Arpious of the Planes

Chapter 569 The Elven King

In this climactic moment, the combatants had reached the zenith of their abilities. Their unity and unwavering determination had brought about a battle of unprecedented proportions, a dazzling display of destructive energy. The room bore the scars of their epic clash, a testament to the sheer force of their final, desperate stand.

The explosion was a blinding, deafening eruption of golden and shadowy energy, tearing the throne room asunder. Marble, gold, and debris were sent flying in all directions as the cataclysmic force consumed the chamber. In the end, there was no clear victor.

The battle had ended in a destructive crescendo, leaving all three combatants in a tattered and bloodied state, just barely alive. They lay amidst the rubble of the throne room, their powers expended and their bodies battered. Their last, desperate gambit had brought a temporary cessation to the conflict, but it had come at great cost. Each combatant was left on the brink of death, their bodies broken and their strength all but spent. The throne room had been reduced to a chaotic, ruinous wasteland, bearing witness to the epic battle that had unfolded within its once-grand walls.

Tup… Tup… Tup… Tup… Tup… 

"Who… who is that?" I asked as blood poured from my throat and out onto the marble floor. But to my surprise, I was met by the despairing expression of Elara who realized something. It looked like she realized she had been wrong for so long. So long to the point she had come to a solid conclusion… only for it to be shattered in this very moment.

…

(Elara POV) 

The ashen hue of his skin was a stark departure from the fair and luminous complexion he had once possessed. It appeared unnaturally drained of life, evoking a sense of decay. The veins of darkness that coursed beneath the surface formed an intricate, almost pulsating, pattern. They throbbed in sync with the eldritch heartbeat of the malevolent power that held him captive. When he touched something, a chilling sensation akin to death's embrace would follow, leaving a lingering feeling of dread.

His once-entrancing eyes, which had once held the wisdom of centuries, were now pools of abyssal darkness. The inky blackness that replaced his vibrant irises seemed to consume the very essence of light. Malevolence emanated from the bottomless void of his gaze, and anyone who met his eyes felt an unshakeable sense of foreboding as if they were staring into the very heart of darkness.

His once-silver locks, symbolizing the purity and grace of the elven people, had transformed into a chaotic mass of shadowy tendrils. These serpentine strands moved with a life of their own, constantly writhing and undulating like serpents eager to strike. When he unleashed his dark powers, the hair would writhe and lash about, creating an eerie spectacle as it reached out like grasping tendrils.

His elven features, once a symbol of nobility and grace, had been grotesquely distorted by the dark power's influence. The high cheekbones had taken on a jagged, angular appearance, while his delicate jawline had become sharp and cruel. His lips were now forever twisted into a sinister grin that seemed to mock the beauty of his former self. The network of runic tattoos etched across his face glowed with an eerie, purplish light. These inscrutable symbols seemed to be both a source of power and a malevolent seal that bound him to the enigmatic forces that had corrupted his soul.

His regal elven robe had metamorphosed into a sinister, tattered cloak that appeared to have a life of its own. It billowed and writhed as if it were woven from the very essence of darkness. The cloak seemed to draw shadows from the surrounding air, cloaking him in a shroud of foreboding. It was a garment that mirrored the malevolence of its wearer, a stark departure from the elegance of traditional elven attire.

The once-majestic crown that graced his brow had been reshaped into a jagged circlet of obsidian, the very embodiment of malice. It was studded with sinister, blood-red gems that pulsed with an unnatural, fiery light. These malevolent gemstones seemed to capture the essence of suffering and despair, reflecting the depths to which he had fallen.

An aura of palpable darkness and despair clung to him like a shroud. It was as if the very air around him had become heavy with malevolence. Those who entered his presence could feel the weight of dread pressing upon them, an ever-present reminder of the darkness that had conquered his soul and threatened to engulf all in its wake.

The king's once-melodious voice, a source of wisdom and authority, had been transformed into a haunting, eerie whisper. It was as if the very essence of his speech was entwined with the cries of lost souls, their spectral echoes reverberating with a bone-chilling resonance. The utterance of his dark incantations could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest souls.

The king's magical auras had shifted from a harmonious connection with the natural world to a suffocating aura of decay and despair. Wherever he walked, flora withered at his presence, their vibrant life force drained away. The very earth seemed to groan in agony as if bearing the weight of his malevolence. The air around him was heavy with the scent of rot and decay, a grim testament to the blight he now carried.

His malevolent gaze possessed a hypnotic quality that ensnared those unfortunate enough to meet his eyes. It was as though he could peer into the deepest recesses of one's soul, laying bare their innermost fears and insecurities. Those who found themselves caught in his gaze felt a chilling vulnerability and dread that lingered long after they had broken eye contact.

The once-noble demeanor of the Elven King had eroded into a sinister and twisted disposition. His laughter, once a joyful and hearty sound, had morphed into a disturbing, maniacal cackle that echoed through the corridors of his corrupted palace. His movements were predatory, marked by an erratic restlessness as if he were in constant pursuit of something to sate his insatiable hunger for power.

The dark and enigmatic power that had consumed him manifested in terrifying ways. Shadows clung to him like sentient shrouds, seeming to whisper secrets and malevolent counsel. He could bend these shadowy tendrils to his will, distorting reality and weaving them into spells of profound malevolence. When he cast his incantations, they left devastation in their wake, leaving behind landscapes marred by twisted, nightmarish distortions.

The corrupted Elven King was now attended by a retinue of shadowy, eldritch beings that were drawn to his malevolence. These grotesque and distorted entities were eerie echoes of the once-elegant creatures that had served the elven royalty. They emanated an aura of pure dread and were as obedient to his will as they were unsettling to behold. Their presence further emphasized the perversion of the natural world around him.

The artifacts of his rule, once symbols of wisdom and authority, had been tainted by the dark power that now coursed through his veins. His staff, once a representation of his stewardship over the natural world, had transformed into a jagged, obsidian rod. It pulsated with malevolence and seemed to channel the very essence of darkness. The staff became both a symbol of his dominion over corrupted forces and an instrument of unfathomable destruction.

The fall of the Elven King had become a sorrowful and cautionary legend among the elves. He was now remembered as a tragic figure, a living embodiment of the ever-present danger of delving too deeply into forbidden magics and enigmatic powers. His legacy served as a grim reminder that even the most noble and wise among their kind could be seduced by the allure of forbidden knowledge and descend into the abyss of darkness.

Yet, despite all that, here he was, in a form that distinguished him from the rest. With a wave of his hand, the tattered and broken body of the elven queen squirmed and cracked, the audible sound of bones breaking echoing throughout the room. It was nauseating and extremely unpleasant to listen to. 

"We have to stop him… he's about to do something dangerous," I muttered, but as soon as I tried to stand up, a jolt of pain washed through me. It felt as if hundreds of hot iron pokers were being stabbed into my organs with each simple movement that I attempted to make. 

"No shit, asshole… you never told me about another one," Arpious replied, only to see my expression twist and contort, allowing her to join me in my own shock and awe. I didn't even have to verbally tell her what was happening as she somehow instinctively knew. "The king rises from the dead… or he was never dead in the first place." 

Suddenly, the queen breaking and snapping like a doll was sucked into the king's gray hand. Her neck was within his grasp and with a single squeeze, he snapped her neck. It was as simple as that, releasing her soul into the air, only to grab it and pull it back down, forcing it straight into his mouth and swallowing with all his might.