The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 256

Chapter 256: Chapter 256 – The Abandoned Children of World Tree (1)
[Before some time, Princess Sylthara’s POV]

The dying sun draped the forest in hues of gold and ember. Shafts of light pierced through the ancient canopy, scattering across leaves that shimmered like shards of emerald glass. Each step crunched softly against the roots and moss beneath their boots, the rhythm steady, solemn, unbroken.

At the head of the formation walked Princess Sylthara of the Dark Elves, her silver hair flowing behind her like liquid moonlight. The faint glimmer of her armor caught the waning light, each engraved rune pulsing with restrained mana. Behind her marched her retinue — proud, silent warriors clad in matching silver, their faces calm but eyes sharp, bearing the quiet fury of a people long denied.

They moved as one through the twilight woods — a tide of shadows beneath fading light.

From beside her, an aged voice spoke, rough yet reverent.

“Princess Sylthara,” the elder dark elf began, her tone heavy with hesitation, “are you certain… about what we are doing?”

Sylthara didn’t look at her. Her eyes were fixed ahead, on the path winding toward the deeper forest — toward the place once denied to them. The air here was familiar yet foreign, the mana rich but tinged with memory.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm — too calm, like the stillness before a storm.

“We are nothing but the saviors of this forest.”

Her words hung in the air like cold steel.

“Those light elves,” she continued, her tone sharpening, “think the world is all purity and prayer. They live blind beneath their Good light, thinking everything is as beautiful as they believe it to be.” She let out a low, bitter laugh. “Fools. They’ve never faced the true darkness that crawls beneath these roots.”

The elder remained quiet, her weathered hands tightening around his staff as she went on.

“And what did they do,” she said, eyes glinting, “when we carried that darkness so they wouldn’t have to? They banished us. Stripped us of our names, our songs, our place beneath the Mother Tree. They sealed us away in the outer shadows, erased us from their history — as if our blood was a stain to be washed away.”

Her voice cracked, just faintly. Sylthara’s hands, encased in silver gauntlets, clenched until the metal creaked.

“Even Mother Tree abandoned us,” she whispered, and for a fleeting heartbeat, pain slipped through her cold composure. “We prayed. We waited. We guarded her borders in silence — even when she turned her gaze away. We bore the darkness for her sake.”

Then her tone hardened again. “And what did they do with my mother when she begged them for help?”

Her breath trembled. Her mother — the late Queen of the dark elves — had knelt before the emissaries of light, her pride swallowed, her hope fading. And in return, the light elves turned their backs, sealing the rift and leaving her to die in exile.

Sylthara stopped walking. The forest air seemed to still around her. The light caught her eyes — twin pools of silver and sorrow.

“So yes,” she said, voice low but burning, “what we are doing now is right. We are not traitors. We are taking back what was stolen. We are reclaiming what rightfully belongs to us.”

Her soldiers behind her lowered their gazes in silent agreement, the weight of her conviction igniting something deep within their chests. The forest rustled — as if listening.

But the elder did not share their fervor. She exhaled softly, the sound like leaves brushing against old stone.

“…But, Princess,” he said slowly, “do you truly trust them? The ones who call themselves our allies — those cultists who whisper to the abyss?”

Sylthara halted mid-step.

For a long moment, only the hum of the forest filled the silence — the cicadas’ faint cries, the sigh of wind through roots. The twilight deepened, and the silver of her armor dimmed to gray.

Her expression, unseen by the others, flickered — doubt, fleeting but real. She could still hear the cult leader’s voice in her mind, smooth as oil, promising restoration, revenge, and salvation. Promising to make the mother tree recognize them again.

Her fingers twitched near her sword hilt. Then she straightened, her face returning to its cold poise.

“They understand the darkness,” she said softly. “They know what the light refuses to face. If this forest must bleed for balance to return, then so be it. I will stain my hands, so others may one day walk free. And anyway they have promised us that the mother tree won’t be harmed nor the light elves will be enslaved and sold or anything inappropriate will happen to them, they will go straight to Heaven… And it’s not like I trust them completely either. That’s why we have only allowed two of them in the forest!”

The elder bowed her head slightly — in respect or resignation, even she didn’t know.

As they resumed walking, the forest grew darker. The last rays of sunlight bled away, and the silver glint of their armor turned ghostlike beneath the rising moon. Shadows deepened around them — but so too did their resolve.

At the edge of the sacred grove, the scent of ash began to drift on the wind.

And for the briefest moment, as Sylthara looked toward the horizon, she thought she heard it —

the faint, dying pulse of the Mother Tree, calling to her like a heartbeat buried in the earth.

Her eyes softened, almost tender.

“Soon,” she whispered under her breath. “We’ll come home soon… Mother.”

The forest grew still as they reached the sacred heart.

Before them loomed the World Tree — colossal, divine, and wounded. Its silver bark shimmered faintly beneath the veil of twilight, threads of fading light weaving through its roots like veins of dying stars. Yet despite its glory, the grove was silent… far too silent.

The faint hum of mana that once resonated in every leaf was gone. Only the rustle of the wind remained, hollow and uncertain.

Sylthara’s sharp gaze swept across the clearing.

A handful of light elf sentries stood by the roots — their golden armor dulled by exhaustion, their faces pale from overexerted mana. They didn’t even draw their bows before the dark elves moved.

A whisper.

A blur of motion.

And then — silence.

Not one cry escaped. The sentries fell wordlessly, their bodies eased to the ground as blades gleamed briefly in the dim light.

Sylthara’s warriors returned to formation, their movements precise, almost reverent. No one spoke — not even the wind dared to intrude upon the stillness that followed.

Sylthara stepped forward, eyes cold as moonlight. “See?” she murmured, her tone low and sharp. “The most important heart of this forest… and it’s barely guarded.”

Her words hung like frost in the air.

She lifted her hand.

Two shadows emerged from the treeline — the cultists she had brought along, draped in tattered robes darker than the forest night. Their faces were hidden behind masks of bone and stitched flesh, and their movements carried a nauseating sort of rhythm, like serpents slithering through silence.

The moment they appeared, the air seemed to curdle.

“We’re here,” Sylthara said firmly, her silver eyes narrowing. “Do your thing. Begin the restoration ritual.”

The first cultist let out a shrill laugh that scraped the air.

“Jjiejiejiejiejeiee— Princess, princess…” he crooned, voice dripping mockery. “You don’t trust us enough, do you? If there were more of us… it would have been so much faster… jiejeiejejejeje…”

Sylthara’s expression hardened. “Hmph. No need. Just do what I commanded — heal the Mother Tree. Even if it takes all night, do it properly.”

The second cultist twitched, his head jerking at odd angles like a broken doll. “But haven’t we shown you results already?” he hissed between bursts of laughter. “The weakening of the World Tree… has slowed, hasn’t it? Otherwise…”

He tilted his head back and cackled — “ijejiejiejiejiejiejie!”

A low murmur of unease ran through the dark elves. Sylthara’s brow furrowed, irritation flickering beneath her composure.

“Enough,” she snapped, voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Do it!”

Both cultists froze — then, in perfect, mocking unison, bowed low.

“Fine, fine… jiejejejeje… we shall prepare the ritual…”

They slithered to the base of the Tree, their long fingers dragging through the soil as they began inscribing symbols — glowing crimson marks that burned into the earth like veins of living fire.

One circle. Then another. Then another.

Each rune pulsed in time with the dying heartbeat of the Tree.

The dark elves watched in uneasy silence. The ritual markings were unlike anything they’d seen — warped, pulsating, too… alive.

Then, suddenly, the cultists stopped.

Sylthara frowned. “What is it?” she demanded.

For a heartbeat, they didn’t respond. Then one of them turned his mask slightly, voice lilting with false sweetness.

“Nothing, nothing… jiejeijeijeijeijj…”

Before anyone could react —

the other cultist lunged sideways, his clawed hand darting faster than thought. He seized a young elf by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

“Wha—!” The dark elf barely gasped before—

CRACK.

The sound echoed through the grove — the sickening snap of bone, followed by a spray of blood painting the ritual circle.

The cultist’s masked face tilted toward the crimson splatter, trembling with delight.

“Jijiejiejiejeijei— so much purer than expected!”

The dark elves froze in horror. For one heartbeat, disbelief held them still — then fury erupted.

“YOU—!”

Blades were drawn, mana flared, voices roared. The dark elves lunged forward as one, rage and grief twisting their beautiful faces into masks of vengeance.

But before they could reach the cultists—

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!

A blinding light burst from the ritual circle, swallowing the grove whole.

The ground split. The air screamed. Mana surged like a hurricane, tearing through roots, soil, and soul alike.

Sylthara barely had time to raise her arm before the shockwave engulfed them all.