What does it feel like to travel through a world torn apart by war? For Bastain, it was nothing short of a waking nightmare.
Everywhere he went, he was greeted by the stench of death and the chaos of battlefields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The land was a tapestry of conflict, where the lives of mortals were snuffed out as quickly and easily as the flickering of a candle in the wind.
Bastain knew now with certainty: the catastrophe unfolding in the North wasn't some isolated event. No, it was merely one ripple in the vast ocean of a global war. Compared to the carnage he had witnessed across the world, the Northern disaster seemed like a small skirmish, a mere prelude to the horrors yet to come.
The world was crumbling, and the mysterious elven plague was spreading like wildfire, leaving devastation in its wake.
As Bastain traveled from one ravaged land to another, he shared conversations with other refugees, survivors who had seen and suffered far more than anyone should. From them, he gathered whispers, fragments of truth that sent chills down his spine. Words like "undeclared war," "overwhelming spellcasters," and "war machines fueled by limitless power" painted a terrifying picture of what was happening.
The war that raged across the world had no formal declaration, no banners raised. Instead, it was a conflict that simmered in the shadows before exploding into violent clashes. It wasn't as if the elves had launched an all-out attack from the start, but their confrontations with other races, tribal skirmishes, territorial disputes; began happening almost simultaneously across the globe.
No one was a fool. Despite the carefully crafted excuses, it became clear to anyone paying attention: the elves had provoked these conflicts. They had planned for this, stoking the flames of war with a precision that hinted at years, perhaps centuries of preparation.
In some regions, the elven tribes made no effort to conceal their intentions. They marched into battle openly, weapons drawn, and magic blazing. And for many races, what initially seemed like isolated tribal friction soon proved to be a fatal miscalculation. Their delayed responses, their hesitations, all played into the elves' hands. The world had underestimated their ambition, and now it was paying the price.
This was just the beginning.
Among the four ancient races, each had its own strengths: the elves were renowned for their mastery of magic, the giants dominated hand-to-hand combat, the dwarves forged superior weapons and armor, and the dragons, though few in number, possessed unmatched individual strength. For centuries, this delicate balance of power had kept the world in check.
But now, that balance had been shattered.
On every battlefield, the elves held an undeniable advantage. Their forces were bolstered by towering war golems, massive constructs of metal, and unimaginable war machines, steel chariots that roared like thunder across the plains. These weapons of war weren't hastily thrown together; they were the culmination of long, deliberate preparation. The elves had been waiting for this moment.
Among the refugees, the most heart-wrenching stories came from those who had faced the elves' spellcasters. "The most terrifying thing," one survivor said, his voice trembling, "is their magic. Our people have spellcasters, and you've likely seen the limits of magic yourself. But the elves… their power has no end."
In every tale, the elves' magical prowess defied understanding. One account stood out: "Our mages use magic shields to block attacks, but they're fragile. A common warrior can break them. Yet, the elves… their shields can withstand the force of a meteor summoned by an archmage."
Magic shields were simple spells, a basic defensive measure that most apprentice mages could conjure. They were practical in theory, converting magical energy into physical defense. But in actual combat, they were nearly useless. The energy drain on the caster was immense, and the protection they offered was laughably limited. A few rocks, a volley of arrows, maybe, but against real threats? They crumbled.
Even shields created by the greatest wizards were barely enough to withstand basic projectile weapons like flying stones or slings. Their value was in their low cost, ease of use, and quick casting. But against the raw force of giants, dragons, and dwarven war machines, such defenses were typically ineffective.
Yet somehow, the elven spellcasters had turned this simple spell into an unbreakable fortress. Their shields didn't just deflect rocks, they withstood the firepower of entire armies. And it wasn't just defensive magic that set them apart. With basic spells, these elves tore through giant warriors, obliterated dwarven battalions, and even hunted down dragons as though they were nothing more than prey.
Bastain had witnessed this with his own eyes. The world's greatest warriors and mages, those who had once stood as bastions of hope and power, were now being swept aside like leaves in a storm. The elves had unleashed something ancient and terrible, and no one seemed capable of stopping them.
This war was no accident. It was a meticulously crafted campaign, designed to plunge the world into chaos. And Bastain could feel it in his bones: the worst was still to come.
The low-level magic shield could be raised with nothing more than a fleeting thought, rendering even the deadliest assassin's surprise attack useless.
"This defies everything we know about spellcasting. Is their magic power… limitless?"
The question gnawed at Bastain as he recalled a passage from the Book he had studied day ago. His mind flashed back to that haunting scene, the spire that absorbed countless souls, a moment that had played over and over in his nightmares.
There, before his eyes, was the answer to the question that had haunted him for so long.
"Why would the elves do this? Why would they disrupt the natural order of the world?"
Evil for evil's sake, this wasn't how the world worked, at least not for most people. When someone crossed such a terrible line, it was usually for some grand benefit, a gain that outweighed the price paid. But what could possibly justify this madness? What were the elves after?
Bastain had never understood the devastation in the North. If the elves were simply after the barren lands, they could have stormed in and taken it with ease. The North was harsh and unyielding, who would fight for it? Why go through the effort of disrupting the natural cycle of life and death with such convoluted methods?
But then the answer came back to him, almost like a whisper from that dark dream:
"The earth's veins will instinctively gather energy, the souls of the dead drawn to a single point... No, that point doesn't just gather energy, it devours souls. Yet, as the energy builds, it should inevitably explode, too powerful to contain. And yet… when the concentration reaches a certain level, it doesn't. It vanishes. Like a river disappearing into the void. An enormous power… simply evaporates."
Bastain shuddered. At that moment, the realization hit him like a hammer.
The elves had found a way to harness the very essence of the earth itself. They had mastered the ability to intercept this immense, soul-infused power, the blood of the earth. And in doing so, they had tapped into a seemingly endless supply of magical energy.
The elves' spellcasters, who wielded what seemed like limitless power, were no anomaly. They were just the tip of the iceberg. The war puppets, the colossal golems, the steel chariots, they were all manifestations of this new source of energy. In the past, these magical constructs had always been limited by their insatiable need for replenishment. It drained their armies, left them vulnerable. But now? They were mass-producing these war machines, sending them into battle as if they were nothing more than expendable cannon fodder.
"How do we fight against that?" Bastain muttered, despair welling up inside him. "There's no way to fight…"
As a fledgling spellcaster himself, he felt the crushing weight of hopelessness settle over him. How could any army, any nation, stand against a civilization with limitless magic? The elves weren't just challenging the world; they were prepared to conquer it. If their power was truly infinite, then the battle was already lost.
"They've been planning this for ages. That magic shield… it's not some simple, low-level spell. And those war machines…" Bastain's voice trailed off, and he sank into a deep silence.
The refugees he encountered along his journey didn't seem to share his dread. They looked haggard and worn, yes, but not defeated. Many believed the elves had only gained the upper hand because of the surprise of their attack. In their minds, once the rest of the world rallied, once the other races joined forces, it would only be a matter of time before the elves were overwhelmed, three armies to every one elven battalion.
But Bastain wasn't so sure. As a spellcaster, even a novice, he understood what an empire built on infinite magic could do.
"They're not just powerful," he whispered to himself, a hollow chill settling in his chest. "They've become… living gods."
A single spellcaster with unlimited magical power could set mountains ablaze and boil entire seas with just a thought. Imagine what an entire civilization wielding that same boundless power could achieve. The wonders and miracles they could create would be endless.
They could ascend to the moon, pluck the stars from the heavens, and reshape the very fabric of life and death. Nothing would be beyond their reach, only the limits of their imagination could hold them back.
But even in his awe, Bastain couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.
"If it were really that perfect, they would have done it already," he muttered to himself, pacing as his thoughts whirled. "If they had this technology for so long, why haven't we seen these changes before?"
His mind calmed as he pieced things together. He remembered the northern elf village, where the winters had mysteriously given way to eternal spring more than three decades ago. That should have been the first sign. If the elves had harnessed such power back then, the world should already be drastically different.