From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 245: Luck?
The escalation had been building like a storm on the horizon, unseen at first but inevitable once the winds picked up. Whispers among the elven councils had turned to urgent debates: the barrier weakening, dark mana seeping through cracks that shouldn’t exist, and at the center of it all, a goblin who had returned from the prison world carrying something forbidden. They had been watching Byung since the moment he clawed his way back—scrying spells cast from afar, subtle wards tracking his movements across the western hills. The elves couldn’t ignore the ripples anymore; the dark continent’s influence was bleeding into their world, and Byung was the unwitting—or perhaps witting—focal point. Seraphel, one of the three High Wardens, had been dispatched alone, her presence deemed sufficient for retrieval. But this was the worst-case scenario: interference from forces older and hungrier than any living elf could fully comprehend.
Seraphel hovered at the tunnel’s shattered edge, her silver hair stirring in a wind that seemed to emanate from her own restrained fury. The ground here reeked of upheaval—stone dust thick in the air, mingled with the acrid tang of disrupted runes. She had arrived moments after the orcs’ frantic escape, her descent from the clouds silent and absolute. Velara lingered nearby, unseen in the shadows, her dark mana a faint echo against Seraphel’s radiant presence. The High elf knew better than to rush in blindly; the tunnels below pulsed with an evil that twisted the very air, a suffocating weight that pressed against her senses like oily smoke. Rushing would be foolish, a mistake lesser elves might make. But she was Seraphel—one of the strongest in existence, her name etched in the annals of wars long forgotten. She would remind whatever lurked below why elves endured.
She clasped her hands together, palms meeting with a soft, resonant clap that echoed like distant thunder. Mana surged through her, pure and untainted, channeling into the earth itself. The ground obeyed as if it were an extension of her will—a natural occurrence, seamless and inevitable. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from her feet, widening into fissures that groaned and split. The soil heaved, spitting up rocks and roots in a violent upheaval, unearthing every hidden layer beneath. The tunnels collapsed upward, their secrets dragged into the light like buried sins exposed. Dust billowed in massive clouds, obscuring the sky for a heartbeat, and the air filled with the rumble of shifting stone.
Byung emerged first, propelled from the depths like debris from an explosion. He tumbled onto the surface, rolling to his feet with the instinctive grace of someone who had survived worse. His clothes were torn, caked in grime and blood—not all his own—and his eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto Seraphel immediately. He didn’t know her face, but the aura was unmistakable: elven authority, the kind that came with judgment and power.
"Retreat," he said, his voice low and urgent, cutting through the settling dust.
"Now."
He had no idea who she was beyond the obvious—an elf of immense strength, radiating mana like a beacon. But he could guess her purpose: elves didn’t descend like angels unless they wanted something, or someone. His head, perhaps, for the dark mana he carried. Or the dwarf’s, for whatever ancient grudge they held. Or both, to tie up the loose ends of a barrier fraying because of him. Byung’s mind raced; he had felt the shift in the tunnels, the possession’s hunger intensifying, and now this. An elf here meant complications he couldn’t afford.
Seraphel’s winter-pale eyes narrowed, shock flickering across her flawless features for the briefest moment. This goblin—small, scarred, radiating a presence that shouldn’t belong to his kind—possessed mana pathways. Clear, structured channels within him, humming with energy that twisted familiar patterns into something darker. How? Goblins were base creatures, their bodies ill-suited for such refinement. The prison world must have changed him, forged him into this anomaly. Questions burned in her mind, but there was no time; the ground continued to churn, and more figures erupted from the upheaval.
Kragg came next, his massive form clawing free from the upturned earth, followed closely by the dwarf. The possessed orc stood tall, unscathed by the violent surfacing, his barrel chest heaving not from exertion but from the dark force animating him. He tilted his head to the left, a slow, unnatural motion that sent a chill through Byung. It was something new, something Byung hadn’t seen since first encountering the thing in the tunnels—a curiosity, perhaps, or recognition. The eyes, swallowed by inky blackness, fixed on Seraphel with an empty intensity, as if assessing prey from another era.
Seraphel met that gaze without flinching, her expression a mask of controlled anger. She raised one hand skyward, fingers splayed, and brought it down in a swift arc. The heavens responded instantly. Clouds darkened overhead, swirling into a vortex, and a bolt of lightning—thick as a tree trunk, crackling with raw elemental fury—lanced down from the sky. It struck Kragg square in the chest, the impact exploding outward in a shockwave that flattened grass and hurled loose stones like shrapnel. Thunder roared in its wake, deafening, the air ionizing with the scent of ozone.
She was blessed with elemental magic, wielding it at an advanced level that bent nature to her command. Fire, wind, earth, lightning—all danced at her fingertips, amplified by centuries of mastery. But this strike, meant to incinerate, revealed the horror’s true nature. Kragg’s body smoked, charred flesh peeling away in blackened strips, yet he did not fall. He did not scream. The possession rendered such damage irrelevant; the body no longer relied on organs, on blood or breath. It was a vessel, animated by something from beyond the barrier, indifferent to mortal frailties.
The creature straightened, the tilt of its head correcting as dark tendrils of energy knit the wounds closed—not healing, but reshaping. A voice emanated from Kragg’s mouth, deep and resonant, laced with an accent from forgotten depths.
"Elves," it intoned, the word dripping with ancient disdain, "I have killed over a thousand of your kind. Why do you still exist?"
Seraphel’s confusion deepened, her brow furrowing beneath her silver helm. The statement carried weight, echoes of atrocities from eras before her birth. But more pressing: this orc had no mana pathways. She sensed it clearly—his form was a hollow shell, devoid of the internal channels that conducted power in living beings. Yet mana radiated from him, dark and voracious, defying logic. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, drawn from elsewhere, sustaining the abomination.
Byung stepped forward, positioning himself between them, his voice steady despite the chaos.
"It’s not an orc," he explained, glancing at Seraphel.
"Not anymore. Something from the dark continent slipped through the barrier—weakened because of me—and the dwarf bound it to Kragg’s corpse. It’s feeding off his son, Kraghul, through a blood link. It’ll consume him in days if not stopped." He paused, meeting her gaze directly.
"I’m not your enemy here. Whatever you came for, this thing is the real threat."
Seraphel absorbed the words, her eyes flicking to the dwarf. He stood apart, his diminished form more repulsive than she remembered—red eyes gleaming with amusement, armored in shadows that clung like rot. She could tell at a glance: the creature in Kragg was no mere orc, immune to her lightning as if it were a summer rain. Fighting here, unleashing her full arsenal, would risk shattering the already fragile barrier further. It went against her orders—retrieve the goblin anomaly, contain the breach, avoid escalation that could invite more intrusions from the dark side.
She had come for Byung, to drag him back for questioning, to seal the dark mana he carried before it unraveled everything.
But before she could act—before her hand could close around his arm in an unbreakable grip—Velara moved. The dark elf had been watching from the periphery, her presence a shadow against Seraphel’s light. In a blur of motion, she grabbed Byung, her fingers digging into his shoulder. It was as if she manifested his unspoken will—the desperate need to escape, and return home.
Dark mana flared around them, twisting space in a way Byung hadn’t known she could command. The world folded, the settlement’s familiar outlines materializing in an instant. They appeared in the middle of the goblin village, the air popping with displaced pressure, surrounded by startled guards and the organized chaos of daily life.
Byung staggered, disoriented, as Velara released him and collapsed to her knees. He had no idea she could teleport—had never seen her wield such power. But now she was unconscious, her body limp against the dirt, chest rising in shallow breaths. Her magic was depleted, the effort of the jump draining her reserves to nothing. Dark mana lingered faintly around her, spent and flickering.
Around them, the settlement stirred into alert—goblins and orcs rushing forward, weapons drawn at the sudden intrusion. Byung raised his hands, signaling calm, his mind already racing.
He had discovered so much about this world in such a short amount of time.
