NOVEL NEXT Chapter 77: Tragedy.
Ash fell like black snow.
The once-golden forest of the elves now stood silent — a graveyard of charred roots and smoldering soil. The moon hung cracked behind the drifting smoke, its pale light fractured by the lingering ripples of the explosion.
A single figure stirred amid the wreckage.
Clark.
His body trembled, one arm missing, skin flayed where the stormlight had seared through. Blue and crimson light flickered beneath his skin — the remnants of two warring souls refusing to let go.
He coughed once, blood and steam spilling from his lips. "Sylwen…"
The name tasted like ash.
He looked down — and there, not far from him, lay the elven prince. Sylwen's armor was shattered, the glow of his divine seal extinguished, his body unmoving save for the faint, ragged rise and fall of his chest.
Clark staggered toward him, every step sinking into scorched soil. The crimson tendrils that had once obeyed him now hung limp and lifeless from his back, twitching like dying nerves.
"Why…" he rasped, falling to his knees beside the fallen elf. "Why couldn't you just let me end it? Why did you have to fight me, Sylwen? You could've walked away…"
Sylwen's eyes fluttered open, dim lightning glinting faintly in the pupils. "Because you weren't the monster you thought you were," he murmured, voice barely audible. "You just forgot how to stop fighting."
Clark's jaw trembled. "You don't know what I've done. The lives I took. The cities I burned."
"I do," Sylwen said softly. "That's why I stayed."
For a moment, there was silence — only the hiss of dying embers and the crackle of distant thunder.
Then, a deep rumble echoed through the air.
The mana field that surrounded them — broken and bleeding from their clash — began to collapse inward, twisting the space itself. Red energy rose from the soil, feeding into Clark's body against his will.
"No…" he whispered, horror dawning on his face. "It's trying to merge… it's using me as a vessel—"
He clutched his head, screaming as arcs of light tore from his wounds. His voice fractured — one moment human, the next, the guttural roar of something vast and ancient. The earth split beneath him, roots clawing upward like hands desperate for air.
Sylwen forced himself up, lightning crawling weakly across his hands. "Clark—listen to me! You have to resist it!"
Clark's eyes snapped open. One was blue. The other—burning red.
"I can't," he gasped. "It's too late. The world tree's will—it's not dying. It's consuming me."
The tendrils erupted once more, wrapping around his body. His veins pulsed violently as red light poured from his chest, illuminating the ruins in a grotesque, divine glow.
Sylwen limped closer, every step agony. "Then let me help you."
Clark smiled — a broken, weary thing. "You already did."
He raised his remaining hand and pressed it against Sylwen's chest. A surge of warmth passed through the prince — the faint echo of the World Tree's life force.
"Take it," Clark whispered. "All of it. My core… my mana. Seal me here before it spreads."
Sylwen's eyes widened. "You'll die!"
Clark laughed weakly, blood dripping from his chin. "Sylwen… I died the moment I let that thing inside me. This — this is mercy."
Sylwen hesitated, lightning trembling in his palms. "You're asking me to kill you."
"I'm asking you to save them," Clark said, looking toward the horizon — where the first faint glimmer of dawn touched the ruined forest. "Please… don't let this curse reach them."
The prince's hands shook, arcs of divine lightning flickering between his fingers. He closed his eyes — and nodded once.
"May the storm forgive you, Clark."
Clark smiled one last time. "May it remember me."
Sylwen placed his hand over Clark's heart.
A blinding flash tore through the forest as he released the seal. Lightning and crimson light intertwined, not as enemies, but as twin flames returning to the same sky. The sound that followed was not thunder — it was a sigh.
When the light faded, the battlefield was quiet again.
Where Clark had knelt, a single tree had grown — small, fragile, and glowing faintly red at its core. Its leaves shimmered between gold and blue, whispering softly in the wind.
Sylwen stood before it, one hand pressed to his chest, tears lost in the rain that had begun to fall.
"He found peace," he whispered.
The rain answered with silence.
And far above, through the broken clouds, a single bolt of lightning crossed the dawn — gentle this time, as if the storm itself were mourning a friend.
Months passed.
Where the great battle once raged, peace had returned — fragile, but real. The forest was still scarred, its ancient roots blackened and brittle, but from that ruin, life had begun to stir again.
In the center of it all stood a tree unlike any other.
Its trunk gleamed faintly silver under the morning light, and its leaves shimmered between gold and crimson, whispering whenever the wind passed through. The elves called it the Dawnroot, though the elders knew its true name — Clark's Rest.
Lyria stood before it, her hand brushing against the bark. The faint warmth pulsed beneath her palm — steady, alive.
"He kept his word," she murmured.
Elder Kaelith nodded beside her, leaning on his staff. "He carried the burden none of us could. The world tree's will found balance through his death. Perhaps that was always its intent."
She looked up at the branches, eyes soft with something between grief and gratitude. "Do you think he can hear us?"
Kaelith's lips curved into a tired smile. "If the wind still blows, and the storm still listens… yes."
Behind them, Sylwen approached quietly, a long cloak trailing behind his newly restored armor. He looked older somehow — not in face, but in soul.
"He deserved better," he said simply.
Kaelith rested a hand on his shoulder. "He found peace. That is better than eternity."
For a while, they stood in silence, watching the sunrise filter through the branches. The golden light bathed the tree, making it seem as though it was breathing — each leaf a flicker of memory, each sigh of wind a whisper of forgiveness.
Then Sylwen turned away. "Come," he said. "The council is waiting."
Lyria lingered for one last moment.
She closed her eyes, her voice barely above the wind.
"Rest well, Clark. You saved more than you know."
The leaves stirred in response — a single red one breaking free, spiraling gently to the ground. It landed in her open palm, glowing faintly before fading into motes of light.
When she opened her eyes, the forest was quiet again.
And high above, thunder rolled softly across a clear sky — not in anger, but in remembrance.
The storm had finally wept its last tear.
Densdor and Miriam eventually arrived at the elven domain and when they heard what happened, their expressions were....tragic, to say the least.
Miriam nearly wiped out the elven domain if not for the intervention of the high order and the whole Rothschild family.
Densdor found a way to seal himself with Clark when no one was looking. Miriam wanted to do the same, but was ultimately held back by her family and everyone else.
And Laura...
Till this day, Laura didn't know what happened to Clark. In her mind, Clark is still alive and she still anticipates her meeting him again.
She eventually became queen of the Aetherion kingdom after the royal selection and her duties piled.
Slowly but surely, Clark faded out of her mind.
Or it would be more accurate to say her mother faded Clark out of existence.
The tournament didn't hold that year. The whole nations came together to honor and F ranked hero who wasn't popular or contributed anything noteworthy to the kingdom.
They celebrated him because of how much he suffered, how much pain he had gone through. The Crimson Blade was wiped out by the Aetherion kingdom and every guild that existed.
The system faded out of existence and travelled to the next reincarnatior with a message:
[Goodbye, poor incarnation.]
To anyone who read this far, I'm sorry you've wasted your money on a dropped novel. I might or might not come back due to unforseen circumstances, but I'll always ALWAYS be reading ANY comments you leave.
For now, goodbye and goodlife.