Walking out of the cave, Rowe held a ball of Holy Light in his palm, its gentle radiance casting long shadows as he wandered through the ancient ruins of Svartalfheim.
"I wonder if any dark elves still survive…" he murmured under his breath.
Millennia ago, the former God-King—father to both Kurse and Odin—led a divine crusade that utterly decimated the dark elves. Once dominant throughout the cosmos, the dark elves' star had long since faded, leaving their empire in ruin and obscurity. After eons of decay, their people—once feared as the overlords of darkness—had seemingly vanished into myth.
In the Nine Realms, no trace of their presence remained, save for this forgotten and desolate land: Svartalfheim, the forsaken homeland no one dared to tread.
Was he truly the first soul to set foot upon this shadowed land since their fall? Rowe pondered the thought as he pressed forward.
Hours passed. Though he remained vigilant and searched thoroughly, he found no signs of life or remnants of the dark elf civilization. Disappointment began to take root, and he considered turning back—until a sudden noise cut through the silence.
"Hush…" came a strange, guttural sound, something distinctly inhuman.
Rowe froze, instincts sharp. He immediately summoned the Fist of Verigan from his Sanctuary space, shifting the Holy Light from his palm to the massive warhammer.
The warhammer's radiant aura surged, the illumination intensifying tenfold and dispelling the shadows around him with divine brilliance.
"Hey!" The voice came again—this time closer, tinged with panic.
Rowe's eyes snapped to movement—a massive, black spider emerged from the darkness, easily larger than a grown man. Its chitinous body shimmered with oily darkness, and its mouthparts clicked menacingly.
Yet despite its monstrous appearance, the spider recoiled the moment the light reached it. Creatures of Svartalfheim, like their dark elf masters, were inherently vulnerable to light. Eons ago, darkness ruled the cosmos, and the dark elves flourished. But as light became the prevailing force in the universe, their power waned, and Asgard ultimately cast them down.
Exposed to the holy radiance, the spider shrieked and fled. Rowe blinked, momentarily startled, before remembering the inherent terror dark creatures had for light. A smirk crossed his face.
"I'm a paladin—the brightest calling in the universe," he muttered confidently. "You think something scared of light can beat me?"
With Holy Light blazing from his armor and weapon, Rowe gave chase. The spider hissed as smoke rose from its body, seared by divine energy. Within moments, it collapsed, twitching on the ground in agony.
With a resolute swing, Rowe brought Verigan's Fist down and ended its suffering in a thunderous crash.
Despite the ease of the victory, Rowe recognized the spider had not been weak. Its innate fear of light had crippled it, rendering it defenseless against his power. He considered the implications.
Dark elves shared this aversion. Could he have crushed them just as easily?
Alas, the dark elves had perished long ago.
Then again, even if they remained, Rowe acknowledged they had long prepared for such weaknesses. Light-resistant armor had once been standard among their warriors, insulating them from their vulnerabilities.
Still, he knelt beside the fallen spider, noting the faint, acrid odor of its venom. As a paladin and healer, he understood the value of such materials. Using a vial from his pack, he carefully collected samples of the venom.
Despite the desolation, Svartalfheim was not lifeless. Dark creatures yet skulked in its shadows, though few dared emerge.
To ordinary explorers, such creatures would pose mortal threats. But Rowe, armored in Holy Light, had little to fear.
For several days, he returned to Svartalfheim during his spare time, delving deeper into its forgotten corners. Occasionally, he faced other dark beasts, mostly spiders of various sizes.
As his suspicions confirmed, these dark spiders were highly venomous. Even a drop of their poison could fell a lesser god. Still, Rowe's greatest reward was the accumulated venom samples—valuable for both alchemical research and battlefield application.
One day, he set out along an unexplored route. Hours passed in the dim gloom until something caught his eye—a ruin partially revealed under the warhammer's glow. Raising it high, the holy light cast beams across crumbled stone.
"Ruins?"
He stepped forward, studying the broken remnants of buildings. Judging by the layout, the site was likely once a village—humble, small, and now reclaimed by decay.
Rodents scurried as the light disturbed their nests, but Rowe paid them no mind. His focus had already been captured—by a flower.
Nestled amid the rubble were several small purple blossoms, growing stubbornly in a corner formed by fractured walls.
Nearly all flora in Svartalfheim withered under light. But these blossoms stood firm, their petals glowing faintly beneath the divine aura.
Intrigued, Rowe leaned closer. He recalled the description from the Holy Codex: the elusive Purple Lotus, famed for its resilience, often found blooming in places of ruin and decay.
"Could this be one of them?" he wondered aloud.
After close inspection, he retrieved a small enchanted shovel from his Sanctuary space and carefully uprooted the flowers. Using the alchemical interface embedded in his codex, he scanned the sample.
[97% compatibility with Purple Lotus]
Rowe's heart leapt.
He had found it—another rare component of the legendary Talent Mixture.
Only four ingredients remained: Dragon's Blood, Mountain's Blood, Sands of Time, and the Lightning Core.
The Lightning Core likely lay in Thunder Valley, on Vanaheim. Dragon's Blood could be sourced from either Nornheim or Muspelheim.
But the Sands of Time and Mountain's Blood remained elusive—unknown in both origin and form.
Rowe returned to Asgard, his thoughts swirling with possibilities and strategies.
The next day, with newfound determination, he journeyed again—this time to Warnerheim. Or at least, that was his theory. The terrain from the lake's shore hinted it could be the forested world of the Vanir.
As he moved through the woods, the dense foliage stretched for miles. Even with his divine speed, it took an entire day, and still he found no edge to the forest.
"This must be Vanaheim," he concluded. "Few other realms have forests this vast."
Exhausted, Rowe sat at the base of a tall tree, leaning back to rest. He did not dare sleep deeply—unknown lands were never truly safe.
His instincts proved correct.
"Kill him!"
The cry rang through the night like a warhorn, shaking him from his slumber.
Rowe jumped to his feet, hand already on Verigan's Fist, the holy light igniting once again as he prepared for battle.
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