NOVGO.NET Chapter 743: Smell of Death [6]
Chapter 743: Smell of Death [6]
While the battlefield above devolved into carnage, another clash unfolded at the edge of the chaos.
The gray-robed man drifted backward through the air, hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed to the point of mockery. The violence around him did not seem to concern him in the slightest. His dark eyes followed the movements of the battlefield with idle curiosity, as if he were watching a distant storm.
However, this was only what he showed on the surface. Internally, he was in shock. It was not even the ferocity of the three races that surprised him, but the capability of the young necromancer and his undead.
Now that he was seeing it face to face, he could somewhat understand Brian’s feelings.
This was someone he himself would not dare to confront if they were at full power, so what hope would anyone weaker than him have?
To avoid any further surprises, the gray-robed figure wanted to get rid of Michael as soon as possible. If before his desire to do so had stemmed from annoyance at the youth ruining his plan, now it was out of necessity.
It was easy to judge a necromancer’s strength, and Michael was clearly one of the abnormal ones. Even Rank Three necromancers did not possess this level of power. He was obviously different, or he had a secret. Either way, this person was a threat.
Opposite the gray-robed figure stood the elven representative.
Her feet hovered in midair, long hair flowing behind her as mana gathered around her slender form. Her expression remained calm, but the air around her was anything but.
Below them, several undead and members of the three races surrounded Michael as they either protected him or tried to stabilize his condition.
The gray-robed man watched the carnage below for a few more seconds before exhaling softly.
"This is becoming troublesome," he said calmly. "We should do this the easy way."
His gaze shifted past the elven representative and locked onto Michael below, bloodied, shaking, yet still kneeling upright at the center of the storm.
"Hand the boy over," he continued. "End this farce, and the rest of you may yet live."
The elf did not answer immediately.
Her eyes followed his gaze to Michael, to the undead throwing themselves into certain destruction, to the races bleeding and dying simply to buy him time.
It was not that elves were indifferent to those outside their race, but the current situation was different. It involved them as well.
The elven representative looked back at the gray-robed man.
"Is that a threat?" she asked calmly.
The gray-robed man smiled.
The elf’s expression did not change.
Mana gathered around her.
Wood grew where nothing had been, pale at first, then darkening as if decades passed in a heartbeat.
The gray-robed man’s smile lingered.
"Call it whatever you like," he said. "A warning, perhaps. I am giving you a chance to be sensible."
The elven representative responded after a brief silence.
"For the elves who were killed because of you," she said, her voice steady, "I will give you a path to retribution. Kill yourself or be killed by me."
The gray-robed man sighed.
"You truly believe you can demand anything from me?" he asked, amused.
"I am not demanding," she replied. "I am offering."
Then her aura shifted.
"Law Skill. Nature’s Judgement," she said softly.
The air below them trembled, and the world answered.
Vines erupted from the air itself. Thick cords of living wood snapped into existence and shot toward the gray-robed man from four directions at once, twisting and spiraling, each strand covered in sharp thorns that glowed faintly.
The gray-robed man spoke in a calm voice.
"Law of Withering."
The words landed like a decree.
The space around him turned pale and empty. Even sound seemed to hesitate. Her vines, still mid-flight, lost their vitality in an instant. The thorns curled. The wood turned brittle, then shattered into dust that fell like dead leaves.
The elven representative’s eyes sharpened.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.
The gray-robed man smiled again, but this time it was colder.
"You see?" he said. "This is why the easy way exists. Hand him over."
The elf did not answer.
Instead, she moved.
Her hands lifted, fingers spreading as if she were grasping the air itself. The mana around her thickened, then turned verdant, and the space between her palms rippled like water.
The gray-robed man’s smile did not vanish, but it tightened.
The elf’s voice was quiet.
"Bloom."
The world answered.
A crown of branches exploded into existence above her head. Leaves formed, then sharpened, each one thin as paper and bright with a green edge that looked almost metallic. They spun in a widening halo, then shot forward in a storm.
A thousand leaf blades.
The gray-robed man’s robe fluttered.
He lifted a hand and drew a line through the air, slow and effortless.
The line became a boundary.
Everything that crossed it aged.
The leaf blades hit the invisible boundary and turned gray in an instant. Their green edges dulled. Their structure collapsed. They crumbled into dust that drifted downward like dead pollen.
The elf’s eyes narrowed.
She shifted her hands again.
The dust did not fall.
It stopped.
Then it reversed.
The dead particles vibrated, and a low hum filled the air as she forced life back into what his law had emptied. The dust thickened into seeds. The seeds split into sprouts. The sprouts became whips of vine that lashed forward in synchronized strikes.
The gray-robed man’s expression finally changed.
He stepped sideways, his body blurring slightly, and the vines that should have hit him struck only pale air.
A second later, his voice sounded behind her.
"Elegant," he murmured.
The elf did not turn her head.
A root burst from the air beside her cheek like a guard dog snapping at a throat. The gray-robed man leaned back an inch, and the root missed him by a breath, slicing a strand of his hair.