For Lance, things didn’t appear too straight forward, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. After the meeting, he approached Melian to dig deeper, to understand better what the situation was and why the elves seemed divided in opinion. He couldn’t understand why they’d make such a strong threat and a few days later not follow through. Most importantly, why did it seem like his goblin tribe was somehow important? First the humans, then the elves.
In the end, Lance didn’t get any answers to his questions. Melian was more skilled in her lipsing game than Lance could even compare.
…
While Lance and the others received the information from Melian, the council of races were gathered elsewhere discussing the future. The meeting was held within one of the human kingdoms where all the different representatives of the different races were in attendance as a heavy silence filled the grand chamber.
The walls were adorned with intricate banners of gold, blue, and crimson, reflected the power of the three dominant races gathered within. A massive round table of polished obsidian stood at the center, surrounded by rulers of the humans, dwarves, and elves, each bearing not just the weight of their people’s future, but that of the world as they knew it.
Seated along one side were the six human kings, each dressed in their respective royal garments, while some wore lighter armour piece, their expressions stern. Across from them, the four dwarven leaders sat, their broad frames adorned with heavy battle-forged armour. Towards the head of the table, the elven ruler, an imposing figure draped in flowing white robes, was flanked by five elven elders, their aged yet sharp eyes carrying centuries of wisdom. Unlike the rest seated there, these elves had indeed lived for multiple centuries, some even millennia.
The air was thick with tension as the meeting commenced.
"The war is at a standstill," one of the human kings admitted, his tone grim. "We have made no progress."
"The demon lord remains untouched," added another, his fingers tapping the table. "Despite our victories against their forces, we have yet to reach the core of their strength. Not even a glance at the demon lord’s after image."
A dwarven leader let out a grunt as he spoke. "Of course, we haven’t. We’re wading through waves of fodder while the true enemy sits untouched." His thick fingers curled into a fist against the table. "Their strategy is clear, wear us down, bleed us dry, and its working."
One of the elven elders sighed, shaking his head. "It is indeed working. Our soldiers are exhausted, our forces stretched thin. We slay thousands of lesser demons each day, yet it makes no difference. The enemy does not falter. How they were able to gather such an unreasonable number remains a mystery."
The elven ruler finally spoke, his voice calm yet commanding. "The demon horde is unending, but their strategy is not invincible. If we continue this way, we will be consumed." His gaze swept across the table. "Of course, our way forward is rather simple, and I’m sure we’ve all thought about it."
One of the human kings leaned forward. "We bypass the lesser forces."
Several heads turned in his direction.
"Our main forces, our true power, will ignore the lesser demons. Instead, we will strike directly at the demon lord. The demon lord commands the horde, if we cut off the head, the body will collapse."
"Theoretically," an elven elder added cautiously. "But executing this plan will not be easy."
"We already know that," the human king acknowledged. "Which is why we must redirect the burden of the lesser demons elsewhere."
There was a brief pause from every group. "The smaller races," one of the elves murmured.
"Beastkin, orcs, ogres, goblins," a dwarven leader listed.
One of the human kings nodded. "We deploy them to hold back the tide while we cut through the heart of the enemy."
Light murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some looked uncertain, others contemplative.
One of the dwarves exhaled sharply. "The orcs and ogres will fight, that much is clear. They crave battle. The beastkin... They are not so easily controlled, but they too understand survival."
A human king frowned. "The goblins, though…"
Another dwarf let out a low chuckle. "Goblins? They won’t last a day in a battle of this scale."
One of the elven elders raised a brow. "And yet… we have heard reports of a goblin tribe unlike the others."
There was a shift in the atmosphere. The topic had been deliberately avoided until now.
A dwarven leader, not one for subtlety, leaned forward. "That reminds me, what exactly is the story behind this human, leading goblins?"
A brief silence followed. The question was directed at the humans, who exchanged glances.
One of the kings finally sighed. "We do not know the details."
Listening to what the human king said, the dwarves as though choreographed, raised their brows in unison.
Another human king elaborated, "I know you’ve heard you stories, but we too have no idea who this human is or where he came from. Concerning the contact made, we have no idea either. It was orchestrated by the Godking, and of course, after that, no one had made any contact… I’m sure we all understand."
That statement alone was enough to settle the room. No one questioned the Godking’s will, not even the elves who had roamed the lands for millennia. They remained quiet, though their sharp gazes suggested intrigue. Not to mention, they had made contact, and that was best kept to themselves.
The dwarves, on the other hand, were less patient. "Do you really know nothing about why?" A dwarf asked.
One of the human kings shook his head. "The Godking does not explain his decisions to anyone, nor those anyone possess the guts to enquire."
Listening, the dwarf scoffed. "Tch. That man plays his own game."
The elven ruler steered the conversation back on track. "It does not matter. This human-led goblin tribe exists. It is strong enough to be noticed." He met the gazes of the others. "And that is enough to warrant their involvement in this war. Perhaps, the goblins will amount to more than we expect."
A final silence settled over the room as the decision was solidified. Everyone agreed, the major forces of the humans, elves, and dwarves would cut through the demon main ranks and strike at the heart. The smaller races, orcs, beastkin, goblins, and ogres would hold back the tide, ensuring the larger forces could execute their assault.
With no further debate, the meeting concluded. As the leaders rose from their seats, their minds were set.
The war was about to take a decisive turn.
…
While the council to decide the fate of the world sat, elsewhere, a single elf made his own plans alone.
--Brief FlashBack--
The halls of the elven council stood timeless, their walls woven with centuries of history. Ancient tapestries, each embroidered with the victories and wisdom of past elders, lined the grand chamber where decisions for the elven race had been made for thousands of years. To many, this place was sacred—a testament to the long and steady rule of elvenkind, but to Ithil, it was a prison of stagnation.
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Seated among the elders, his face bore the same serenity and calm expected of an elf of his stature. But beneath that calm facade, his mind churned with a single thought:
They are unfit to lead.
The elders, some of them older than nations, prided themselves on their wisdom, yet they clung to the past like vines wrapped around a dying tree. For centuries, they had maintained the status quo, refusing to advance, refusing to change, refusing to evolve. The elven race remained as it had always been, proud, distant, and fading. The newer generation always weaker and backwards than the former.
Ithil had seen the world beyond their forests. The humans, the dwarves, even the monsters—they all grew stronger with each passing age. Meanwhile, the elves remained trapped in their traditions, their so-called wisdom little more than an excuse to do nothing.
It was a waste.
A waste of power. A waste of potential.
Ithil had made up his mind long ago. If the elders would not change, then they would be replaced.
And the time for that change was at hand. All his decades of planning was soon to play out.
…
Days earlier, Ithil had crafted a clone of himself, a perfect copy meant to handle surface matters while his true body pursued the heart of his plan. This was one of the only opportunities he would get after all.
Now, deep within the most ancient part of the elven forest, Ithil’s real body moved through a land untouched by time.
Massive root systems covered the ground and entirety of the atmosphere, twisting and sprawling in every direction like veins of an ancient giant. The space was otherworldly, like a page out of a horror and supernatural piece, bathed in eternal twilight. A dim, ghostly green and blue hue pulsed through the roots, providing just enough light to navigate shadowy forms, no clear source of light in sight anywhere, but there was light this deep underground.
Here, deep within the sacred forest, lay the key to the future, strength, progress… his revolution.
Ithil pressed forward, his steps careful but determined. This place, this forgotten realm, was older than the elves themselves.
According to legend, the very first elves had emerged from these roots, born from the lifeblood of the forest itself. Over the millennia, the elders had forbidden anyone from venturing here, claiming it was sacred and untouchable. It was always guarded by the ruling king of the elves.
Either way, Ithil disagreed. To him, this place held power. A power the elders refused to wield, though blatant. It didn’t matter anymore though, as he would soon claim it.
His hands traced along the roots as he walked. They pulsed beneath his fingertips, alive with something ancient. He could feel it—a heartbeat, slow and deep. The forest was alive.
And if the elves would not change willingly, then he would force them to evolve.
As he felt himself get closer to his goals, he thought back to conversations he had held with the elders several times. The long, exhausting debates where he had tried and tried to make them see reason.
They had dismissed him. Over and over again. As he thought about them, he murmured to himself as he continued pressing forward.
"The elves are eternal. We do not rush as the younger races do."
"We have survived this long, and we shall continue as we always have."
"What you propose is reckless, Ithil."
"Power is not the answer."
"Fools. Fossils."
He had once respected them. Even admired them. But their inability to act was a crime against their own people.
The elves could be so much more.
Not just observers of the world. Not just a dwindling race content with their past glories.
They could be rulers. The perfect race to see the world through its evolution into something more, eternal pioneers.
If the elders wish to be watchers, he would send them to a more suitable place to do so. He, however, would be the one to lead the new generation forward, even if it meant destroying the very foundation of their rule.
In the end, history would not remember the elders who sat and did nothing. It would remember the one who changed everything.