Chapter 258: Chapter 258 – Is it….Worth It?

The night bled beneath a shrouded moon.

Ash floated through the air like black snow, whispering over the corrupted roots of the World Tree, whose once-radiant light now flickered — pale and trembling — against the void above.

From the ridge, Luca stood still, his breath steady but his heart pounding.

Below him stretched a nightmare.

Hundreds of cultists in dark robes had formed a massive circle, their chants crawling through the air like a swarm of locusts. The ground within their circle glowed faintly, etched with runes pulsing a deep, hungry red.

And at the center of it all — clustered protectively around the dying roots of the World Tree — were dozens of dark elves, their obsidian skin glistening with sweat and blood under the dim light.

They weren’t fighting for victory.

They were enduring.

Every stance, every strike screamed desperation — a people protecting their last fragment of hope.

Luca’s eyes narrowed. His voice was a breath against the wind.

“…That’s surely her.”

The image of the silver-haired elf by the waterfall flashed in his mind — proud, cold, beautiful in the morning mist.

He had thought her strange then, an anomaly among elves. Perhaps cursed.

But now… seeing others like her, fighting, bleeding — it was undeniable.

Dark elves. An entire race.

His mind raced.

Then why… why were they never mentioned in any of my playthroughs?

And then —

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

A scream tore through the night. Luca’s gaze snapped toward it — and his stomach twisted.

One of the dark elves had fallen to her knees, clutching the stump where her arm had been moments ago. Her silver blood splashed across the roots, shining faintly before being swallowed by the dirt.

The cultists surrounding her laughed — a chorus of madness and delight.

“Look! Even their blood glows! Hahaha!”

“Burn her, burn them all— the cursed ones!”

Luca’s fists trembled. His sabers hummed faintly at his sides, sensing his fury.

…No. Not now. It’s not the time to think about that. I need to reach the World Tree.

His eyes swept the battlefield again — studying the movement of the cultists.

If he struck fast enough, if he caught them off guard, he could break through and get inside— but once surrounded, escape would be suicide.

He exhaled sharply, lowering his gaze.

Is it…. worth it?

For a fleeting instant, he hesitated — the world muffled beneath the echo of that question.

Then memories poured in.

Elowen’s face, tearing but hopeful, whispering, “You can do it Luca.”

The Elf Queen, serene and radiant even in sorrow, entrusting him with her people’s fate.

The elves he’d saved before — their hopeful eyes now replaced by screams he could almost hear.

Sometimes it takes beyond the forest to save it!

And finally — the girl by the waterfall, her silver hair catching sunlight, pride shimmering in her gaze.

Now she was here — tired, desperate, covered in ash and blood.

His breath quivered. A lump formed in his throat. As he tried to convince himself.

In my every playthrough… I never had a chance to save this forest. It was already destroyed every time I came here for a quest.

But if this time I have a chance… maybe this is one of the keys to save this world. The game … .had a script, but this world has its own fate , and….

Luca opened his eyes.

The hesitation was gone. What remained was fire.

He drew his sabers — one black, one white — their blades erupting with contrasting light, slicing through the night like the birth of dawn and dusk.

“I’ll rewrite it myself.”

And with a single step, Luca vanished — the ridge exploding beneath his feet as he shot forward.

Wind howled in his wake.

Flames of aura trailed his sabers as he dived straight into the heart of the cultists’ formation — a streak of silver and shadow tearing through the circle of madness.

The first scream was drowned by the roar of wind.

A blur split through the outer ranks of the cultists — a streak of black and white light flashing in the moonlight.

Before anyone could even react, two heads flew into the air, spiraling through smoke and mana haze before hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Wh—what the—?! He’s—!”

“Kill him! Don’t let him near the circle!”

The cultists raised their blades, but Luca was already gone — his twin sabers tracing arcs of death through the red-lit air. Every step he took was deliberate, silent, precise. The sabers hummed as if resonating with his heartbeat.

One swing — a throat opened.

A twist — a ribcage shattered.

A backstep, a half-turn — another cultist’s face split apart as light traced through flesh.

The formation broke.

“Stop him! Close the gap—aaaghhh!”

Luca’s body moved before thought.

He ducked beneath a blade, spun, and brought his white saber upward — slicing clean through a robed torso. Blood sprayed, painting his face in crimson. The black saber followed, piercing another’s chest and flinging the body aside.

Faster.

He felt the tempo of the world shift — and then, something clicked.

The world’s sound fell away. The screams dulled. The flicker of flames slowed.

Even the blood in the air seemed to hang, suspended like shattered rubies.

“Time… slow.”

His voice was barely a whisper. His eyes glowed faintly — a dull, ominous silver.

Within the stillness, his movements became a dance. He dashed forward — every motion sharp, measured, unstoppable.

To the cultists, it was chaos — their comrades falling faster than they could blink.

But to Luca, it was a symphony of slowed breaths, each second stretching, bending to his will.

He carved through the first wave. Dozens fell before they even realized someone had entered their ranks.

The second wave tried to regroup, their chanting shifting into a counter-ritual, summoning black tendrils of corrupted mana — but Luca sliced through the spell itself, severing the chant before it could finish.

The air screamed as his blades collided with corrupted energy — sparks bursting into ghostly flames.

He lunged, twisted, parried — one saber blocking a spear, the other tearing through its wielder’s neck in the same motion.

Every breath came heavy. His muscles screamed. But his eyes — his eyes only burned brighter.

The third wave rushed him from every direction, shouting prayers to their unholy god, their weapons glowing with blood runes. Luca leapt — twisting midair as his sabers crossed.

Light and shadow erupted.

A shockwave tore through the ground — a perfect crescent line splitting open the soil.

When the flash faded, the third formation lay broken — their corpses sprawled across the glowing ritual lines, their blood dimming the once-bright runes.

And through the carnage, a path had formed.

A straight, blood-streaked corridor — leading directly to the World Tree.

The cultists’ chants turned to panicked murmurs.

“Wh-what is he—?!”

“He’s cutting through our ritual! Stop him! Stop—”

Luca’s feet hit the ground, dirt scattering beneath his boots. His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling like a beast’s.

He looked up — and for a moment, saw them.

The dark elves — the last dozen or so, standing around the World Tree, their weapons trembling in exhausted hands.

Their eyes were on him — wary, tense, afraid.

To them, he was an unknown — a stranger drenched in blood, his twin sabers dripping crimson light, his aura half holy, half accursed.

One of the elves hissed, raising her blade.

“Who dares approach the Mother Tree?!”

Luca didn’t answer immediately. His lungs burned, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue — not his, but that of countless cultists. He exhaled slowly, lowering one saber to the ground.

The night wind brushed his hair aside, revealing his eyes — glowing a deep, unrelenting crimson.

He looked past the elves, to the roots of the World Tree — dark veins of corruption creeping through its bark like poison.

“…I’m here to stop this,” he finally said, voice low, heavy. “Not to harm you.”

The elves didn’t move. The tension was suffocating — until Sylthara herself turned from the tree, her face pale and eyes bloodshot.

Her gaze locked with Luca’s.

And in that instant, something inside her stilled — as if she recognized, somewhere within that crimson fire, the same desperation burning inside her.

The world was silent for a heartbeat.

Then, distant thunder rolled.

The ground trembled as another surge of cultists screamed from beyond the bloodied path.

Before Sylthara could even say anything, a heavy voice cracked through the chaos —

“You dare defile our god’s mission—die!”

A massive cultist, easily twice Luca’s size, lunged from the left, his eyes glowing sickly green. The corrupted axe in his hands pulsed with foul mana, splitting the air as it came down.

Luca’s eyes snapped up—his sabers crossed in reflex.

Clang!

The impact sent a shockwave through the clearing. Dust and splinters erupted, pushing him a few steps back as his boots scraped against the dirt. His arms rattled, the sheer weight of the blow numbing his shoulders.

“Tch…” He grit his teeth, steadying his breath. The cultist sneered, drool leaking from his mouth.

“You bleed like any other mortal, boy. Kneel before—”

Luca’s voice cut through him, quiet but sharp as steel.

“Second Meridian Cycle.”

A faint pulse of silver light shimmered through his veins. The next moment—

SWISH!

His body vanished from where he stood. The cultist’s grin froze as Luca reappeared behind him, sabers dripping red.

For a heartbeat, the giant didn’t move. Then, a dark line formed from his shoulder to his hip—

SLASH—

His body split clean in two.

The axe fell first, thudding into the dirt. Then came the rest—blood spraying across the roots of the World Tree like a scarlet rain.

Luca exhaled, voice low and edged.

“It’s not like I haven’t killed one before.”

The last echoes of the cultist’s laugh died with him.

Silence followed—broken only by the crackle of corrupted mana and the soft hiss of burning soil.

Luca turned again, his breathing heavy but eyes unwavering, and began walking toward the dark elves.

They had drawn into a tighter ring around the World Tree, their blades raised, armor cracked and smeared with soot. Each step he took made their muscles tense further.

One elf whispered, “He’s human…”

Another hissed, “No—look at his eyes. He reeks of mana corruption.”

Their silver gazes followed him with distrust, every movement of his sabers reflecting off their silver armor.

And then, her voice—firm, commanding—cut through the murmur.

“Let him come inside.”

The elves froze.

Sylthara stood there, her silver hair glinting faintly under the moonlight, her expression cold but eyes faintly trembling with exhaustion.

“Princess—” one protested.

“Do it,” she said again, sharper this time.

The hesitation broke. The dark elves parted reluctantly, forming a narrow path toward her.

Luca finally stepped through, exhaling a slow sigh of relief.

He lowered his sabers, his boots squelching through the blood-soaked soil, and started toward her—

“Than—”

A blade flashed.

Cold steel kissed his throat.

A dagger’s edge pressed against his skin, close enough that a single breath could draw blood. The pressure was steady, practiced. Not a bluff.

Luca froze, his crimson eyes locking with golden ones—fierce, unyielding, and filled with both fury and pain.

The world seemed to stop for a second.

Flames flickered behind them, painting the scene in violent red and gold.

Luca’s jaw tightened, a twitch of annoyance crossing his face. Seriously?

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Only stared back, his crimson gaze just as s

harp.

For a heartbeat, two worlds collided in silence — light and shadow, blood and steel, distrust and something deeper neither could name yet.

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