raced through possibilities while the room simmered with tension. The other tribe leaders had no idea about the full extent of his contact with the human factions, and he intended to keep it that way.

First, secure the new human alliance. Then, avenge the prince — or at least, make it look like vengeance had been served.

“Elaria, I believe we all stand behind you. A human daring to kill one of our own cannot go unpunished,” Althirion declared, his voice cutting through the tense silence with unwavering conviction. “All I’m suggesting is that we wait until the special quest is complete. If we could use the humans to strike at the undead, it would serve our purpose even more effectively. Remember, your son is not the only life we’ve lost in this war. I, too, seek revenge — for the prince, and for your son.”

His words were calm, yet carried the weight of long years spent commanding both armies and attention. Since the day he had weaponized recorded meetings to sway his supporters, the other tribe leaders had followed suit, and now every word spoken in council was carefully curated for future listeners. But this time, there was no need for performance. The stakes were real.

“We don’t even know for certain if the prince is dead,” Elaria snapped, her voice sharp and cracking under the strain of barely contained rage. “But my son was murdered — and by a human, no less! That alone is unacceptable!”

It was a rare sight: Elaria, always the image of poised elven nobility, letting her emotions bleed through. The council chamber, usually a place of sharp strategy and cold calculation, felt suddenly claustrophobic, saturated with the heat of her fury.

“Dead or captured — it makes no difference,” Althirion retorted, his voice rising, laced now with frustration. His aura began to unfurl like a stormfront, making the air itself thrum and tremble around him. “I will never stand idle when an elf is attacked, taken, or slain, no matter which faction dares it. But our response must be precise. Charging headfirst into a human stronghold — one that outnumbers us — would be foolish when we could instead let them bleed the undead for us, then strike when both sides are weak.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of Althirion’s lingering power. Then, another voice cut through.

“I agree with Althirion,” Naeriel, the healer, spoke firmly, her tone carrying more than a trace of coldness. “We elves must stand united against the true enemy. What your son did was reckless to begin with. If the humans possess fighters strong enough to defeat one of our elites, that only proves their worth as weapons against the undead. Let them fight our battles first. The human can die afterward.”

Her words stung like barbed arrows, and the flicker of hatred in Elaria’s eyes confirmed it. Naeriel had never cared much for her — and now, with the perfect excuse, she made no effort to hide it.

Before Elaria could erupt, another voice — calm, measured — filled the room.

“Perhaps there’s another way,” offered Vaelinor Luthien, the last of the four elven leaders. “Why not challenge the human to a formal duel? He accepted once before. If he falls, the human base will have no choice but to see the wisdom of following our command against the undead.”

Althirion tilted his head slightly, considering the suggestion. It was a clever compromise. The duel would give Elaria her revenge while preserving the humans as useful pawns — at least for now. If the human was truly as powerful as Sandor’s death suggested, they would need him to weaken the undead forces before any final reckoning.

“I agree,” Althirion added, folding his arms across his chest. “But with a human that strong, it’s all the more reason to wait until the war is over. This will also give us time to gather more information about his abilities.” His voice softened slightly, offering a thread of calm to diffuse the building tension. The last thing he needed was for Elaria to splinter away with her tribe. That would only weaken them all.

“A duel? A duel!” Elaria echoed, her voice shrill with disbelief. “They laughed at us! Those humans watched as one of their own murdered my son, and you would settle for a duel?” Her cheeks flushed deep crimson, her blue eyes ablaze with fury. “No! We must strike them down and make them pay for what they’ve done!”

But Naeriel was quick to counter, her voice steady and sharp as a blade.

“I stand with Althirion. If the human is as strong as you claim, then he will survive the conflict against the undead. If we attack the humans now, more elves will die needlessly. Is that what you want, Elaria?”

The question was a dagger disguised as a plea, and the smirk playing at the corner of Naeriel’s mouth made it clear that the question wasn’t meant to comfort. Elaria’s body tensed, her fingers curling as if itching to reach for her blade, but before the situation could spiral, Althirion’s voice thundered through the chamber.

“Enough.”

The room fell into silence, the weight of command pressing down on them all. Althirion stood tall, gaze sweeping across the faces of his fellow leaders.

“The catacombs will open in mere hours. We must settle this, here and now.” He paused, letting the silence stretch until the air itself seemed to hold its breath. “As I see it, we have two paths: one is to attack the humans first, wasting strength we cannot afford. The other is to use them against the undead, then deal with their betrayal once the true enemy is vanquished.”

Slowly, he raised his hand. “All in favor of punishing the humans after the war against the undead, raise your hand.”

One by one, hands were lifted — all except Elaria’s. Her face was pale now, the flush of anger giving way to cold, hard resentment. But she would have to yield. The vote was clear.

The first battle had been won — but the real war, the one of politics and blood, had only just begun. Now, the next move rested on Althirion’s shoulders. Convincing the humans to join forces would not be easy. Not after everything that had already been spilled.