The Monster King's Legacy-Chapter 90: Set in Motion

Dawn broke over the united lands, casting a pale glow on the vast encampment where the leaders of the major races had gathered. At the head of this assembly stood the towering banners of humanity, elves, and dwarves, symbols of the temporary alliance forged in the face of a common enemy.

The various leaders had gathered in a tent that served as a temporary command centre. Across from one another, the human kings, the elven elders, and the dwarven commanders exchanged measured words about the grim realities on the front.

They had gone over the alliance with the monsters, and though some still had the bad taste in their mouths, it was a necessity if they wished to preserve themselves and the future of their people. At first light, the combined force of the major races would march forth to eliminate the Demon Lord, while the smaller races would continue to hold the back lines.

…

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the goblin settlement, the monster coalition was tending to its own urgent needs. The following day, wounded warriors, goblins, orcs, and beastkin had been gathered and treated under the watchful eyes of the healers. Among them, Mira worked side by side with the healers from the other races, their healing magic doing well to give the wounded new lives and setting them anew.

Later on in the day, in fact, towards evening, the coalition gathered for a mass burial. The clearing had been prepared, and as night fell, representatives from all races stood in respectful silence. For the goblins who usually burned their dead without much of a ceremony, the ritual was different this time. The orc shaman led the proceedings with a solemn dignity, her voice carrying ancient words of passage.

"May your souls find rest, and may our unity honor your sacrifice," she said, as she performed a kind of ritual proceeding. Flames leapt from ceremonial braziers as the bodies burned, and prayers echoed softly. Even as the bodies were consumed by fire, a palpable sense of reverence and sorrow hung in the cool night air.

An orc elder placed a heavy hand on the shoulder of a young sniffling goblin, whispering, "We will always remember them, and we vow never to let their sacrifice be in vain."

As the night deepened, the three leaders gathered in a makeshift war council near the heart of the settlement. They discussed extensively on the issues they were facing, making different decisions to guide their moving forward.

At last, the meeting drew to a close. The leaders dispersed into the night, each returning to their respective quarters.

…

Elsewhere, deep beneath the ancient forest, Ithil’s real body moved silently through a labyrinth of colossal roots. The roots, as thick as entire trees and gnarled like the fingers of some forgotten giant, wove a natural network through the foggy expanse.

Ithil’s footsteps were measured and sure as he navigated this hidden realm. He moved with an almost ethereal grace, seamlessly blending with the ancient environment as if he were one with the forest’s primordial heartbeat as he drew closer to his goal.

For days now, he had maneuvered through the twisting corridors of giant roots and narrow passageways, following the faint, pulsing luminescence that beckoned him to go deeper and deeper. It was a soft, almost imperceptible glow of green and gold that shimmered in the distance like a mirage, yet grew steadily brighter as he drew near.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity wandering through that fog-laden underground, Ithil emerged into a vast clearing. Before him, the dense fog began to recede as if compelled by a hidden force. Slowly, the mists lifted to reveal an ancient altar that soared upward and disappeared into the fog, as though it had been lost to time and reclaimed by the heavens.

The altar was magnificent in its intricacy. It resembled a throne carved from primordial stone and metal, yet it was devoid of ornate armrests or intricate embellishments. Atop the altar rested a solitary golden crown. The crown was not elaborate or jewel-encrusted but simple in design, its metallic golden surface pulsing with an ethereal, almost sentient light. Intricate patterns adorned both sides of the crown, fashioned in such a way that it appeared more like a sacred relic, untouchable and dangerous, than a wearable ornament. Its edges were sharp, a reminder that any attempt to don it could result in self-injury, as if it were meant to be admired rather than used.

Ithil’s heart pounded in his chest as he beheld the ancient relic. This was the culmination of his long, arduous journey, an object that would decide the next chapter of his fate, and that of the entire elven race and the world included. With a steely gaze, he approached the altar, his every steps echoing softly on the stone floor, the sound swallowed by the ambient hum of the ancient magic that pulsed in the very air.

He knelt before the altar, extending a steady hand toward the crown. The light from the relic danced in his eyes, but he knew that reaching the crown would not be easy; its power was sealed behind layers of protective magic. The altar’s surface was etched with delicate, flowing symbols, runes that vibrated with energy, a series of seals placed long ago.

Ithil drew a deep breath and got to work, deciphering the countless spells as he occasionally chanted spells his voice merging with the ambient echoes of the altar. His incantations were precise, the ancient words resonating with the very essence of the altar it seemed. He extended his hands over the seals, and golden light flared briefly from his fingertips as he began the delicate process of tweaking the magical barriers. The runes shimmered, their patterns shifting and realigning under his works.

For long minutes, he labored in silence for the most part, the only sounds the rhythmic cadence of his incantations and the soft hum of the ambient magic. With each word spoken, the seals weakened, their resistance crumbling like old stone under force.

Soon enough, the glow of the altar intensified as the protective wards began to fade, revealing the crown in its full, haunting majesty.

Ithil’s eyes narrowed as he finally beheld the crown in its entirety. It seemed to pulse with a light that was both inviting and foreboding, then, in a moment that seemed to suspend time, his fingers closed around the cool metal of the crown. The chamber filled with a burst of radiant energy for a brief moment as the ancient magic, now undone by him, cascaded around him. The light swirled in brilliant patterns, and for a heartbeat, Ithil felt as if he were both the key and the guardian of untold power.

…

The alliance of humans, elves, and dwarves pressed deep into demon territory, their forces moving like an unstoppable tide. Hundreds of warriors, clad in the finest armor and wielding weapons imbued with centuries of craftsmanship and magic, advanced without hesitation. Unlike before, they did not engage with the scattered demonic forces that lurked in the shadows or prowled through the ruined wastelands.

There was no time for lesser battles.

Their goal was clear, push straight to the heart of the demon lands, find the Demon Lord, and eliminate him before his power grew beyond their reach.

…

The terrain shifted as they advanced.

The once-cracked earth of the outer demon lands gave way to a corrupted expanse, the land itself seemingly breathing with a malevolent pulse.

Cauldrus, the Elven King, was at the forefront of the advance, his golden and green armor glimmering faintly under the dim sky. His expression was calm, but his sharp eyes darted across the landscape, sensing the unnatural shifts in the energy around them.

"They’re watching us," murmured one of his elven generals.

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Cauldrus nodded. "They know we are coming. Yet, they do not attack."

The human king beside him, clad in dark armor, Cervic, let out a quiet scoff as he spoke, "because they know it would be pointless. Their lesser kin will only slow us down for a moment before being cut down."

The dwarven commander grunted. "Then let’s pray the Demon Lord isn’t simply letting us walk into a trap."

None of them were foolish enough to believe that the path forward would remain this undisturbed.

…

As night approached, the army made camp in a relatively clear area.

Bonfires were kept low, and every warrior remained on high alert. They had no intention of staying long, this was only a short rest before resuming their advance.

Cauldrus stood near the edge of the encampment, gazing into the distant horizon where the darkness loomed beyond sight, in these lands, even the sky blocked out the beauty of the stars it seemed.

Then, faintly, like a whisper carried by the wind, he felt something.

Weak, distant, yet unmistakably from the elven lands.

Cauldrus immediately reached for a small, elegant crystal embedded in a golden frame. With a simple chant, the crystal flickered with soft light, and an image of an elf back in the kingdom appeared. The elf, a royal attendant, bowed upon seeing him.

"Your Majesty," the elf greeted.

"Has anything happened in the kingdom?" Cauldrus asked without delay. "I sensed something."

The elf blinked in surprise but quickly composed himself. "Nothing unusual, Your Majesty. The demons have yet to breach our borders, and our defenses remain strong. There has been no disturbance."

Cauldrus frowned slightly. His instincts had never failed him before, yet there was no tangible evidence of any threat.

"…I see," he murmured. "Maintain vigilance. If anything changes, I am to be informed immediately."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

With that, the connection ended, and Cauldrus remained still for a long moment.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. But with no proof, no sign of immediate danger, he had no choice but to let it go, at least, for the time being.

With a slow breath, he turned back toward the army, his focus once again set on the mission ahead.

…

Back in the elven kingdom, high above in the royal palace, Ithil’s clone stood on a balcony overlooking the vast, ancient forests below, calm, composed. His sharp green eyes, always filled with a sense of unreadable depth, now gleamed with something else, satisfaction.

A small, knowing smile formed on his lips as he whispered to himself, "it’s time."

Then, in an instant, his form flickered and dispersed into nothingness, leaving behind only the cold night breeze rustling through the palace corridors. He then reappeared back in his quarters, in the middle of his own study.

Slowly, his body broke down, fading away as part of him turned into wood that moved as though it had life in it, into the ground.