Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 774: Michael Vs Royal Princess [1]

Michael noticed that although he could see the elves clearly, they could not see him at all.

At first, he felt a flicker of confusion, but it did not take long for him to piece things together. This had to be the work of one of the two Rank Four beings beside him.

Whether it was a concealment technique, a passive field, or simply their presence suppressing perception, Michael could not tell. What mattered was that whoever was responsible clearly had no intention of being noticed.

In any case, the situation worked perfectly in Michael’s favor.

He remained still, his presence quiet, while his gaze stayed fixed on the figures hovering in the air ahead.

One of them was his undead, Spartan. The other was a male elf.

Most elves Michael had seen or read about possessed either blonde or silver hair. Blonde was considered the most common, often associated with ordinary elven bloodlines. Silver hair, on the other hand, carried a deeper meaning.

According to what Michael knew, elves with silver hair usually belonged to noble families or, at the very least, carried traces of noble blood within their lineage.

If an elf did not come from a well-known family yet possessed silver hair, it meant that somewhere in their ancestry, there had been a connection to nobility. Elven bloodlines were persistent like that. Time could blur names and status, but certain traits remained.

As for why hair color mattered so much to elves in the first place, Michael recalled reading about it in an historical record back at the academy library. Long ago, elves had all shared the same blonde hair. However, a group of influential elites had grown dissatisfied with being indistinguishable from the rest. Through rituals, bloodline refinement, and deliberate alteration, they changed their appearance to mark themselves as different.

Silver hair was the result.

It was not hard to understand why it caught on. The color carried an undeniable charm, enhancing the elves’ natural beauty and elegance, traits they already valued deeply.

That was why seeing an elf with blue hair immediately stood out.

Hair colors outside of blonde and silver were extremely rare among elves.

The elf in question appeared quite young at first glance, but Michael knew better. Given the lifespan of elves, their physical appearance often lagged far behind their actual age. In reality, this elf was likely far older than he seemed.

Despite that, his presence was clear and sharp.

Like Spartan, he was a Rank Three supernatural.

Michael kept watching.

After observing for a bit longer, Michael began to notice patterns.

The blue haired elf moved with a calm precision that immediately set him apart. Flames followed his every action, but they were not wild or uncontrolled.

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly.

This was fire, but it was not simple fire.

He could feel the law at work even without actively focusing on it. The moment the elf’s power flared red, the heat intensified sharply. The air itself warped. Even at this distance, Michael could sense how oppressive it was. That part, at least, was familiar. Most fire related laws manifested overwhelming heat as their primary trait.

But then the color shifted.

The red flames dulled, fading into a deep orange, then briefly into something closer to gold. The heat vanished almost instantly, replaced by something else entirely. The flames did not burn. They weighed down the space instead, becoming heavy and slow, as if gravity itself had thickened around them.

Michael inhaled quietly.

Still fire, he realized. But not heat.

A moment later, the flames shifted again. Blue fire erupted, cold enough that frost crept across the void around it. Where the blue flames passed, space stiffened, movement slowed, and even Spartan’s momentum dulled slightly.

Michael’s focus sharpened.

So that’s how it works.

It was one law.

Yet it felt like many.

Each color carried a different primary characteristic, yet all of them were undeniably fire at their core. Heat, weight, suppression, cold. Different expressions of the same origin.

Michael found it fascinating.

He did not know the exact concept behind the law, but he could sense that it was not a simple elemental path. It was closer to interpretation than raw power. The elf was not commanding fire to behave differently. He was redefining what fire meant within the bounds of his law.

When the flames returned to red, the temperature spiked again. The void shimmered violently, pressure rippling outward as Spartan met the attack head on.

Unfortunately though the elf law was strong, it still lost to Spartan more domineering black devouring flames.

The outcome became clear soon after.

The blue flames flared one last time, cycling rapidly through their hues as the elf pushed his law to its limit. The void trembled under the strain, its surface rippling like disturbed water.

Spartan did not retreat.

His black flames surged forward in a single, overwhelming tide. They did not change color. They did not shift form. They simply consumed.

Where the two laws collided, there was no explosion. No violent backlash. The blue flames were swallowed whole, erased as if they had never existed. The space they occupied collapsed inward for a brief instant before stabilizing again.

The elf froze.

His eyes widened slightly as he felt the outcome through his law before his senses could fully register it. He pulled back immediately, flames retracting into his body as he created distance between them.

Spartan did not pursue.

He hovered in place, black fire rolling lazily around his form, his presence steady and absolute. There was no aggression in his posture now. The battle had already ended.

A quiet spread through the grey field below.

The watching elves exhaled almost in unison, tension draining from their bodies. Some lowered their heads. Others straightened, expressions filled with restrained awe rather than fear.

The blue haired elf steadied himself in the air. He studied Spartan for a long moment, then slowly inclined his head in acknowledgment. There was no bitterness on his face, only clarity.

The difference between them was obvious.

Spartan responded in kind, dipping his head just enough to return the gesture. Then the black flames around him faded, retreating into his form until only faint embers remained.

Michael shook his head.

The fight had ended faster.

Below them, movement resumed.

"That’s another one," an elf whispered, voice low but sharp with disbelief. "What is it now, the fifth?"

"Sixth," another corrected quietly. "Six confirmed losses today alone. And this one wasn’t weak."

A third scoffed. "Weak? He’s one of the academy’s best law wielders."

"And still lost," someone muttered.

Their gazes drifted back toward Spartan, who still hovered calmly in the air, unmoving, as if the fight had never required effort in the first place.

"That undead keeps getting stronger," an elf said through clenched teeth. "With it seemingly having more battles, it seems to comprehend a way to gain more strength."

A brief silence followed.

Then someone leaned closer and whispered, "You’re forgetting one."

A few heads turned.

The elf gestured subtly toward the far edge of the grey field.

There, standing alone, was a bulky figure.

He did not float. He did not radiate law fluctuations or elemental distortion. He simply stood there, feet planted, arms relaxed at his sides, as if he were waiting for someone to approach.

Ghost.

Unlike Spartan, Ghost drew no immediate attention. There were no flames. No pressure. No obvious presence. Yet the space around him felt oddly firm, as if something invisible resisted approach.

"He’s still there," one elf said quietly.

"He’s been standing there since the trials started," another replied. "Has anyone challenged him yet?"

A short laugh followed. "Aside from those few who focus purely on physical strength? No one sane would."

"His strength doesn’t make sense," a different elf muttered.

"And yet," the first elf said, lowering his voice further, "everyone who tried ended up broken."

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

A broader elf stepped forward slightly, his arms crossed over a frame packed with dense muscle. His presence was heavier than most.

"I fought this one," he said bluntly.

Several elves turned to look at him.

"Well?" someone asked.

The physical elf’s jaw tightened. "I couldn’t move him. Not once. Every strike landed, but it felt like hitting something that didn’t care. No recoil. No damage. Just... resistance."

He shook his head slowly.

"That undead isn’t strong the way we understand strength," he continued. "And that’s the problem. It doesn’t make sense."

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

High above, Michael listened in silence.

His gaze shifted briefly toward Ghost, standing alone in the distance, then back to Spartan, who remained calm and steady in the air.

So that’s how they see it, Michael thought.

His undead truly weren’t normal when he thought about it again.

What Michael did not know was that the other teachers of the Elven academy also shared the same thought.

Some of those students were even more powerful than them. So if they went up against them they’d only fail more.

And unlike the students they had access to more information.