Jackal Among Snakes

Chapter 628: I Was an Elf Who Lived One Thousand Years Ago With Trash Talent, but I've Been Revived

Llewellen set aside the dwarven music box, exhaling in a mix of pain and amusement as magic continued to flood into him. He imagined, decades or even centuries from now, someone finding the last recording he’d made. If the dwarves ever came to reclaim this place, or if the elven empire breached in search of something… what was the likelihood of them knowing how it functioned? What was the likelihood it wasn’t tossed aside, or found by someone who had no understanding of its value?

Statistically, quite low.

But it didn’t really matter. There was nothing else for him to do but die, overflowing with magic. He could already feel it cracking free of his body, pushing aside organs in its bid to escape a vessel too small to hold it. He had finally found an A-rank ascension that suited him, yet as if the world was thrusting him back into place, he still lacked sufficient expertise to carry it out without perishing.

There was no pain as he leaned up against the stone walls. He had cut away pain with an improvised spell so that his last moments might be those of peace. There had been so much he had wanted to do. So many problems that he’d intended to solve, so many branches of magic left unexplored. He hadn’t spent his life in vain, despite his shortcomings. Yet it still didn’t feel like enough. The ideas coming to him never ended, but he was to die long before he could put any of them out into the world.

He felt a warm blanket cover him as blood started to escape his body, and when he exhaled, he felt it pour out across his chin. The rising power came to his neck, and then shortly after to his head. Then…

Llewellen was standing, feeling all of his limbs devoid of the sluggish power that had been coursing through them moments before. In abject surprise, he whipped his head about. It was the same room, yet now was covered in blackness that was undoubtedly traces of the magic he’d absorbed. And yet… standing there just ahead of him were three humans, of all things, bathed in blue spell light as they stared at him in wonder.

One of the humans was an old man with yellow teeth and eyes. Another had tan skin with golden tattoos, whose eyes were also yellow. The human in the back was dressed as decadently as the emperors he’d met in the lifetime, and struck quite the tall figure. But upon further inspection, she wasn’t a human—partially hidden behind her long white hair were elven ears. They were considerably less large and sharp than his. They might’ve been of a different heritage.

The woman stepped forward. “Llewellen?”

He flinched when he heard his name from this person he didn’t recognize, then looked around at everything, including his own body. Upon further inspection, this wasn’t his body. Most jarring was the androgyny, as this form lacked any parts denoting sex. But other things were subtly different, too—unrecognizable arms, legs, et cetera.

He had been so resigned to death it was difficult to feel fear, much less process what was going on. But this woman… she knew his name. That meant they all likely knew more, too. He looked at them.

“Am I safe?” He asked.

The woman nodded. “You’re in no danger.”

“I died…” he said with certainty. “…so you must’ve brought me back, somehow.”

The well-dressed woman stepped forward. “You’re right. You’re no longer in any risk of suffering from what afflicted you. I’m Anneliese, Queen of Vasquer. I’m acting on behalf of Argrave, my king. That’s Garm, and the last is Durran.” She put her hand to her silver breastplate. “We hope to bring you out of this place.”

The tattooed man began to speak, saying, “We brought you back to—”

The elven woman stopped him from saying more. “You died, Llewellen. I’m not sure how long ago precisely, but it was at least a millennium.”

His heart throbbed violently in shock—it, at least, still functioned as it ought to, despite his new and unusual body. It was difficult enough to accept the fact that he’d been brought back from the brink since he couldn’t deny things as he saw them. But the passage of time? He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much things could change in one thousand years. The fact that this woman was so ridiculously tall and possessed of shorter ears was something to evidence that. She called herself ‘queen,’ however, and not emperor. As far as he knew, no such title existed in this region.

“You know my name,” he said, looking between them all. “You know how much time has passed since I came down here, roughly. The dwarven music box I made is missing. You brought me, in particular, back. Royalty is here for this event,” he stated his observations, then crossed his arms. “While I’m very much curious about the details, I imagine you have a reason to bring me back other than charity.”

The tattooed man looked surprised at his deductions, scratching his head of black hair. The old man flashed his teeth in a wide smile, as if it was expected.

“You’re right—we do. Do you know of Gerechtigkeit?” Anneliese asked.

The unwieldy name was somewhat familiar. The man he’d met in his long journeys known only as the Alchemist had mentioned something of the sort. There were some among his people who spoke of a doomsday prophecy bearing that name, too. Still, he was working with incomplete information.

“Perhaps you’d best explain.” Llewellen gestured.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“On the way.” Anneliese gestured to Durran, then the man gave him clothes. “For now… let’s get headed to the surface. You must have experienced a terrible shock. We’re not so impolite as to make a request without at least offering you some time to adjust.”

#####

After the long story from Anneliese, Llewellen’s head was still spinning as he sat in a chair. Night had come, but this body didn’t need to sleep, so he stayed up thinking.

When he’d left this place, the Empire of Twelve Under One, more simply called the Elven Empire by most without and within it, had felt invulnerable. It felt as though nothing could topple their reign. Independent sentiments existed only in the slaves, and they lacked expertise or power enough to shatter a continent-spanning empire. Forget declining—the empire was still growing rapidly when he’d headed underground. There had even been projects in the works to make vessels capable of crossing overseas to the Great Chu.

Now, it was called the ‘ancient elven empire’ simply because it had fallen so long ago that few enough remembered its real name.

A millennium had come and gone, and he’d been dead that entire time. Not just him—every single one of his people had been killed. That woman he’d met was wife to a human king, which was entirely unthinkable in the time he came from. He wasn’t displeased by this development. Llewellen may have been one of the elves, but he had no special attachment to them—he had, after all, lived his earliest years as a slave. He’d spent more of his years in human territories, frankly. Mortals were mortals, and he found race to be largely arbitrary.

Even still, the thing that made his head spin the most—or more accurately, made a grin grace his face—was the reason that they had gone through such lengths to bring him back.

His work, his theories… they were of such value to the people of today that they could think of no one else more fitting to help them with the task of creating psychic magic. He wasn’t a particularly joyful person, but hearing that was enough to somewhat suppress the feeling of existentialism that came from hearing he had died and been brought back in the body of what might’ve been a homunculus.

If something had been paying attention to his last thoughts… they must’ve decided to grant him a second chance. They wished for him to have an opportunity to put all of his theories to paper in what time had been given back to him. He was not merely willing to help them, he was eager.

Because more than anything… Llewellen wanted to help magic as it had helped him. He wanted to be recognized in the field, remembered forevermore by new acolytes. And now, he was born again. People recognized his work—respected his work, more than anyone. It might as well have been the heaven of an afterlife.

“Hey.”

Llewellen jolted, looking to where the voice came from. An elf with an appearance he was more intimately familiar with sat across from him, with tan skin, white hair, and quite large ears. She looked rather like some people he’d met before. As a matter of fact, it had been within the retreat of the former emperor.

“They told me you came from the ancient elven empire,” she said, studying him with amber eyes.

Llewellen stared, not sure if she was a hallucination. Anneliese had said every last one of his kind had been wiped out.

“Hey.” She tapped the table in irritation. “They did allow you to speak, right?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, off-balance by her intensity. “You’re one of my kind, aren’t you?”

She looked pleased he had said that, but her words were somewhat harsh. “What else would I be?”

“Anneliese said we had perished,” Llewellen said, half a question.

“She left out some details,” the woman said. “Erlebnis took me in and preserved me, at the price of keeping the knowledge of the imperial family alive. He’s dead now. Argrave killed him. He’s Anneliese’s friend. Or husband, whatever. I’m her friend. He’s kind of, but not really.”

Despite her rapid, poor communication, he understood her. Llewellen covered his face. “So… we’re the last, then.” He exhaled. It was of such large scope it was difficult to comprehend. “I’m Llewel—”

“I’m Onychinusa,” she interrupted. “I already know you. They said you were alive during the days of the empire. Is it true?” She spoke quickly.

“Yes,” Llewellen nodded. “I was a slave there for most of my life.”

Her expression crumpled like she’d been hit in the face by a wooden plank. “Oh. Um…” She gripped the table. “Was it as great as…? I mean, no…” She shook her head. “The empire, what was it like for a… hmm…”

Llewellen realized why she’d come—to learn about her heritage. She had been intending to ask him if the empire was as grand as others had made it out to be, yet his remark about his being a slave had thrown a wrench into her questionings. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’d like to know what the empire was like?”

“I know what it was like. I can read,” she defended.

“But you’ve never lived in it,” he pointed out neutrally.

“…no,” she said meekly.

“Then I can tell you.” Llewellen smiled. She seemed terrible at communication—not unexpected, given how she claimed to have survived where others had died. He would need to be patient with her, for her own sake. “But first, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“Why? That’s hardly pertinent.” She narrowed her eyes.

“It will help me better explain the context of the empire,” he subtly misdirected. In truth, he was merely curious about this strange woman who’d appeared in his room.

“Technically, I’m royalty,” she said proudly. “My grandfather was Emperor Balzat I.”

“Really?” Llewellen raised his brows. “I met him quite a few times. He consulted me for a project.”

“Really?!” She repeated his own words, her excitement twice what his had been. She leaned in closely. “Can you…?”

“Certainly.”

What a strange fate. What a strange world. But… this new life, even if brief, held a great deal of promise.