Lin En’s command to “eliminate it” crashed through the momentary daze caused by the mental attack like a bolt of lightning.
Magis was the first to respond. He let out a thunderous roar, filled with rage over his companions being attacked and a burning desire for victory.
“All units, attack formation! Advance!”
The elites of the Terminators responded instantly. The circular formation that had been guarding Lin En swiftly stretched into a sharp attack arrow.
Magis was the indomitable tip of that arrow. He stepped first onto Glaze Avenue, forged from fire and frost, leading the charge at full speed.
The smooth, mirror-like black crystal ground faithfully reflected the dark red sky above and the figures of the charging warriors.
The wind roared in their ears, as if they were racing down a path leading straight to hell.
Elena was tightly protected at the center of the formation.
Her eyes were shut, her face pale as paper, every ounce of her strength focused on maintaining the Sanctuary Veil.
The Broodmother’s Spiritual Spike crashed against the invisible barrier like an unseen battering ram, pounding relentlessly.
With each impact, Elena’s body trembled imperceptibly.
A thin thread of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, which she stubbornly swallowed.
She was the only beacon guiding the team through the mental storm.
The Bloodflesh Broodmother clearly had no intention of waiting for death.
When it realized the fast-moving team couldn’t be caught by ordinary tentacles from the sides, dozens of cannon-like, grotesque meat tumors rapidly “grew” on the bloodflesh walls flanking them.
“Pu! Pu! Pu!”
The tumors contracted, spraying out countless streams of emerald liquid and sharp bone spikes, forming a deadly crossfire that rained down on Glaze Avenue.
“Defend!”
Magis roared, raising his massive tower shield above his head like a moving wall, bracing himself at the front of the formation.
“Ssss—”
Highly corrosive acid hissed against the shield, releasing billows of white smoke.
Hard bone spikes hammered down like a torrential storm, sending up showers of sparks.
The pace of battle was tense and efficient.
The team didn’t pause for a second as they advanced through the barrage.
But at that moment, the Broodmother’s mental attack suddenly intensified!
A Spiritual Spike more condensed and malevolent than any before slammed into the Sanctuary Veil.
“Ugh!”
Elena gave a muffled cry of pain.
The Veil flickered violently, its light dimming to the brink of shattering.
Mad Whisper and bloody illusions seeped through in an instant.
Two Dark Elf warriors at the rear faltered, nearly staggering out of Glaze Avenue’s protective bounds.
“Miss Elena!”
Elaine, who had been watching the team’s lifeline, acted without hesitation.
He pulled a small crystal vial containing a blue luminescent liquid from his tactical pouch and swiftly pressed it to Elena’s lips.
“Drink! Concentrated Calm Elixir!”
Almost by instinct, Elena drank down the icy liquid in one gulp.
A clear, pure wave of spiritual energy swept through her near-dried mental sea, like sweet rain after a long drought, swiftly revitalizing every frayed nerve.
The collapsing defense line was forcibly stabilized by this external force.
The Sanctuary Veil’s glow became steady and solid once more.
A hint of color returned to Elena’s face.
She gave Elaine a weak but grateful look, refocusing her will and shutting out the madness once again.
The team’s lifeline was forcibly restored by this precious Alchemical Potion.
But the Broodmother’s patience was clearly at its limit.
At the far end of Glaze Avenue, the ground suddenly heaved, black crystal bursting apart under an immense force from below.
“Listen!”
Three Bloodflesh Praetorians, each over five meters tall and armored with thick bone shells, their arms twisted into monstrous scythes, erupted from the earth with a roar.
They were elite creatures born solely for slaughter and siege, now completely blocking the path.
Yet what truly froze the hearts of every Dark Elf were the dozens of even more twisted figures that emerged, crawling behind and alongside the Praetorians.
They retained the general outlines of Dark Elves, slender and agile, but their bodies had been utterly corrupted and remade by desecrated flesh.
Some arms had become uneven bone blades, others had sprouted disgusting, flightless bat-like wings from their backs.
Their faces still bore traces of pain and confusion from the moment of their death.
They were… kin.
“Kyle… that’s Kyle from Patrol Team Three!”
A warrior’s voice trembled with shock as he recognized one of the Twisted, a scar still visible on his distorted face.
Magis’s breath caught.
He gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Among those warped, numb figures, he saw an elf he had once personally trained on the practice field—a New Recruit he’d scolded for imperfect sword form.
To confront a former comrade turned monster—such horror and sorrow cut deeper than any alien abomination.
“Sss—ha—”
Those bloodflesh humanoid monsters let out inhuman howls, their empty eyes devoid of emotion, following the Broodmother’s will as they charged forward, mindless and insane.
“No—”
A warrior instinctively stepped back.
As sorrow and hesitation threatened to spread, Lin En’s cold, decisive voice stabbed into everyone’s minds like a steel needle:
“They are no longer your kin! To grant them peace is your only mercy! Advance!”
He paused, then issued clear commands:
“Magis, suppress the Praetorians head-on! Fiona, Elaine, clear the flanks! End this quickly!”
Lin En’s words shattered the warriors’ doubts.
That’s right.
The monsters before them were puppets, their kin’s bodies desecrated and enslaved.
Letting them persist in such a state was the greatest cruelty.
Magis’s eyes blazed.
He slammed his shield into the ground with a thunderous crash and charged the three massive Bloodflesh Praetorians.
The Dark Elf warriors’ eyes burned with pain, fury, and resolve as they raised their weapons.
Battle was the last funeral gift they could offer their comrades.
Fiona’s form darted like black lightning, the first to plunge into the fray.
Her sword traced a graceful, lethal arc, slicing through the Twisted “New Recruit’s” neck with no wasted movement.
Elaine became a secretive poison master, each vial he hurled killing the grotesque mutants with ruthless efficiency.
And Lin En became the battlefield’s precise sniper.
He refrained from using wide-area magic, avoiding friendly fire.
His gaze locked on the three Praetorians pressuring Magis.
He raised a finger.
A flicker of barely visible light flashed at his fingertip.
In the next instant, an ice spike—formed from supremely condensed frost magic—shot out at supersonic speed, piercing straight through a Praetorian’s skull.
The monstrous body froze mid-motion, the wound filling with deadly frost, the entire form instantly turning to ice and toppling with a crash.
One clean, fatal shot.
Then the second.
And third.
Lin En executed each elite beast like a cold, merciless Death Executioner, easing the pressure on the front lines.
The warriors stepped in silence over the dust that had once been their kin, sorrow in their eyes hardened into an unbreakable will to kill.
They charged for their final assault at the writhing Bloodflesh Mountain looming ahead.
Through layers of Desolation Mist, stained dark red by sunlight, their final target came into view—Bloodflesh Broodmother, an overwhelming and oppressive presence.
It was a mountain of flesh.
A living mountain, formed from endless masses of writhing, frenzied tissue.
It towered over the crimson wasteland, so vast it seemed to blot out the sky.
Across its surface, gigantic tumors pulsed rhythmically like beating hearts.
Each contraction made the ground tremble, as if the entire wasteland were part of its twisted body.
Each pulse expelled sickening clouds of blood and rot.
And between the surging patterns of flesh, countless twisted, agonized elven faces writhed in torment.
Their features stretched to the limit, mouths open in silent screams, black pus leaking from hollow eyes before they were dragged deeper by the flesh—an eternal, living sculpture of suffering.
Tens of thousands of giant tendrils thrashed across the mountain, churning the dark red Desolation Mist.
Countless eyes of all shapes and sizes opened and closed randomly among the flesh, their gaze wild with greed, hatred, and pure madness, sweeping the surroundings without focus.
This was the source of all calamity.
A cancerous avatar, defiling life and devouring worlds.
Any mortal faced with such a terrifying, godlike being would know despair.
But just as the team was about to set foot on the sticky, blood-soaked earth, an abrupt change occurred.
The entire mountain of flesh suddenly ceased all movement.
Every outstretched tentacle and tumor began to contract inward at blinding speed, as if the whole mountain was undergoing some violent transformation.
In the midst of everyone’s shock and uncertainty, the mountain’s peak exploded as a massive, flower-like tumor tens of meters wide bloomed into a colossal bloodflesh flower.
At its center—rather than a monster—was a figure rapidly taking shape, condensed from countless strands of blood and writhing tissue.
Finally, the figure stabilized.
She possessed the flawless form of an elven woman—tall, alluring, her skin pale as freshly formed jade.
Her eyes were a pure, emotionless crimson.
But dozens of thick, pulsing bloodflesh cables were embedded deep in her back and shoulders, their other ends vanishing into the heart of the flower, as if she were a marionette, an organ extended from the great Broodmother.
All were struck silent by the bizarre, holy beauty of the sight.
They were awed that such a vast, chaotic, devouring abomination could create such perfection.
Which meant—it possessed intelligence!
It possessed self!
At that moment, Elena, still maintaining the Sanctuary Veil, shuddered violently.
She stared at the figure atop the mountain, face draining of color, terror and despair far surpassing even what she’d felt for the Twisted.
“No…”
Her voice trembled.
“That face… that bearing… even desecrated so…”
Fiona looked at her in confusion.
“Miss Elena, do you know her?”
Elena’s lips quivered.
A name nearly lost to history spilled from her mouth, each syllable heavy as a mountain:
“The last Queen of the Golden Elves—Queen Galarno!”
The name exploded like thunder in the minds of every Dark Elf warrior.
A legendary figure, symbolizing the last glory of their ancient race.
Before anyone could recover from the shattering revelation, the “Queen” atop the mountain slowly opened her blood-red eyes, her gaze sweeping indifferently over the small, battle-ready team below—finally settling on Lin En.
A clear, elegant, yet soul-chillingly cold female voice sounded—not through air, but as if resonating from the entire Bloodflesh Mountain, echoing directly in every mind.
It carried a touch of drowsy arrogance, as if newly awakened, gazing down upon all.
“Welcome to my Palace, my children.”