Using power that does not belong to oneself always comes with a price.
Even deities were no exception. Velsharoon, the God of Liches, had ascended to godhood by accepting the gift of the Lord of Storms, yet in the end, unable to endure it, he fled.
How could mere mortals grasp legendary power without weathering endless years?
Catherine had used her own legendary power to forcefully elevate others, bestowing power upon half the elven populace—and inevitably afflicting them with mana addiction.
A power woven into one's very bloodline could not be rooted out. In daily life, they would tap into it unconsciously, feeding the addiction until it grew stronger and stronger, beginning to siphon away everything. If elves were merely a short-lived race, it would not have mattered as much; with some caution, they might die of old age before the addiction ever took hold.
Yet elves were a long-lived race.
By their estimates, even if an elf exercised constant restraint and refrained from using the power, the mana addiction would still manifest around the age of three hundred.
At first, it merely felt like an increased appetite. But ordinary food could hardly produce a sense of fullness; they required sustenance infused with magical power, such as beverages with invigorating effects.
Next came a point where magical beverages could never leave their hands, or else they would suffer from lethargy and a host of physical discomforts.
Worsening further, their mana would rapidly drain away even if they lay completely still. At that stage, they had to consume magic potions like regular meals, yet could never satiate that ever-widening void.
The sensation of having one's mana drained hollow would drive an elf mad. It was not merely physical agony; even the soul was corroded. Normal emotions blurred away, leaving only savagery and cruelty, as if by inflicting their pain onto others, they could alleviate their own symptoms.
Dozens of elves were already suffering from the sequelae of mana addiction, signaling that the first wave was about to hit.
If the elves did nothing, the addiction would erupt unabated, plunging the elven race into despair and absolute extinction.
To resolve this crisis, Catherine had spent long hours in prayer, hoping for divine guidance. Yet the elven pantheon's answer had left her appalled.
Abandon the afflicted elves. Preserve the uninfected ones. Simply sever the afflicted from the rest.
Catherine could hardly believe this was the verdict of the elven gods.
It might sound reasonable on the surface, but that was half of the entire elven population.
Catherine could not accept such an outcome. She could not comprehend why deities who had always cherished the elven race would make such a cruel decision.
Risking blasphemy by pressing for answers, Catherine received only a counter-question: "Did the elven race face an existential crisis that compelled them to struggle for survival in this manner?"
The question left Catherine speechless.
When she shared her power, the elven realm had faced neither internal strife nor external threats. It was Catherine who, upon attaining this legendary power, had lost her restraint.
If she could grant legendary power to every elf, she would become the greatest queen in elven history.
She could not resist the temptation, ultimately breeding this catastrophic mistake.
The elven gods would never abandon their favored people. They had generously bestowed blessings upon the elves to make them the finest of races, while teaching them patience, kindness, and restraint over desire.
For years, the elves had lived in peaceful detachment from worldly conflicts. No matter how other kingdoms rose and fell—even during the age of dragon tyrants—outsiders had always afforded the elves due respect.
Such was the protection granted by the elven gods; external perils had never posed a genuine threat to the elven people.
And yet, this pampered child had played with fire under its own roof.
Perhaps an unsightly scar was what it took for this spoiled child to learn its lesson and truly grow up. Losing half their population would be a devastating blow, but if it allowed them to genuinely recognize their error, the elven race would eventually flourish once again.
The elven gods cherished the elven race as an enduring whole, not the populace of any single era.
For a civilization to develop, it must correct its own mistakes.
It seemed merciless, but in the eyes of the gods, the elven race continuously reproduced, life and death weaving together without end. The elves of today were far from the first generation, and all the dead combined vastly outnumbered the living dozens of times over.
Death was of little consequence; if it could right the course of a civilization's development, such sacrifice was worthwhile in the eyes of the gods.
Yet Catherine could not accept it. She could not stand idly by and watch half of the elven population perish—especially when they did not even know death was coming for them.
With the first wave of mana addiction looming, chaos had erupted in the City of Alchemy, pushing that realm to the brink of ruin. Seeing an opportunity, Catherine conferred with the elven leadership and resolved to launch an external war.
The City of Alchemy still retained vast industrial infrastructure for alchemy. If they could seize it, the elves could mass-produce inexpensive alchemical potions at low cost, thereby reducing the mortality rate when the first wave of mana addiction hit.
Though it merely postponed death, as long as they bought enough time, might an opportunity arise?
Moreover, the desert dwarves were also contesting the territory of the City of Alchemy, promising a brutal war. Rather than let her people waste away in despair, why not let them fall on the battlefield? At least that would spare them some agony. They would be recorded in the annals of elven history as war heroes, rather than meaningless statistics who perished in vain because of their queen's foolishness. That was why the elves had to deploy their forces.
It was also why the elves had to expel all locals: they could not allow outsiders to discover the mana addiction, or the fallout would be catastrophic.
The earlier lockdown of the Silvermoon High Court was tied to this as well; they could not let a shred of information leak out.
And now, the war had begun.
The magical contracts that the Twilight Guard forced upon the local lords were themselves manifestations of a unique legendary power.
It was well known that rangers could designate a race as their "favored enemy."
Facing a favored enemy, a ranger gained immense advantages: increased accuracy, reduced chance of being struck, enhanced resistances, and more. When a ranger ascended to legend, this power against favored enemies grew even more formidable.
By sharing her legendary power with the elves, Catherine had enabled even non-rangers to mark targets as favored enemies.
Any lord who signed the contract and subsequently breached it would be locked in as a favored enemy of the elven race. Fighting on those lands, the elves reaped tremendous advantages. In practice, it meant an arrow casually loosed might miraculously curve past the battlements to headshot a defender, while an enemy magitech cannon barrage would somehow miss almost entirely.
Blessed with such advantages, the elven advance would proceed smoothly, allowing them to rapidly capture cities endowed with alchemical infrastructure.
Then they could work around the clock to churn out alchemical potions and brace for the impending wave of mana addiction.
Yet though the campaign appeared to proceed without a hitch, Catherine found no joy in it.
Win or lose, the elven race was bound to suffer grievous wounds.
Catherine produced a letter and handed it to the old king beside her. "This is a letter from a lich in the City of Alchemy. I don't know how to respond."
The old king took it and glanced over the message. The contents were brief: some Twilight Guards had been captured, and as a native lord of the City of Alchemy, the lich wished to sit down at the negotiating table with the elves.
The old king sighed and said to Catherine, "Our war is not meant for negotiation, nor do we have reason to avoid casualties."
"I know, but do we simply give up on them? How am I supposed to answer that child?"
Catherine felt like an executioner, endlessly driving her own kin to their deaths merely to cover up her mistake. Countless times, she had thought that if sacrificing her own life could solve the problem, she would die without hesitation.
Yet doing so would only accelerate the elven race's collapse. Once mana addiction flared up, elves became madmen, and the damage would extend far beyond half the population.
It was despair born of having no alternative.
The old king sighed again. He knew Catherine was on the verge of breaking.
Before the war had even formally begun, the elves had already suffered heavy casualties under these reckless tactics. More than once, elves had voiced doubts, while Catherine and the leadership could only watch those empowered Twilight Guards march to their deaths, forbidden from telling them the truth.
Every casualty report weighed heavily on Catherine's conscience. Compounding layer upon layer, the pressure had brought the Elven Queen to the brink of a nervous breakdown.
"Your Majesty, let us negotiate with this lich after all. If I remember correctly, Cicero never accepted your shared power. He ought to live."
The old king's words made Catherine's eyes light up. Could she finally save an elf?
It felt like a beam of light cutting through a night of despair, compelling her to pin all her hopes upon it.
Catherine said eagerly, "Then we must prepare at once. I will negotiate with this lich in person."
The old king hastened to caution her. "Your Majesty, there is no need for such ceremony. Going in person will only give him an opportunity to demand an extortionate price. Liches are never a benevolent sort; they possess no humanity to speak of. I will dispatch someone to handle this properly. In your current state, you are very likely to make poor judgments at the bargaining table."
Catherine shook her head. "Give me this chance. You and I both know that when this is all over, my soul will plummet into hell. This is my final plea. I want to bring them back myself. I beg of you."
Seeing Catherine's look of desperate entreaty, the old king knew he could hardly refuse.
This was the lifeline keeping Catherine afloat; barring her would be like inflicting another wound on her frayed nerves.
Now was not the time for her to collapse. If Catherine faltered, absolute ruin awaited the elven race.
"I will arrange the negotiation as soon as possible, but Your Majesty, you must stay calm. We cannot expose our secret just to save them. Any price that defies reason will arouse his suspicion..."
The old king gave his earnest admonition, secretly resolving that before the negotiation, they had to thoroughly investigate this lich and probe his background. By no means could they allow him to uncover the crisis threatening the elves.
Chapter 112