I watched him leave—finally rid of a nightmare, of knowing he would try to fight me or beside me. How many specimens did I lose? How many soldiers, healing resources, how many dead? When he arrived, at least two of my regiments were finished by excessive force. My king refused to comment on anything. He always knew where his plans were headed. But I did not—I was just a commander of at least five thousand elves, a good warrior, but not a strategist. I left that to the intellectuals.
The dwarf lord left at the best moment. I was tasked with keeping him entertained, so my forces had to attack him, even though they knew they could even die. They were orders from our king—we would never question them. So I sent the impulsive, the brave, and finally the mad—all to discover a single crack in his defenses. I found out a lot, but they were not cracks—they were more like strengths.
The last day, it was my turn to be the one to entertain him. Before he could leave to distract our enemies, I went to see him. I took out my best armor and weapon pieces, but no metal on my skin. I had to attend to many of my soldiers with a stomach wound or lung perforation from their breastplate breaking or metal buried in their internal organs. My armor was knotted leather, resistant to almost all elements, tanned for nearly a thousand years.
The stage awaited him—some walls with a few pillars, not counting some rocks. Apparently, he expected a direct fight, so I did not disappoint him. While he was saying his ritual duel words, I jumped toward him. My swords flamed; the magic I used made their edge heat to the point of cutting metal like butter. But he stopped the blow with his shield. I felt as if the magic was absorbed, but I would not give up. While he continued reciting that he fought for justice and the beauty of battle, I used the momentum to attack that same point—after fire with ice, then wind. I hoped to achieve something. When I saw his hand moving behind his back, I jumped to get out of his reach. He drew a hammer, made of a white material that none of those who fought against him, nor I, could determine what it was. He moved slowly. His helmet completely covered him except for a few plates that limited his field of vision but protected his eyes from arrows or stilettos. So I circled him, always striking the same point. I was not ambitious—I was just working what I could. He smiled—I knew he did—a grimace that seemed to see inside that mask. Then he struck the ground, and the world became an inferno.
From the center, blades of more than a meter thick, entirely of stone, emerged. They completely surrounded the area where I was attacking. Like a hunting ant, it trapped me in a cone almost five meters high—but it was the only thing I could do something against him... if he gave me time. The rock began to melt. The bastard had not even stopped crouching, but I was running, avoiding the lava. My boots were meant to be fast, not resistant. So I invoked magic—one of the first I learned when I became a brigade chief: a torrent—magic that made water attack. But so close to the sea, I had more water available. Soon, it began to flood—in seconds, it covered his face. Although the lava was evaporating the water, what it actually achieved was to heat it—boiling water, getting inside the presumptuous king's protections, cooking him without remedy.
Then everything happened fast. The water level began to drop—there was no more lava, only that black thing that remained hot. I tried to bring in more, but I could not. When I turned, I saw he had trapped us, and the ceiling was getting lower. In my desperation, I used my fall to deliver one last blow. It was strong, but without magic or strategy, it was just what I could do when fear gripped me. Suddenly, I was before him. His gaze was red from the boiling water, but I heard him laugh. Then something came from below—his hammer. With the ceiling centimeters from my head, with no space, without a shield to protect me, I attacked. I struck the handle of his weapon in an attempt—at what? I did not know, but I barely slowed its speed. My weapons exploded into pieces, and then I felt myself go through the wall. My back hurt horribly—I supposed I had crossed using the most direct method. I lost consciousness.
"Not bad, High Elf. Look, I leave you a gift. I suppose no one else will come to fight, so I leave your hospitality—I almost made you sweat! Hahahahahaha. "
I opened my eyes. I was in the infirmary. My subordinates had taken care of me all this time—I did not know how long—but they spoke proudly of my achievement. When I finally asked, with my mouth full of dried blood, they showed me. On top of me lay a fragment the size of a couple of copper coins—the piece I had been attacking. Impressed, I tried to grab it, but my hands were bandaged. The impact of my weapons on his hammer had caused such a rebound that I had fractured my fingers. So they brought it closer to me. They told me the kingdom's scientists had investigated it—it was made of dragon scale sheets, interwoven like honeycombs. That was why I could not stand against him!
For a moment, I worried. I was an officer, but this kind of injury could cause my retirement. At that moment, a veritable army of doctors entered. They said the king himself wanted to see me, and since this could not be postponed, all the court's doctors would take care of me with the best of science and magic. Difficult days awaited me. If they were using so many means, it meant there would be no anesthesia.
Two weeks in bed, and I could already walk—far from being a fighter. But in the barracks, I was known as Blue Lightning. They said it because the marks on my eyes from the pain of the healings left me with an aged expression for an elf. An enchantment would heal me, but no one let me. They said it was part of the pride of one who faced dragon scales in the hands of such a formidable enemy and managed to do damage. My blue eyes looked like the tip of a lightning bolt formed by wrinkles. Yet I was standing, and because of that, I was in the king's palace.
Everyone passed me through the halls. It was evident that when they said the king liked to live well, they did not exaggerate—hall after hall of art, exhibition centers where thousands of species contemplated me mute with their glass eyes, all exquisite. Going out into the garden, I appreciated plants that required so much care that at least dozens of gardeners were working all day on them. The king awaited me in a hall at the back, after a vast collection of weapons, many of which I had heard legends about. The king watched me—too late, I realized he had not stopped watching me since I entered.
I did not lift my head; I was on my knees, my side stabbing, my teeth clenched to keep from crying out in pain. He stood up, walked to where I was. I could feel him breathing; he seemed annoyed. Suddenly, a kick sent me to the floor. The pain was high, but not as high as the surprise. Still, I reserved a complaint or grimace.
"Very well, elf. That is how the true possessors of the Blood Elves' blood should conduct themselves. We are not useless cowards. Even with pain, even with shame in the mind before defeat, no one should show that they suffer. That is why we were so important for eons—not because we felt pain or not, but because we did not care."
I managed to get up. We were alone, but I knew that if I tried anything—I was not crazy; I would never do anything against my king—hundreds of specialized assassins would take my life, probably hidden behind the tapestries or in the high ceilings. When he saw that I showed neither gratitude nor hatred, his lip curved slightly—a smile, perhaps? Two doctors checked my new and old wounds. Meanwhile, he gave me a parchment. The seals it contained placed it as a secret guarded for thousands of years by the highest command. As I read it, color abandoned my face—I could even taste blood from my split lips. He analyzed all my movements, but I could not make any. My surprise was so great that I could not imagine anything I could say.
"Indeed, only the highest authorities in my kingdom know of this document. The project began fifteen years ago. Due to a certain human's interference, plans that could have turned out worse fulfilled their objective. Yet his betrayal affected us—not to mention the problems that occurred as a result of some quite annoying desertions. I decided to carry out this plan using selection methods like we did with our pets—only this time, they are heroes."
I listened, forgot the pain, the sorrow, the impact of learning his methods—obsessed with that phrase heroes. There were no such things. All warriors follow a leader; all mercenaries follow money; assassins follow contracts, and mages follow their desire to be stronger. I did not understand where he thought he would get them.
"I understand that you still do not fully grasp what you will be involved in. You see, when we saw human potential, the most capable psychologists developed a profile of what they would have to do to generate people who hate the human and his henchmen.
Blue Lightning? Interesting name. Well, we bought several thousand children—they are easy to get where a gold nugget will make those same children sell their families. But as you see in the document, for the environment to work, they were recovered after we gave the first stimulus."
I could not believe it. The first stimulus, as I understood, consisted of annihilating the villages where they bought these humans. Then they looked for survivors, eliminating adults older than the experiment's age.
"The villages we founded were cared for by a couple of our mages and some young people. We told them it was all the Dark Lord's fault. We educated them for five years; then came another purge."
That was not a purge—that was extermination. They sent mercenaries from a certain "Wolf Clan"—they attacked and killed everyone who did not resist enough. Those who managed to demonstrate aptitude, defended themselves, or eliminated one of them were spared their lives.
"You must know it was not just one village—it was fifteen. Each cleansing gave us at least five people who, at fifteen years old, are full of hatred. In the five relocated villages, they had some true professionals—people with aptitudes who taught them to use weapons and magic. This allowed them to have a motive. And since they already have a goal, they are showing surprising progress."
The last letters were still engraved in my mind. The document dictated that this was not over yet. But these humans, if I trusted the reports, had incredible ability, rivaling my person or even two elven squadrons each.
"This is where you come in. They have about six months before the final cleansing. The mercenary clans could not stand against them—they are seventeen years old and have hatred for the evil that will require a little incentive. Lucky for me, a group of orcs were corrupted by some human experiments, so they are mad with bloodlust. They will be the ones to take care of everything."
Then what did I have to do here? The words kept piling up on my tongue.
"You ask why you are going? Simple: your duty is to train them in tactics. You must supervise the final purge. You are a retired hero—that is how they will know you. So you can fight against the orcs, but you must let the population reduce to five. Those are people who will hate the night creatures to death, the Overlord, and will believe they are doing everything for a greater good. Understand, if there are not five left, you will have to use your judgment on who will not approve the project."
It was a favor to great Oberon. All this must be for a larger plan—one whose reasons escaped me. But I had to say something. Despite the infanticide, the irrational slavery, the sickness of those living on the continent, he would always know what to do. So I answered with a strong, clear, Yes, my king!