Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 765: Treatment [2] (Refresh to clear duplicate!)

The elf turned slightly toward Serena, his lips never moving as his voice slipped into a controlled transmission that only she could hear.

"Who is the boy?"

His eyes did not leave the unconscious figure in Spartan’s arms.

He already knew the answer could not be simple.

As a Rank Four, he understood the cost of what was being done here. Elven treatment at this level was not something offered lightly. It consumed resources and favor. It was reserved for those whose existence mattered.

Of course, not all elven treatment cost one’s entire fortune, but the condition he could faintly sense from the boy was one that did.

No Rank Four escorted an ordinary child across realms.

Serena’s reply came just as quietly.

"I don’t know for certain," she said.

"But I suspect he may be a holy child of the Aurora realm."

There was a pause.

The middle-aged elf wanted to raise an eyebrow.

Every realm that survived long enough, every civilization that grew powerful enough, eventually produced such figures. Children born at convergence points of fate.

Sometimes they became symbols. Sometimes weapons. Sometimes disasters. Sometimes saviors.

Sometimes, realm masters.

There were not many things that could truly interest him when it came to other races. He had lived too long, seen too much, and weighed too many external affairs to be easily stirred.

But a holy child of a fast-growing realm like Aurora?

That was different.

Very different.

His gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly as he studied the unconscious boy again.

So this was the reason.

A seed important enough for Aurora to send a Star General himself.

Interesting.

Very interesting indeed.

Elves were indifferent to many things, but a holy child was not quite on the list of things they could ignore, especially when it came from a strong race.

"Then we should not delay any longer," the middle-aged elf said. "If the youth’s condition is as severe as it appears, every moment wasted only narrows the paths available to us."

His gaze shifted briefly toward Spartan and the unconscious boy in his arms. This time, there was no trace of repulsion or judgment in his eyes. Only assessment.

"Elven healing is effective," he continued, "but it is not omnipotent. The earlier we begin, the better the outcome. Especially for a soul-level injury."

Caelum inclined his head in response.

"My thanks," the old man said simply.

The elf met his gaze again, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.

He turned slightly, gesturing forward with one hand.

"I will personally authorize immediate passage to the inner sanctuary," he said. "All secondary procedures can be handled afterward."

Serena let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She gave a short nod, relief flickering across her expression before discipline smoothed it away.

"As you command," she said.

The middle-aged elf took one last look at the unconscious boy.

Michael had no idea what was going on in the real world.

After losing consciousness, he found himself in a half-awake, half-asleep state.

He did not know how long he spent in it.

Half-awake, he could subtly hear what was going on outside.

Soul injury.

Elven realm.

Strange physique.

Some clash of battle.

Wait.

Someone was fighting?

Where?

With a bit of struggle, Michael opened his eyes.

The first thing he felt was warmth.

He was lying on a wide surface grown from smooth living wood. Moss-soft fibers lined the edges, cool against his skin.

Above him, the ceiling rose in a natural arch. Thick roots formed its frame. Small leaves grew along them, healthy and quiet, swaying slightly even though there was no wind.

Light filtered in from narrow openings high above, scattered and soft, like sunlight passing through a forest canopy. It painted the room in shades of green and gold.

The walls were not walls in the usual sense. They were grown trunks and stone fused together, seamless. Clear pools of water were set into the floor at intervals, their surfaces perfectly still, reflecting the leaves overhead.

The air was clean.

It smelled of damp earth, fresh bark, and flowing water. Each breath felt lighter than the last, as if the room itself was easing the weight from his chest.

Michael tried to move.

His head throbbed.

Fragments of memory drifted back.

Then he faintly heard sounds beyond the room, breaking his thoughts.

It was like a low echo of force meeting force.

The room did not react or reflect what was going on outside.

The leaves did not shake. The water did not ripple. The ground was steady.

Whatever was happening outside, this place was able to endure it.

Michael slowly became aware of himself.

He shifted his focus to his body.

Roots covered him.

They were thick and pale green, wrapped carefully around his arms, legs, chest, and waist. They did not feel tight or restrictive. Instead, they pressed gently against his skin, pulsing faintly, as if they were breathing along with him.

A cool, strange paste coated large portions of his body.

It was green, deep and earthy, smeared across his chest, shoulders, and limbs in uneven layers. It smelled faintly of crushed leaves and sap.

Michael flexed his fingers slightly.

They moved.

No pain followed.

He glanced down further, taking stock of himself more carefully. His skin was unbroken. No scars. No wounds. No lingering damage from the battle he vaguely remembered. It looked as though nothing had ever happened to him at all.

Good as new.

And yet...

Michael frowned faintly.

Something was wrong.

The weakness he felt was still there.

It was subtle, deep, and hard to define. It did not come from his muscles. When he shifted his arm again, there was strength there. His breathing was steady. His heartbeat was calm.

It was not physical.

The sensation was heavier, sitting somewhere behind his chest and behind his thoughts. Like exhaustion that sleep could not touch. Like something inside him had been scraped thin and had not yet grown back.

Soul injury.

The words drifted back to him from earlier, half-heard voices echoing through his haze.

So that was it.

Michael exhaled slowly.

Another sound reached him.

Distant.

Muted.

A dull, rhythmic pressure, like waves crashing far away or thunder rolling behind a mountain range. Force meeting force.

It sounded like a battle.

Michael’s eyes flicked toward the edges of the room, instinctively searching for movement.

But nothing reacted.