Most of the books were far beyond my knowledge. Not for nothing was the elven race one of the oldest. The books before me were like an enormous puzzle. I fit a letter, an intention, an emotion, and little by little, books that only existed in dreams began to give meaning. Many of them were merely rubbish—ceremonies at the height of snobbery, imperceptible movements that only those who had read the same book would know indicated a person was more intelligent than others. Intelligent? No—refined was the word. They were absurd combats of gestures full of pomp to demonstrate who had been able to read the books that indicated excessively complicated gestures. Each book was like that. They were not wasted time, but the difficulty of reading them held the information you could obtain.
This was my fifth book of the day. I still could not move so quickly after the fiasco at the Blood Elves' sacred grounds. I could still see her face—that mixture of petulance and self-sufficiency, difficult to achieve in a dead body, but every corrupt part of her being exuded it. The demented smile of my beloved, before opening from the center, before being consumed, transformed into the gateway from which the minions of whatever had possessed her began to emerge. Fragmented images, pain, decision—my decision to use the definitive magic, the one the elves believed no one would learn unless they were monarchs, being turned back against me. Then defended, barely, at the cost of many of the phoenix's lives, losing consciousness when my wounds reopened. My journey in the claws of a creature that died outside a source of magic. I did not know what I had done, how we arrived, if I had fed it, if I had actually been dead a couple of times. But I finally woke one day to the walls of a typical elven construction. I was in the closest thing to a home I had.
The weeks were difficult. Walking, moving, breathing was painful. Healing magic always worked on me—it was a gift those damned ones had given me. They did not want me to die without fulfilling their purpose. But the attack I launched, the one they stopped and returned, was different. It was not designed as force—it was meant to disintegrate life forms. He was not alive, so he stopped it, so he returned it. That was why I was weak. That magic decomposed cells, little by little. Healing magic healed but did not restore anything that was lost. I lost a bit of stomach one day, some liver another. They healed me, but it was difficult to predict when the damage would continue. Dispel magic did little, as it was within my being—not an external effect. When I thought of the damage I could have done to my beloved with this magic, I supposed it was fair payment.
Lilith ran, looking for which book could serve me. Unable to fully read, and even less elven runes, the necessary magic was unknown to her. So amid the agonies, one day she left a blank book on my table. While delirious, I fell asleep and saw it—filled with texts, things I did not know the elves did. Frightened, I reviewed it with fascination. It took me all night, but by morning I asked her where she had found it. She said it was in the dwarven tomb. Only then did I understand the scope of my ancient masters' perfidy. Dwarves did not read Elvish, much less the dream runes as I had decided to call them. Yet the gifts these beings made were useless to those they gave them to, but useful for keeping their rivals away from discoveries.
After some vain attempts, I managed to find some special magics. They were painful but worth it. I cut a little from where the enchantment still affected me—I think it was the intestine the first time. Then over the bleeding flesh, instead of scarring as healing magic did, I made tissue regenerate. Unfortunately, the information did not come in a single book, so I sent everyone to look for similar books. Three months after starting this, almost all my body was free from the effects of that forbidden magic. But the pain had turned part of my hair gray and carved hundreds of wrinkles into my face. I could not use anesthesia, and I was the only one capable of performing these enchantments. The pain of reciting them while cutting myself with magic still made me grimace today.
The books came with several macabre explanations. Some must have been written by the madman who allowed the entry of these horrendous creatures. He said they were misnamed "Creatures of the Chaos Mark"—that they were ancient, very ancient. They sought chaos, destruction, and pain, in any order. They were mad, and their leader even more so. They sought normal environments to pervert them—I did not want to imagine how perverted a world like the one we currently lived in could become. But he did not seek that, I knew. Someone capable of achieving what in some writings they defined as the King of Necromancers—I doubted he only sought to plague this continent with madness. He must be seeking something. The reason was far away, months away, and he so close to his goal. But if I did not heal, I would be dead by now.
The book I was deciphering at this moment was about elven beauty customs. Anyone would give up, thinking it was rubbish. I was about to, but here there was something about long-term regeneration magic—something like healing every two, three, or five seconds for almost ten minutes. That was enough to finish a battle reasonably sure you would still be alive at the end. The last letters fell into place slowly but surely. Just then, I felt the air being cut. I dropped from my floating position. There was no time for subtlety—someone was attacking me!
I barely heard his clothes. I knew I should not open my eyes. If he was capable of penetrating the fields of magic, the dead, and the spirits, I was sure human eyes would be easily fooled. The amulets he carried were invaluable. None of the military elves had ever used them—they were probably from an assassin. But for an assassin to possess them, he must be from the elf king's elite—not the stupid ones who lived around here, but the real stupid ones who had taken refuge across the sea.
My sword was far away—a meter away, enough for me to die if I reached for it. At least I wore my armor, so no vital organs would be compromised. Another whisper, as soft as falling silk—aimed at my neck. I used my arm's protection to block the stab. Instantly, he vanished again. I was aware. I could not call to anyone, especially if I wanted them to stay alive. I had few alternatives. I had only kept retreating. I did not know how long it would be before he attacked my skull or some place I could not defend. But then I realized: a stab should not have so little force—no matter that with a sword it would feel more penetrating. It was obvious he used a knife. I did not smell poison—a way to conceal his presence. I crossed my arms over my face, leaving my eyes exposed. I had the magic prepared, the connections made. Even if I missed them, it would not matter—it would be for the best. I opened my eyes.
I forced my mind to ignore everything I saw—the moving visions, the aberrations, whatever made my eyes indicate I was in a hundred realities with enemies everywhere. That was just illusion—expensive amulets indeed. Just as I felt my eyes burn, I knew he would try! I charged my hands with magic and closed them like scissors, tearing apart. I heard him scream, but he was not the only one. Too late, I heard Lilith's howl—perhaps she had come to see me at night, as she had many times before, seeking to make me rest.
Before turning, I made sure my eyes were fine. Not the ones that burst—I knew those were the price to pay. A bitter laugh escaped my chest. "See," I told Lilith, "now I am truly the Dark Lord."
I contemplated the world with my new eyes. An arrogant bastard lay on the floor. I expected to see an elf, but it was a human. On his face was tattooed the Wolf Clan's logo. So they had allied. In their petty greed, humans had accepted an alliance with those who had brought them to the brink of extinction.
After a few moments of reflection, I finally turned to look at her. Without enchantments, without any magic, these eyes allowed me to see beings in their pure form—as they originally were and as they were now, superimposed. An innocent girl and a voluptuous demoness. There was nothing to think about what I had to do. Before that, I had to speak with her. I had to choose my words carefully. They called me Overlord even so. After tonight's events, it was clear—I needed help.