Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 736: Suspicion

"Are you... a half-elf?"

The question landed lightly.

But the effect it had was anything but.

For a brief moment, the surrounding experts turned almost in unison, their gazes snapping back to Michael as if they were only now truly seeing him.

Michael’s long black hair had come loose at some point during the battle, no longer bound or restrained, flowing freely down his back in a dark cascade that reached past his shoulders. It was thick and smooth. His skin, though marked by dirt and dried blood, was unblemished beneath it. If anything, it was smoother than most elves present.

His features were sharp but balanced, neither overly human nor distinctly elven, resting in an uncanny middle ground. His eyes were a vivid green, carrying a vitality that felt... alive. There was something natural about him, something that made mana in the air subtly lean toward him without conscious intent.

It was subtle.

But to those sensitive enough, it was unmistakable.

Nature favored him.

The old man frowned.

He knew Michael was from Aurora. And yet, as he observed him now, a thought surfaced unbidden.

If someone told him this boy was the illegitimate child of an elven royal, he might not dismiss it outright.

A bastard born of a high-ranking elven bloodline.

It would explain far too much.

No wonder the elf had felt compelled to ask.

Michael, for his part, could only let out a confused look.

"...No," he said at last. "I’m human."

The elf studied him for another long moment.

Her green eyes lingered, curiosity deepening rather than fading.

Then she nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer while still reserving judgment.

"I see," she said.

But the way she said it made it very clear.

She did not see at all.

It could not be helped. Others who did not hold the knowledge of elves might really see Michael as just a very exceptional human, but it was a bit of a different story in the universe. If Michael had long ears, he would look even more like an elf than an actual elf.

The elf did not look away.

"Then..." she said slowly, "are you a holy child of your race?"

A ripple spread instantly.

Those who had merely been curious before now stared at Michael in earnest.

A holy child.

Among the races, that title was not symbolic. It was not poetic exaggeration.

It referred to beings acknowledged by their race, by the world itself, as perfect creations. Individuals born in a span of a million years, sometimes longer. Existences that embodied the essence of their species so completely that the laws of the world bent ever so slightly to accommodate them.

And once the thought was raised, it became difficult to dismiss.

They remembered Michael standing a full rank below and yet commanding multiple Rank Three undead without backlash.

They remembered his foundation, absurdly stable.

Michael felt his confusion deepen.

He knew what a race’s holy child was.

He had read about them. They were legends wrapped in reality. Monsters wearing the skin of prodigies. Beings so far removed from normal standards that comparing them to ordinary talents was meaningless.

But... him?

Yes, he knew he was not normal. He had accepted that long ago. Yet when he thought of figures like Rynne, of those who truly stood outside the framework of reason, Michael could not help but feel that he still carried an air of normalcy.

At least... compared to them.

Right?

He opened his mouth to answer.

Before a single word could leave it, the old man’s leg struck the ground lightly.

The sound was soft.

But the effect was immediate.

"That is enough," the old man said, his voice firm, carrying authority that brooked no argument. "You are asking too many questions of a young man who has already done more than his share today."

The pressure in the air subtly shifted.

The gazes lingering on Michael withdrew, one by one, though not without reluctance.

The elf met the old man’s eyes for a brief moment, then inclined her head in acceptance. She did not argue. But the curiosity in her gaze did not fade.

Michael exhaled quietly.

What he did not know was that the old man was also confused.

Outwardly, the elder remained calm.

But inside, his thoughts were no longer calm.

He knew the present holy child of Aurora.

That child was a symbol, a pillar, an existence raised and protected from the moment the signs appeared.

And compared to that holy child...

Michael still had a gap.

A clear gap.

The old man could admit that much without hesitation.

But when he thought about it deeper, the gap was not absurd.

Not the kind of gap that should exist between a holy child and a so-called talented youth.

It was a gap that could be bridged.

A gap that could shrink.

A gap that, in certain situations, might not even matter.

And that was what disturbed him.

Confusion filled the old man’s mind like cold water.

Because if this boy could stand here as a Rank Two, bruised, exhausted, and still radiating that unnatural vitality, still commanding Rank Three undead like they were extensions of his own body...

Then what would he look like as a Rank Three?

What would he become after another breakthrough?

A wild thought surfaced.

A thought he immediately tried to crush.

Aurora could not possibly have another holy child.

The old man’s thoughts grew stronger.

No. This could not be allowed to spiral.

If Michael truly was something close to that title, then the worst thing possible was leaving him to grow in the dark, unrestrained, unexamined, without guidance.

A holy child without a leash was a calamity.

A holy child without grooming was a weapon waiting to be stolen or used against the race.

The old man’s gaze flicked briefly to Michael again, sharper than anyone noticed.

Then he made a decision, quiet and absolute.

This boy must be watched by the Federation. Properly and closely.

And if needed...

Groomed.