My Fusion System: Fusing Weak Soldiers with Direwolves at the Start-Chapter 93: Woodelves

The heavy doors to the great hall groaned as they swung open, the sound rolling through the cavernous chamber like a low drumbeat. Beyond the threshold, torchlight spilled across the polished stone floor, reaching toward the dais where a solitary figure stood. The man lingered beside the throne, not upon it, his posture rigid yet weighted by thoughts that wandered far beyond the plain wall his eyes rested upon.

The echo of footsteps broke his much desired silence, each strike of boot against stone magnified beneath the vaulted ceiling. The man shifted, tilting his head slightly, as though the sound had tugged him back from some distant shore of thought.

Slowly, he turned to face the intruder. Recognition struck immediately, an unmistakable presence, one even Kaelor would know even without a clear look.

"Master Grant. I see Golden Scales has returned from the much-anticipated meeting with the exile." Viscount Gregory Whitmore’s voice rang through the hall, every syllable wrapped in the refinement of decades of cultivated education. His words carried a natural weight, the kind that commanded both attention and respect. He stood poised, a figure cut from nobility itself, his black hair oiled and neatly combed into place, his chin freshly shaven to the barest skin, so polished and spotless it gleamed under torchlight, as soft and unblemished as a newborn’s.

Descending the steps of the dais with measured grace, Gregory spread his arms as though to embrace both the man and the moment. "How did it go?"

Grant shifted, his hands moving instinctively to the heavy rings adorning his fingers, rubbing their smooth surfaces as though reassurance could be coaxed from precious stones. His jaw worked, teeth clenching and releasing in thought before words spilled out. "I have thought and thought without end about this on my journey back, and everything is as the seer foretold."

His eyes narrowed, shadows flickering in their depths as though reliving each syllable of his exchange with Kaelor.

"He denied me entrance to his town. It was obvious he was concealing something, but his refusal became undeniable truth when he rejected a great portion of the wrought iron. No lord under Count Lancaster would ever spurn iron. Not unless his coffers overflow... or unless he already has an unshakable source."

A glint flashed in Gregory’s eyes, sharper than steel. He placed a deliberate hand upon Grant’s shoulder, his smile thin, wolfish. "I told you. The woman spoke true, she had no reason to lie. There is an iron mine hidden within the Devil Forest. And Kaelor Dravion has unearthed it."

His voice rose, echoing across the high stone walls, as if claiming the revelation for himself. "In all this region, not a single iron vein has ever been claimed. It is the very reason Count Lancaster remains the weakest of his line, a vassal starved of power beneath the other count’s shadow. For twenty years I have searched, for twenty years I chased whispers of ore buried in that cursed forest. I even paid for a seer of the metal element, but even her sight faltered. Not until it fell into the hands of a man."

Grant’s lips curled faintly, the hunger of a merchant shining through his otherwise measured mask. "We split the gains."

"Surely." Gregory’s chuckle slithered through the air, rich with amusement, but heavier with ambition. His gaze sharpened again. "The sick slaves. Did he buy them?"

Grant inclined his head. "He did. Every last one."

The Viscount’s smile widened. "In mere days, the plague will spread through his newfound city. Without a Master Apothecary or a true Arcanist Physician, his people will rot like carrion from within. In two weeks, three at most, Kaelor Dravion will be brought to his knees, his desperate plea for aid knocking upon our doorstep... if the plague does not claim him first."

....

Kaelor laid his palm against the ancient bark of the Spirit Tree. The surface was hard and cool. Its trunk gleamed pale-white in the moonlight, smooth in some places, gnarled in others, and when his eyes trailed upward, his breath caught. The towering giant stretched fifty meters into the heavens, its branches vanishing into a shroud of leaves that glimmered faintly as if kissed by starlight.

Against that pale glow, three phantoms drifted from branch to branch, ethereal silhouettes with bodies of faint blue light. They moved in silence, almost lazily, their forms flickering like smoke caught in a breeze.

They did not spare him a glance, their attention locked only upon the tree. Kaelor frowned, but he made no attempt to test their indifference. The thought of striking at the trunk and facing the wrath of spirits sent a shiver down his spine. Even he, for all his resolve, could not imagine himself clashing blades with guardians born of nature’s soul.

Behind him, the faint clink of armour and the soft flap of wings drifted on the night air. A handful of Guardsmen patrolled the grass beyond the walls of Whitestone, their shadows stretching long under the moonlight. Above them, Bloodstone Archers floated on blackened wings, their movements measured, their eyes sharp, the subtle flaps of their wings stirring the quiet air.

Whitestone itself was cradled in the heart of the forest, and though their men had swept the woods countless times, they knew better than to lower their guard. Predators struck when vigilance waned.

Before the Guardsmen stood three of the sick slave women, shoulders squared and eyes steady. They were volunteers, drawn by the lure of the blessings Kaelor had granted others through fusion.

Their faces betrayed a mixture of fear and resolve, but none wavered as they stepped forward to claim their chance.

’System, fuse.’ Kaelor’s voice was low but firm.

[30 FP deducted!]

Light flared in response. Blue flames erupted around the women, wrapping them in living fire. From the heights of the Spirit Tree, the phantoms were dragged down, pulled against their will into the raging blaze. The air trembled, wind whipping Kaelor’s cloak as the flames roared higher, consuming flesh and spirit alike.

Then, in a blink, the fire collapsed into silence.

What remained were no longer the same women. Three figures stepped forward, their forms reborn, slender and graceful, with elongated, pointed ears catching the silver light of the moon.

Their skin glowed faintly, kissed by the aura of nature. Their gowns shimmered as if woven from fresh leaves. White vines curled up their forearms like intricate tattoos, delicate and beautiful, and when they moved, it was as if the earth itself swayed with them. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Their eyes shimmered with inner light, soft ripples of green and silver that deepened their already breathtaking beauty.

When they bowed in perfect unison, their movements carried an otherworldly grace, as though they had been sculpted for reverence, not born of mortal clay.

"My lord," they spoke, their voices like the rustle of leaves carried on a spring breeze.

[You have successfully created Woodelves, a new race of beautiful creatures with love for nature and the ability to channel nature’s self-repairing process into beings with life.]

Kaelor’s chest tightened, his heartbeat quickening at the message. Relief flooded him as his gaze shifted beyond the walls, to the endless rows of tents pitched in the moonlight. Within them, the slaves lay, broken, sick, shadows of themselves.

He had kept them close at hand, a decision that gnawed at him with every passing minute, for the risk of plague within Whitestone grew greater by the hour.

But now there was hope. With the Woodelves, the shadow of death could be pushed back. He had the means to alter the inevitable.

All that remained was clear to him. Kaelor’s eyes returned to the Spirit Tree, gleaming with fierce desire. He needed more. More Spirit Trees.