Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 763: Elven Realm [3]

Invasion was not an unfamiliar concept in the wider universe.

It simply meant one realm taking control of another, or being swallowed by a stronger one.

There were many reasons it happened.

Some realms were rich in resources that could not be replicated elsewhere. When such resources existed in limited quantity, conflict was inevitable.

Other times, it was about position.

Certain realms sat at key junctions between planes, acting as natural gateways for trade, travel, or military movement. Controlling such a realm meant a lot of things. In a universe where distance could be crossed in moments, location still mattered.

There were also realms that were simply weak.

Newly formed worlds. Damaged realms recovering from catastrophe. Civilizations that had not yet matured enough to defend themselves. To stronger powers, these were opportunities.

And sometimes, invasion had nothing to do with wealth or strategy.

Overpopulation forced expansion.

Dying worlds could also push their people outward in desperation.

Yet, despite how common invasion was, its implementation was not exactly simple.

Aside from factors like military strength, there was also something else that had to do with the realm.

It was also one of the reasons why, aside from newly discovered worlds with no inhabitants, conquered realms usually never had a huge population of their conquerors in their land.

This was because of realm suppression.

Realm suppression was not a mystery once one understood how realms were born.

A realm did not begin as a "world" in the way most people imagined.

At first, it was only a pocket of space that had stabilized long enough to hold form: a knot of laws, a fixed boundary, and a core. Some were born naturally from cosmic collisions. Some formed around ancient remnants. Some were the result of broken planes that fused into something new.

In the early stage, such a place was fragile.

Its borders were thin. Its rules were inconsistent. Time could flow strangely. Space could fold wrong. The environment could shift without warning. If the realm survived long enough, it began to settle.

Mountains became mountains.

Rivers chose their paths and kept them.

Seasons became predictable.

And the laws that governed everything inside stopped fluctuating and hardened into structure.

That was how a realm "grew."

As that stability deepened, something else emerged.

A will.

Not the will of a person, but the realm’s own instinct to remain itself.

It was subtle at first, expressed through natural correction. Foreign energy that did not fit would be pushed out. Techniques that violated the realm’s established rules would weaken. Those who stayed too long without adapting would feel a pressure, like the world itself was rejecting them.

Over time, that will became clearer and more purposeful.

The realm began to distinguish between what belonged and what did not.

It recognized native patterns. It tolerated familiar energy. It supported those who matched its rhythm.

And it resisted everything else.

That resistance was realm suppression.

It was why invaders often arrived with overwhelming force, yet still struggled to maintain control.

In contrast, natives moved naturally.

That was also why conquerors rarely flooded a conquered realm with their own population.

Even if they won militarily, the realm itself would grind them down over time unless they paid a massive cost to adapt.

Realm suppression could also be weaker or stronger depending on another factor: how the realm advanced after becoming a world.

As realms continued to mature, some reached a critical point.

By then, their laws were no longer merely stable. The realm’s will, which had once acted only through instinctive rejection and correction, began to seek an anchor.

That anchor was always a native.

Realm masters were never outsiders.

They were born of the land, shaped by its laws from the very beginning. Their bodies, souls, and growth paths were naturally aligned with the realm’s rhythm. Because of that, when the realm reached for a representative, it could only choose from its own children.

And among those natives, only two kinds were ever chosen.

The strongest.

Or the most extraordinary.

When such a person resonated deeply enough, the bond formed.

The moment someone became a realm master, their status changed fundamentally.

They did not grow infinitely stronger, nor did they break the realm’s limits. Instead, they were elevated to the absolute peak of what the realm itself allowed. Whatever the maximum permitted power was within that world, the realm master stood there instantly.

Foreigners could not match them without paying a severe price in their own realm.

More importantly, the realm’s will could grow too, which in turn was the realm master.

With a realm master, if before the will had acted through instinct, after a realm master emerged, it gained intent.

The will no longer reacted blindly. It acted with judgment based on the realm master’s wishes.

Through the realm master, the world could focus its suppression on specific targets. It could reinforce chosen areas, weaken invaders selectively, and even go as far as weakening the power of the opposition.

In essence, the realm was no longer alone.

It had someone beside it.

That was why invading a mature realm with a realm master was exponentially harder than conquering one without one.

However, becoming a realm master was not a blessing without cost.

The bond went both ways.

The moment a native accepted the role, their future was tied to the realm’s growth. Their potential became capped by the world itself. No matter how talented they were, no matter how extraordinary their path, they could never exceed what the realm was capable of supporting.

In theory, a realm master could rise from mortal to godhood in an instant if the realm’s permitted limit was that high. It was an exaggerated way of describing the effect, but the idea was accurate. The realm elevated them to its ceiling immediately.

But that ceiling was also a prison.

If the realm could only support power up to a certain level, then that was where the realm master would remain forever. Even if their personal talent suggested they could go beyond godhood, even if their comprehension or ambition surpassed the world they stood on, they would be unable to break through.

The realm would not allow it.

Another restriction was distance.

A realm master could not leave their realm freely. The farther they moved away, the weaker the connection became, and the heavier the backlash. Long-term absence was impossible. Extended travel across planes was forbidden. At most, they could project influence, avatars, or limited manifestations, but their true self was anchored.

They were not rulers who traveled the universe.

They were guardians bound to a single land.

There were other costs as well. Their fate became intertwined with the realm’s stability. If the realm was damaged, they suffered. If the realm weakened, they weakened. If the realm faced extinction, the realm master would be dragged down with it.

Because of this, the realm’s will could not force the bond.

Consent was required.

The world could reach out, but the chosen individual had to accept. And many of the truly extraordinary refused.

For beings who sought boundless growth, endless exploration, or transcendence beyond worlds, becoming a realm master was a form of confinement. A glorious cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

This was also why many dominant races across the universe did not have realm masters.

Setting aside the realm’s own strict selection, most powerful figures from large and expansive races would never agree to such restrictions. They valued freedom, expansion, and supremacy across multiple realms. Being bound to a single world, no matter how strong it made them within it, was unacceptable.

So while realm masters existed, they were mostly only common in weaker realms but still rare nevertheless.

Back to suppression, what the old man was currently feeling was this so-called realm suppression.

It was not as terrible as the one from hell since he had recovered his realm, but it was still annoying to deal with.

The old man had only just stepped past the threshold of the building when the space behind him twisted.

A narrow tear opened.

From it stepped an elf.

He appeared middle-aged, with long silver hair bound loosely at his back and calm, sharp eyes that carried the weight of centuries. Unlike the armored guards or tactical personnel they had passed earlier, this elf wore traditional ceremonial robes. Layered fabric of deep green and white draped over his frame, embroidered with leaf patterns.

His body pulsed faintly with restrained power.

Rank Four.

The moment his feet touched the ground, his gaze locked onto a single figure.

The old man.

Nothing else in the space seemed to exist to him.

Spartan, Lily, Beginning, Serena, the armed escorts, even the unconscious Michael in Spartan’s arms were all ignored as completely as furniture. His eyes did not flicker. His attention did not waver.

He took a step forward and inclined his head slightly.

"Esteemed guest," the elf said, his voice warm and refined, carrying the tone of a host.

The old man turned slowly, meeting the elf’s gaze without releasing even a trace of pressure. The two Rank Four existences regarded each other in silence, their auras brushing lightly, testing without hostility.