REALISTIC ISEKAI: I didn't read this in my novels!

In the elven kingdom, seven elves with platinum hair stood around a body in a heavily lit room where roots crawled along the white walls, pulsing with pure, radiant life energy.

"Are you sure the elders approved of this, Andor?" One elf asked, his green eyes gleaming as they lingered on the body.

Andor straightened her green robe, her expression unreadable. "Yes, Sylwen. We were given three days to prepare accordingly." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you're having cold feet now."

Sylwen brushed a strand of silver hair behind his pointed ear, his voice lofty. "Cold feet? Hardly. I merely want to ensure that whatever happens here—whether success or disaster—will not be laid at our feet alone."

The others nodded quietly.

Andor's jaw tightened. "Enough talk. You've been speaking as if failure is certain ever since you heard of it."

"That's because it is." A female elf spoke as she traced the glowing roots on the wall, her tone flat. "Even if it succeeds—and that's a miracle in itself—he won't ever stand with us."

Andor turned her head sharply.

"You were always the pessimist, Lyari, but now is not the time."

No one moved to contradict her.

"Then let us end this debate," another elf said, impatience sharp in his voice. "The elders permitted this. That's all that matters."

Reluctantly, the group gave their assent.

Sylwen's expression grew solemn. "Then let's follow what Eryndor has suggested and get this over with. Let the Elysian Grafting procedure commence."

A black-haired elf entered, his head bowed, carrying a small wooden container engraved with runes that shimmered faintly. He set it before them and left without a word.

When Sylwen opened the casing, the air grew heavy. Life energy surged as if the room itself inhaled, and a raw, untamed aura spilled from the small root within.

Sylwen's eyes widened with reverence. "To waste such a relic on a human…"

"Start the process, you greedy bastard!" Vaelis barked. "We don't have all day—literally!"

Sylwen clicked his tongue, glaring, but said nothing. With slow precision, he placed the glowing root into the carving etched into Clark's chest.

The chamber trembled.

The runes across the walls ignited in sequence, one after another, until the entire room was bathed in blinding emerald light. The roots along the walls pulsed harder, sap dripping and sizzling as if the life energy was burning itself away.

Clark's body jerked violently, his veins glowing with threads of silver and gold as the root burrowed into his chest.

The female elf who had doubted them muttered, "It begins…"

A sound like cracking wood echoed through the chamber as Clark's ribs shifted, weaving around the root unnaturally. His body writhed, muscles seizing, while black smoke leaked from his mouth.

Andor barked, "Hold the formation!"

The seven elves raised their hands, their voices weaving into an ancient chant. Runes spiraled off their palms, merging into a lattice of light above Clark's body. The air vibrated as if the world itself resisted.

Sylwen's forehead dripped with sweat, but his voice carried. "By the covenant of sap and soil, by blood bound to root and branch—we graft thee, vessel of foreign life! Accept or be torn apart!"

Clark's scream tore through the room. His back arched, his eyes flaring open—glowing with both searing white and abyssal black.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as if his body would split apart. The floor cracked beneath him, roots bursting violently from the walls before snapping back in place.

Then—silence.

Clark collapsed against the altar, his chest still glowing faintly where the root had vanished inside him. His breaths were shallow, his skin pale.

Sylwen exhaled shakily. "If he survives the night… the graft is complete."

Andor didn't relax. Her fists were clenched, eyes still fixed on Clark's trembling form. "If."

"I still don't know what the elders were thinking by subjecting a man in this much...pain to a ritual as wrong as this." Another female elf spoke, her voice filled with worry as she watched the twitching eyebrows of the man.

"That's not our place to know. We only follow orders, and I'm sure the elders know what they're doing." One of the silent elves spoke in an unconcerned tone as he removed his robes.

"And besides, slave seals exist for a reason—"

"Shut your mouth, Lorandel." Andor interrupted harshly.

Lorandel shot her a glare but didn't speak further.

Loraine replied as he fixed her golden olive crown. "Your attachment to this human is concerning, Andor."

Andor harrumphed and tied her hair in a bun. "You couldn't possibly understand the meaning of empathy with how much scheming you and Acathea do on a daily basis."

Acathea flinched, her green eyes flickering. "H—how did I get involved in your petty squabbles?"

Andor clicked her tongue and didn't reply.

Sylwen adjusted his white robe and walked out the large door. "I'll go tell the elders the operation was completed, and you all can stay here and continue squabbling amongst yourselves like newborns."

Without waiting for their responses, Sylwen left the room, a certain loftiness in his steps.

The soft click of the door echoed in the room, leaving the five of the high elves by themselves.

"I have things to take care of. This half-dead human is the least of my problems." Loraine spoke.

And like that, the rest of the elves left.

Except Andor.

Watching Vaelis' back as he left the room, Andor sat next to Clark's constantly twitching body.

A long silence followed as she stared blankly at Clark's face.

Her knuckles turned white as she spoke, "I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, Kurt and Veronica were originally against the idea. but I convinced them, so you can channel your anger towards me."

Without saying another word, Andor took her leave.

Clark's body twitched even more violently; his lost limbs began showing signs of life, and small buds of flesh began forming unnervingly on parts of his arms and legs.

The roots along the walls pulsed faster, as though reacting to the changes.

His eyelids fluttered but did not open. Instead, veins of faint silver traced across his skin, glowing like molten rivers under fragile flesh.

The silence deepened, broken only by the occasional crackle of energy as the carved runes on his chest flared, then dimmed.

For a moment, the room itself seemed to breathe with him.

Then—

Snap.

One of the roots in the wall split, spilling a drop of luminous sap onto the floor. It hissed like acid when it touched the stone, sending faint wisps of smoke curling upward.

Clark's back arched violently. A strangled sound escaped his lips, not a scream, not a breath, but something caught between the two. Disturbing cracks of bone resounded in the room.

The roots converged slowly, like serpents drawn to prey, inching toward the altar where he lay.

Clark's body convulsed violently once again, his spine arching so hard it looked ready to snap. Veins bulged black beneath his skin, writhing like snakes desperate to escape. His chest split open with a sickening crack as ribs pushed outward, then snapped back into place with sharp pops that echoed through the chamber.

A strangled gurgle tore from his throat as blood spilled from his mouth—not red, but thick and tar-like, steaming as it hit the floor. His flesh rippled unnaturally, muscle fibers tearing themselves apart and then reweaving in frantic, messy patterns.

His arm jerked, twisting backward at the elbow with a sickening crunch before snapping forward again, bone knitting with a wet, grinding sound. Pieces of dead flesh sloughed off him, sizzling on the glowing runes carved into his chest, only for fresh tissue to squirm and crawl up from underneath, pink and raw.

For a terrible moment, his heart stopped—the room drowned in silence—then it thundered back to life, so loud it rattled the roots on the walls. His lungs inflated with a rattling wheeze, dragging air like someone drowning on dry land.

The twitching slowed but didn't stop. His body shivered like a puppet yanked by too many strings, caught between death and rebirth. The scars left behind weren't neat—they were jagged, angry, and crawling with faintly glowing veins that pulsed as if alive on their own.

And finally his eyes opened.

Then burst.

The pressure he was subjected to internally, mentally, and biologically was too much for the brain to correctly control, and so different nerve endings misfired, the newly regenerated fingers bent at strange angles, and his feet arched for a while before straightening again and arching once more.

The process continued for hours without cease; the roots on the walls slowly dried up, their contents sizzled, and the fumes dove directly into Clark's nostrils with an uncanny intensity.

His eyelids fluttered open once more, slowly this time, but his irises were an ink-blue color. The whites of his eyes slowly changed to that color as they constantly moved around.

Clark's chest rose in shallow, uneven heaves, every breath dragging like torn fabric through his throat. The twitching of his body slowed, but not into stillness—into something worse. Something deliberate.

His lips parted, and for a moment, only a hiss of air slipped through, wet and broken. Then, with agonizing effort, the muscles around his mouth tried to move. The skin tore at the corners, fresh blood trickling down his chin.

"...w-wha…" The sound gurgled, more liquid than voice. His tongue, heavy and swollen, slapped uselessly against half-formed teeth. His lower lip twitched, jerking to the side like a puppet with tangled strings.

Another attempt. His throat convulsed, and a rasp forced its way out. "…what… d-did…"

The words were broken, each syllable cutting him open again as if his body didn't want him to speak yet. His upper lip peeled back unnaturally, revealing gums still knitting themselves together, threads of torn flesh stretching, quivering, and snapping.

"...you…do…to…me…"

The last word dissolved into a bubbling cough, flecks of crimson spattering the roots beneath him. His lips trembled violently, no longer sure if they were forming words or simply spasming from the trauma of trying.

But the pure fury in his eyes spoke volumes more than he could ever say.