My world-tree system-Chapter 102 - 101: The war begins
The war had begun.
Foster and his dragon soared through the skies like a comet of fire and light. Their fused auras lit up the night like a second sun, a tide of golden and emerald radiance cleaving the air with an unearthly hiss. Below, the elves looked on, silent, amazed, witnessing the birth of a legend.
But opposite, Joker, still levitating in the air, had lost none of his assurance.
- Voilàààà..." he shouted with a hoarse laugh. I’ve been waiting for you, Foster! Come and show me what you’re made of when you fly!
With a flap of its wings, the dragon swooped down on him, and Foster raised his katana, which flickered with pure flame, his grimoire vibrating at his side.
The first collision shook the sky.
Foster leapt into the air, propelled by his companion’s power, and unleashed a salvo of [World Tree Roots] modified by the dragon’s magic. The magical tendrils, fiery and vivid, shot out in all directions, seeking to pierce Joker.
But Joker... danced.
- Ooooh, that tickles! he chuckled, dodging with disturbing suppleness. He threw sharp cards that whirled like blades, their trajectory illogical, impossible to predict.
- You’re fast... but not fast enough," Foster squeaked as he sliced them with his katana.
On the ground, the dragon’s shadow expanded.
And with a devastating roar, it spat out a column of emerald flame.
Joker screamed in excitement - or panic - and was propelled backwards, partially burned. His coat caught fire, and he laughed into the inferno.
- Magnificent! I can feel my hair burning! Again!
But Foster didn’t wait. He was already there, on top of him, blade in hand, striking with surgical precision, his body shrouded in a golden halo.
- You’re going down, Joker.
One of the blows split the sneering mask, revealing half his face ravaged, but still twisted in a mad grin.
Joker staggered, blood pouring from his temple.
He gasped. His madness squeaked in a deeper tone.
- Oh... shit.
The dragon dived again. His wings left behind a trail of magical light. His claws shot out and slashed Joker across a field of shattered cards.
He crumpled to the ground in a spray of dust and shadows, gasping for breath, his eyes wide.
- He’s... too strong... two...
Foster and his dragon slowly descended from the sky, encircling their enemy.
But then...
Joker laughed. Slowly at first. Then louder and louder. A demented, piercing, frenzied laugh.
- HAHAHA! You’ve won this little trick, bravo... BUT YOU’VE FORGOTTEN SOMETHING!
Foster frowned.
And in a wave of black energy, the other six Lords of the Apocalypse appeared around them. The skies darkened further.
They didn’t speak.
They merely watched.
Then they began to walk... to levitate... to circle.
Seven against two.
The dragon tensed under Foster. A growl rose in its throat.
Foster brandished his katana.
First to act was Varhiel, the master of frozen time. He snapped his fingers, and the air densified around Foster, slowing his movements, freezing his breath, bending the beats of his wings under an invisible gravity.
- Tch... Foster grunted. Fucking... magic...
Then came Elsha, mistress of the Total Illusions. She disappeared, and the whole battlefield distorted: the sky became a sea, the trees corpses, the ground a sea of decomposing flesh. Foster staggered, lost in the vision. His dragon roared, blinded, disoriented.
Thaegron, the dark elf with the liquid iron arms, came at them like a hurricane. With one blow, he crushed the dragon’s flank, shattering scales in a spray of burning blood.
Foster screamed.
But no sooner had he raised his katana than the silent Mirelith created a bubble of nothingness around him. No more sound. No more grimoire. Just emptiness.
And then there was Lûnara, the mistress of inverted suffering. Every blow Foster struck echoed back to him, amplified. He swung? His flank bled.
- Now you feel what you inflict, elf," she murmured.
At last, the last... Requiem, the most imposing, hadn’t moved yet.
But when he raised his hand...
The ground cracked.
A legion of Obscurus sprang up again, emerging like worms from the shadows, and rushed towards Vollua.
Foster screamed inwardly. The fight he’d been dominating had turned into a free-fall into hell.
He tried to push back with a fiery blast, but Joker reappeared behind him, sneering, his hands ablaze.
- Surprise!
And the blow exploded against his back.
Foster flew through the air, crashing into a cliff, spitting blood.
His dragon roared and leapt forward, but Varhiel caught him in a slowing field, while Requiem crushed him to the ground with a fist of pure darkness.
- This is... too much..." Foster murmured, staggering to his knees.
He looked up.
Seven Lords of the Apocalypse.
A black rain was now falling on Vollua.
The war had reversed its balance.
All around the Mother Tree, chaos reigned. The howling of the elves mingled with the deformed cries of the Obscurus, the thunderous roars of the Hell Generals, and the echo of the flames spewing from high in the sky, where Foster and his dragon were fighting for their lives.
But on the ground...
Köflik held on.
He screamed, his voice cracking from the shouting, his arms covered in blood - his own and that of his fallen brothers. Around him, the elves fought as they had never fought before. But there were thirty of them. Thirty defending the soul of the world against a raging army.
And this... this was no longer a battle.
This was an organized massacre.
- To the left! he shouted, cutting an Obscurus in the throat. Withdraw to the northern flank, we’ll regroup the wounded!
A group tried to obey... but were swept aside by one of the Generals. An armored colossus, studded with spikes and shadows, shooting down a mass of fire like a living star.
- KÖFLIK!" shouted one of his own before he was mowed down, his chest torn open.
Köflik staggered backwards, his axe dripping. He staggered back, breathless, his gaze whipped by despair.
There were no gaps in their lines. No mistakes.
And yet, they were losing.
- You can’t win...
He dug his axe into the ground, catching his breath, his eyes searching for a way out, a reason, a glimmer.
Then his gaze fell on Orëlas.
The young boy, still trembling, looked around him, the baby elf in his arms, his flames fading, unable to channel his power in the midst of so much fear.
And Köflik knew.
He ran towards him, unsheathing his second blade, cleaving three Obscurus in his path. He planted himself in front of the boy, blood pouring from his forehead, his breath coming in shaky gasps.
- Orëlas, listen to me.
- B-But Köflik, I...
- No! Listen! You take your little sister. You protect her. You get her out of there. You run. Anywhere. You find shelter. You stay hidden. And you don’t come back. Not until Foster finds you.
Orëlas opened wide, wet eyes, trembling as he held the baby close.
- And what about you? And... and Mom? And you, are you coming with us?
Köflik put a hand on his shoulder, firm, burning, and gave him a sad smile.
- We’re going to hold back the tide. That’s our job. Yours, now, is to carry hope.
Silence.
Then a guttural cry. A massive Obscurus leaped towards them.
Köflik screamed and cut it in two, slicing through the black flesh and sticky shadow.
He turned back to Orëlas.
- Run.
The boy didn’t hesitate.
He dashed forward, the baby in his arms, his feet pounding the devastated earth, tears streaming down his flaming cheeks. Behind him, the cries grew louder, more desperate. He ran, carried by Köflik’s voice in his head. Run, boy. Run away from Hell.
And at the top of Vollua, the sky was still roaring, lit by the flames of a war that everyone... was losing.
The ground beneath them was soaked in blood, blackened by the ashes and charred remains of unleashed spells. Smoldering craters tore through the sacred soil of Vollua, and in one of them, half-collapsed, Foster and his dragon lay battered.
Foster coughed, blood beading at the corners of his mouth, shaking with spasms of pain. His golden tattoos, once so powerful, pulsed faintly, like a dying star, flickering in agony. His hand trembled on the hilt of his katana, unable to raise it.
His grimoire still floated beside him, but the pages were frozen, dull. Magic had fled his body, as hope gradually left his gaze.
- We... can’t... stop them like this... he thought, unable to formulate the words aloud.
A few meters away, his dragon, panting, its wings riddled with holes, a dying flame still flickering around its claws. Its head tilted toward Foster. Its scales gleamed with a painfully weakened light.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The bond between them vibrated with a terrible clarity.
If we don’t do something now... it’s the end.
Around them, the Lords of the Apocalypse advanced slowly, encircling their prey. Their steps were calm. Precise. As if savoring the slow fall of their greatest obstacle. Their eyes shone with unbearable assurance.
And there, in the silence that followed the tumult, Foster slowly looked up at his dragon.
Their eyes met.
They understood.
No need to speak.
No need to shout.
No need to ask.
It was fusion... or death.
And they chose.
The ground beneath them was drenched in blood, blackened by the ashes and charred remains of unleashed spells. Smoldering craters tore through the sacred soil of Vollua, and in one of them, half-collapsed, Foster and his dragon lay battered.
Foster coughed, blood beading at the corners of his mouth, shaking with spasms of pain. His golden tattoos, once so powerful, pulsed faintly, like a dying star, flickering in agony. His hand trembled on the hilt of his katana, unable to raise it.
His grimoire still floated beside him, but the pages were frozen, dull. Magic had fled his body, as hope gradually left his gaze.
- We... can’t... stop them like this... he thought, unable to formulate the words aloud.
A few meters away, his dragon, panting, its wings riddled with holes, a dying flame still flickering around its claws. Its head tilted toward Foster. Its scales gleamed with a painfully weakened light.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The bond between them vibrated with a terrible clarity.
If we don’t do something now... it’s the end.
Around them, the Lords of the Apocalypse advanced slowly, encircling their prey. Their steps were calm. Precise. As if savoring the slow fall of their greatest obstacle. Their eyes shone with unbearable assurance.
And then, in the silence that followed the tumult, Foster slowly looked up at his dragon.
Their eyes met.
They understood.
No need to speak.
No need to shout.
No need to ask.
It was fusion... or death.
And they chose.
