The forest clearing had turned into a scene of pure panic and desperation.

Elves and dark elves alike crowded around Sylthara's collapsed body, their knees digging into the torn earth, their hands trembling as they tried to pour potions past her unmoving lips — potions that only spilled uselessly down her chin. Her skin, once glowing with rebellious life, had turned frighteningly pale, the pulse in her neck fading with every moment, like a candle flickering under a storm.

Senior Elowen, hands shaking yet still trying to retain composure, pressed her fingers against Sylthara's throat and gasped, fear openly clawing across her expression.

"Her bodily functions are… shutting down," she whispered, voice cracking. "She can't swallow anything anymore — the herbs, the medicines — they won't work. These potions… they're meant for light wounds, not—"

Her voice broke entirely.

Luca froze for only a fraction of a second — then moved.

Without thinking, without asking, without hesitation.

He snatched the herbs and medicine from Elowen's trembling palm, his breath ragged, eyes burning with determination and fear as he shoved the bitter plants into his own mouth. He chewed furiously, his jaw aching, blood mixing with the earthy taste as desperation fueled every motion.

Aurelia's eyes widened, reaching out as if unsure whether to stop him or help him —

"L-Luca—!"

But he was already lowering himself.

He cupped Sylthara's cold face with both hands, thumbs brushing the corners of her still eyelids, and pressed his forehead to hers for the briefest moment — a silent plea, a promise — before he leaned down.

His mouth sealed over hers.

Warmth to cold.

Life forcing itself into dying breath.

He pushed the crushed mixture into her unresponsive mouth, willing her to swallow, willing her to live, even as blood slipped down his own face and fell onto her cheeks like raindrops desperate to revive a dying flower.

Everyone saw it.

No one stopped him.

They couldn't.

They didn't dare.

Because every second mattered — every heartbeat lost could be her last.

Elven healers pressed their glowing palms to her chest, transferring mana directly into her fading core. Dark elves knelt around them, hands hovering, channeling everything they had — hope, fear, prayers — into the fragile girl who had spent her life fighting for them.

The air itself had turned poisonous — corruption spreading like a plague.

The once lush grass beneath them had already withered, crumbling into gray dust. Leaves blackened and fell like dead snow. The towering trees surrounding the clearing twisted, the bark rotting as if time itself had cursed them. And far behind them…

…the Mother Tree — the sacred symbol of their race — had begun to turn dark, veins of black crawling up its radiant trunk like a disease.

Above them, the battle shook the sky.

The Elf Queen, her armor shattered in places, fought fiercely yet desperately — her body bleeding, her magic flickering — as she clashed with the Overlord Mage, the 4th Demon General, his silhouette an ever-present horror against the swirling crimson clouds. Each clash of mana sent shockwaves ripping through the air, thunderous booms echoing through the dying forest.

But below, all attention… all hope… all life was focused on the limp girl in Luca's arms.

Sylthara's body jolted slightly — but her breath remained agonizingly shallow.

Senior Elowen pressed harder, mana trembling at her fingertips.

"Hurry—!" she cried, voice breaking. "Her mana is fading… her life force is slipping away!"

Luca tightened his grip, leaning closer, his voice cracking into a desperate whisper only she could hear.

Don't you dare leave now… not after everything… not when your freedom was right here…

His shoulders shook.

Don't die.

Please… don't die.

No one spoke it aloud — but every single person in that circle felt the same crushing terror:

Were they… truly powerless to save her this time? What will happen to Mother tree if she….

The forest held its breath.

And doom loomed overhead… hungry… waiting.

The sky above the ravaged elven forest groaned like a wounded beast, the once-luminous canopy of the World Tree now drowning in shades of rot and blackened veins. Sylthara lay motionless where her life had bled into the roots, and below the once sacred trunk, Luca knelt with her limp hand cradled carefully in his palms, unable to look away from her pale lips and fading warmth.

High above, the Elf Queen stood as the last bastion between her people and annihilation. Her emerald eyes, usually calm like ancient forests, now burned with fear-forged resolve. Leaves and petals swirled madly around her, responding to her breath like frightened birds trying to shield their queen.

Across from her, the 4th Demon General hovered lazily in the air — a towering brute clad in shadow like cloak which protected him from every attack. His crimson claws gleamed with malice as his tounge licked flames into the air. His grin was wide, cruel, and impossibly sure of the outcome.

The Elf Queen raised her staff — a living branch etched with runes that pulsed nature's heartbeat. It trembled under her strained grip before erupting in a flurry of nature magic. Vines shot upward like spears, thorned flowers detonated into blinding blasts of pollen infused with mana, and emerald winds slashed the sky like thousands of cutting leaves. The air screamed under the assault.

But the Demon General only laughed.

"HAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! Pathetic."

He swung his arm, and every spell — every desperate surge of life — burned away in a wave of black fire. The air stank of charred earth and dying roots. The Queen stumbled, biting back a gasp as cracks splintered across her staff, sap-like mana seeping from the wounds.

The demon hovered closer, shadows coiling behind him like smoke eager to consume.

"She can't be saved," he hissed, pointing a claw toward Sylthara below.

"No matter what you do, you will fall… and then every last elf will decorate my slave chambers. HAAHAHAHAHAH!"

His laughter pierced the hearts of those watching. Even the strongest elves faltered, hope draining like sand through fingers. The Queen's shoulders rose and fell — trembling — as she stared down at her people.

A whisper left her lips, too small for the wind to carry but heavy enough to crush her own soul:

"Do the elves… truly have no place in this world anymore?"

Her fingers clenched around her failing staff.

"Are we… destined only to die…?"

Silence.

Then she inhaled, slowly. Deeply. As though drawing breath from the last piece of courage left in existence.

Her eyes sharpened, resolved.

"No."

Her voice rang like a bell of judgment. The winds convulsed. Mana spiraled violently from every root of the World Tree, racing toward her. Leaves turned to radiant motes of gold, swirling upward as her staff crumbled into light.

"No more running. No more regret."

Senior Elowen below looked up — panic flooding her face as if she'd just recognized death itself.

"No… Your Majesty! You can't!"

Her voice cracked, begging.

But the Queen only smiled — soft, tragic, and filled with love too heavy for one heart to bear.

"I have not been a good queen…"

Her hair lifted, glowing, strands unraveling into pure light. Her armor dissolved into runes that wrapped around her body like sacred ivy. Every inch of her seemed to transform into nature's final prayer.

"If I were stronger… we would not be at the brink of extinction."

A tear slid down her cheek, sparkling gold as it fell.

"If not for my weakness… that child wouldn't be suffering right now…"

Her gaze drifted toward Sylthara — broken, still — and to Luca holding her hand as though life itself depended on it.

"So let me protect you… one last time."

Her wings — once gentle constructs of leaves — now burst into radiant golden wings of pure origin energy. The sky brightened around her, as though trying to honor her final stand.

She turned to her people below.

"Remember who we are."

Her voice thundered into every heart.

"We are the proud race of Elves!"

A roar of golden mana blasted outward — a forbidden power awakened. The Demon General's eyes widened, confidence shattering into fear.

"What—?! N-No, that spell… You would sacrifice—"

She did not let him speak.

She looked once more at the darkening World Tree… then Luca… then Sylthara…

Her lips moved in a quiet, gentle murmur:

"Now I understand, Mother…

those destined to be… have already been chosen…"

Then she vanished — turning into a colossal spear of blinding gold.

He tried to dodge. Too late.

The world exploded.

Light swallowed the sky, the earth, the forest — everything trembled beneath a divine roar of nature reclaiming its right to survive. The Demon General's scream twisted into a mixture of terror and pure rage:

"YOU FILTH!

I AM A DEMON GENERAL — I WILL NOT FORGET THIS HUMILIATION!

I WILL SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!"

Then — silence.

When the storm of light faded, both combatants were gone.

No trace.

No body.

Only drifting petals turning gray as they fell.

The elves stood frozen. Then the grief hit — like a tidal wave.

Cries erupted. Warriors fell to their knees. Even Elowen choked on her own breath, her hand clutching her heart as tears streamed freely.

Their queen — their leader in crown and spirit — had given everything.

Luca sat still as stone, numb, Sylthara's limp hand still in his tightening grasp. His eyes were hollow — as though they no longer knew how to feel anything at all. He stared downward, breath shallow, heart refusing to accept the truth unfolding around him.

Then—

A faint tremor.

Sylthara's fingers twitched — barely, but there.

Luca's head snapped down, eyes wide.

Before he could speak—

a pitch-black hand shot out and gripped his own in a desperate, chilling clutch.

Dark mana pulsed from her touch.

Luca's breath caught.

The world held still.

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