Part 1: Secret Art of Revival
It takes effort to convince people… Yes, the human heart is complicated, and I can say the same for an elf’s heart. It is within my expectations that every ‘village chief’ that I met would end up either mocking me or outright being hostile to me.
They think I have been brainwashing the elves and taking advantage of their vulnerable state.
And they aren’t wrong.
The problem isn’t me, really… The problem is, that the elves are tacitly agreeing to what I am doing.
I have never imagined myself in a position of power, yet here I am.
The small settlement by the Great Anisia River has grown with over 300 elves, and it has been not less than 50 hours since the humans raided the Lorekleim Forest. It has been a terrible night. From what I gather, it has been a coordinated attack against all of the elven kind living within the Lorekleim Forest.
I don’t have enough evidence to learn of their objectives, but I can guess— land invasion, racism, for fun, religion, etc. Humanity can be very fucked up. I am being biased, but I have been a human once, so I can take little credit.
For all I know, the elves might also be capable of the same fuckery.
It has long come to me that this isn't the work of ordinary raiders. Only hate will fuel someone to do something as vindictive as this. Bandits and slavers are all businessmen in the sense that they don't kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Clearly, the raid nights ago have not been ‘business friendly’ for all its worth.
Raids are militaristic in nature. Whoever is behind these raids must be aiming to gain something. Is it for repute? Or is this just mindless slaughter? Something like genocide for the fun of it?
I push the disturbing thoughts at the back of my mind, focusing on the current events.
Kimsky is a young elf barely out of adolescence. She approaches me with a measured gait. I don’t look at her. I maintain an aloof presence while I sit by the rocks and the river. I recall her bravely confronting a village chief yesterday, but I see none of that bravery now.
She hesitates for a moment before gathering her courage to speak. "I think I know how to help," she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, "there is a sword. A half-elf adventurer returned to the tribe sometime before the attack. Last I saw her, a whole hut had crashed on her. She might be dead, but her sword. I think we could use it. The sword was the sharpest I’ve ever seen before, sharper than the human swords that had cut down through my village that night. We should retrieve the sword." Her words hang heavy in the air, laden with desperation and determination. It's a sentiment I've heard echoed by many of the elves in the settlement since the recent raids began.
“I see,” This piques my interest many times over. “We’ll set out at once, I will come and get Trudviar.”
There is still so much to do, but I should be able to spare some time to search for this sword. I confess I am more interested in the half-elf than the sword… The ‘half-elf’ of this world is different from my past life’s stereotypical labels in that— in this world, there is no such thing as a hybrid race.
The word ‘half-elf’ is a derogatory term for elves who are born with ‘defects’, which are seen in the forms of shortened ears and dark hair. My white hair is uncommon among elves, but I have been easily accepted within my kind for there is no precedent about me.
A ‘half-elf’ is different, because a preconceived notion has already been created around them before I was even born. They are a topic of curiosity to me since from the records I gather, it appears that they possess incredible abilities. They are called ‘half-elves’ not just because of their none-elf-like traits such as their dark hair, shorter pointed ears, and ‘racial traits’ outside of elven abilities. This is the reason why half-elves are persecuted and feared.
Trudviar strides confidently at the head of our group, his steps sure and purposeful. His longbow is slung over his shoulder, while his eyes are keen and alert. He swings his hatchet from time to time, clearing the overgrown branches and greens.
I follow closely behind, my mind occupied with the ramifications of a ‘human raiding party’ attacking this deep in the forest.
As we make our way through the dense foliage of the Lorekleim Forest, the sounds of nature surround us— the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, the gentle babbling of the Great Anisia River beside us. Despite the tranquility of our surroundings, there's an underlying tension in the air, evident by the stigma that the humans left us nights ago.
Clearwater Village lies ahead, its wooden structures peeking through the trees as we approach. Trudviar gestures for us to halt, his hand raised in a silent signal. He motions for me to stay back as he cautiously advances, blending seamlessly into the forest eaves.
Moments pass like an eternity as I wait anxiously, my heart pounding in my chest. Then, Trudviar returns, his expression grave but determined. He signals for us to follow, his movements swift and silent as we make our way into the heart of the village.
Kimsky rushes ahead, taking point as she leads the way.
The village is eerily quiet as expected. The streets are deserted as we search for any signs of life. I don’t know if what I am doing, raising the elves to arms is an act of futility. But seeing this? Even if what I am doing is futile and idiotic, there is no stopping me anymore. The dice have been rolled, and momentum has been accumulating to a frightening degree. Kimsky leads us to a humble hut near the edge of the village, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of neglect. With a swift motion, she pushes open the door, revealing the dim interior.
Inside, we find the remains of a once vibrant home— shattered furniture, torn fabrics, and debris scattered across the floor. But amidst the destruction, a glimmer of something catches my eye— a polished sword unlike anything I’ve seen before is half buried under a pile of rubble.
With a sense of reverence, Trudviar retrieves the sword, his hands gentle yet firm as he carefully examines the blade. It gleams in the dim light, its edge razor-sharp and unblemished despite the passage of time.
“Amazing,” he remarks, “Sharpest thing I’ve ever seen before…”
Trudviar hands me the sword, and I feel a surge of courage coursing through my veins. I know that the ‘courage’ I am feeling is purely psychological, but there is something compelling to wielding a sword as sharp as this. The sword is roughly three feet long, a bit curved like a katana, and may have been treated with the same method as forging one.
I am no swordsman, so I hand the gleaming weapon back to Trudviar, who accepts it with a nod of understanding. Kimsky's eyes scan the wreckage, her expression troubled as she speaks up, her voice barely above a whisper, "The half-elf adventurer... she's not here. She should be pinned down visibly underneath the rubble." Her words hang heavy in the air, laden with worry and uncertainty.
Trudviar kneels beside the debris, his keen eyes tracing the scattered remnants of the hut. His gaze narrows as he spots a faint trail of blood leading away from the wreckage. With a sense of urgency, he follows the crimson path, his movements swift and purposeful.
I and Kimsky exchange a look.
At some point, amidst the chaos and destruction, the mysterious half-elf must have freed herself from the debris and dragged herself outside… Trudviar's sharp eyes catch sight of her form lying amidst the underbrush.
"Over here," Trudviar calls out, his voice cutting through the silence of the village. Kimsky and I rush to his side, our hearts pounding with a mixture of relief and concern. I don’t know about Kimsky, but from what I hear, half-elves are generally strong fighters.
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The half-elf lies motionless on the forest floor, her features obscured by dirt and blood. Trudviar kneels beside her, his hands gentle as he assesses her injuries. Trudviar places his index finger under her nose and shows a look of surrender. “She is not breathing. She is dead.”
“Move, give me space,” I tell him with a sense of urgency. I push Trudviar gently aside and kneel beside the fallen half-elf, my heart racing as I assess the situation.
Dirt and blood mar her features, but beneath the grime, there's a sense of resilience etched into her visage. How do I know that? You don’t get bloodied over your face with minimal wounds. I see no entry wound around her head, meaning the blood must not be hers. I am not a medical expert, but even I can see the arrow sticking from her thigh.
“Blood loss,” I surmise, “It is a common cause of cardiac arrest. Spread out, we need to give her space, so that she can breathe easier.”
Trudviar and Kimsky do as I have instructed them.
I press two fingers against the half-elf’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse, but find none. Time is of the essence. I tilt her head back gently, clearing her airway as I prepare to administer CPR. My hands shake slightly with adrenaline as I position myself over her, remembering the basics of life-saving techniques. I interlock my fingers and place them over the center of her chest, pressing down firmly and rhythmically, counting the compressions in my mind.
"Come on," I mutter under my breath, willing her to respond. Each compression feels like an eternity as I pour all my strength into reviving her. Kimsky watches anxiously, unaware of my intent, while Trudviar stands by, ready to assist if needed.
This world might be 'fantasy' in nature, but it is too primitive. I continue holding my palms over her chest and persist in pushing in a certain rhythm. Chest compression, chest compression, chest compression— I tell myself this like it is some mantra.
Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation sounds fancy, but CPR is quite common knowledge in my old world.
After what feels like an eternity, I pause to tilt her head back again, pinching her nose shut before placing my mouth over hers to deliver rescue breaths. I watch intently for any sign of response, any flicker of movement that might indicate she's fighting to come back to life.
But she remains still, her body limp and unresponsive beneath my touch. Desperation gnaws at the edges of my mind, urging me to keep trying, to refuse to give up hope. I resume chest compressions, my movements becoming more frantic as I pour every ounce of determination into the effort to bring her back.
Minutes blur into eternity as I continue the cycle of compressions and breaths, refusing to relent in the face of despair. Sweat beads on my forehead, my muscles straining with exertion, but still, I persevere, refusing to accept defeat.
And then, just as I feel my own strength waning, a sudden gasp fills the air, startling me into stillness. I freeze, scarcely daring to believe what I've heard, as the half-elf's chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. Relief floods through me like a tidal wave as I realize she's alive, her body stirring with the first flickers of consciousness.
With trembling hands, I roll her onto her side, cradling her head in my lap as I watch her eyes flutter open, confusion and pain etched into her gaze. "You're safe now," I murmur softly, my voice filled with emotion. "You're going to be okay."
Dark hair, small elven ears the length of my ring finger, a bloodied face, and bright blue eyes.
Her lips part in a soundless question, but before she can speak, darkness claims her once more, and she slips back into unconsciousness. I exchange a glance with Kimsky and Trudviar, they have a look of worship in their eyes. They must be thinking of my feat as some divine knowledge.
But I am not done yet.
I tear off a strip of fabric from my shirt, the material surprisingly sturdy despite its makeshift nature. With nimble fingers, I fashion a makeshift donut-shaped bandage, carefully wrapping it around the shaft of the arrow embedded in the half-elf's thigh. My hands work with practiced efficiency, drawing upon the fragments of medical knowledge buried deep within my memories. It's a crude method, but it's the best I can do with the resources at hand.
Moreover, elves have extremely good memory recall, even memories of my past life are subject to this.
I secure the bandage in place, Trudviar and Kimsky watch on, their expressions a mix of admiration and uncertainty. I don’t blame them for their mixed feelings, but they will only grow more confounded in the future.
They must wonder how I know these things, how I possess knowledge beyond their understanding. But there's no time for explanations now, only action.
With the arrow stabilized, I turn my attention to the half-elf's other injuries, assessing the extent of the damage with a critical eye. Blood mingles with dirt and grime, obscuring the true nature of her wounds, but I can see enough to know that she's in bad shape.
"Bruising, a lot of them. She must have pushed herself to her limits while fighting the raiders. We need to get her back to the settlement," I declare, my eyes landing on Kimsky in a self-explanatory gesture for her to answer. "She needs proper medical attention, and we can't afford to waste any more time here. Tell me what else do you know of her?"
Kimsky gulps, but nonetheless answers, “She is an incredible fighter, fought multiple human warriors, and cut them down with her sword. She slaughtered lots of them, and she might have escaped if the hut she was fighting in hadn’t collapsed on her."
“That makes her an asset, let us bring her back to the settlement,” Trudviar adds, his expression grim but determined. Kimsky steps forward, offering to help carry the injured half-elf, her strength belied by her slender frame. Together, we carefully lift her limp form, cradling her between us as we prepare to make the journey back through the forest.
Meanwhile, Trudviar acts as a scout, leading the way back with extra caution. He is right to be cautious and paranoid, it is a quality that I wish for him to hone as a weapon. There is good paranoia and bad paranoia. Trudvair is of the former aspect, and I like that about him.
The journey is short but arduous, the path fraught with obstacles and the dangers of further aggravating the half-elf’s injury.
Finally, after a long time of walking, we emerge from the trees into the clearing where our settlement lies nestled by the Great Anisia River. Relief washes over me like a wave as I catch sight of familiar faces, but damn… They are working fast.
Short spears are fashioned from the daggers and swords pilfered from the raiders… Yirlung and a few bowmakers are leading the efforts to create more weapons.
We need melee weapons, and while the elves are excellent marksmen, we won’t be able to kill as effectively if we don’t have melee fighters. Heck, the raiders last time made sport of us with their metal weapons and it fucking sucked.
When it comes to a war, an assortment of units is a fundamental quantity that an army must possess. We cannot be all bows and arrows, because that’s stupid. Bows cannot do shit in extremely covered spaces, or while locked in a perimeter not to mention against metal armor. This isn’t some divine knowledge acquired from games or books, but something I’ve observed from how the humans attacked Yoretree village.
Interviews and accounts from the other elves also support my current observation.
The elves gasp and balk at the sight of me and Kimsky bringing the half-elf… I notice some of them showing either fear or curiosity. The former comes from the older elves and the latter from the younger elves.
Varen the blind elf comes to me unaware of the eyes I am getting. Varen is among the few I sent outwards the forest to track the raiders or at least to catch signs of them. I am not holding too much to it, as we are still incapable of confronting them.
But who knows? There might be surprises in store for us.
“Report,” Varen succinctly provides, walking beside me at a similar pace. “Two others with me tracked what we believe to be a human settlement. There are armed humans patrolling around. I don't know how many. Regarding distance, I say… about two thousand steps from the forest.”
Since the elves have no proper measurement of length, Varen is measuring the distance in steps. A good estimate is about 1.5 kilometers… That’s far, but we can work with that. But a human settlement? I doubt that. Either it is a relay station, an outpost, a forward base, or something of a similar nature.
“We’ll reconvene later,” I tell Varen, and then call to Trudviar. “Get the half-elf and have her treated. I need to think.” I leave the half-elf to Trudivar and Kimsky.
I walk under a tree where I left my chest.
Under the cool shade of the tree, I sit beside my chest, its wooden surface weathered by time and travel. I open it, revealing the contents within— parchments filled with notes, vials of questionable potions I got scammed over the years, and various trinkets accumulated over the past century. But what catches my eye is a small, leather-bound book tucked away in a corner. It's a journal of sorts, filled with scribbled notes and sketches detailing my observations and experiences in this world… and the past world.
I flip through the pages, my mind racing with thoughts and ideas.
Revenge is sweeter when served with extra seasonings.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. I can't afford to lose focus now, not when so much is at stake. I need to be strategic, to think several steps ahead, and to anticipate the moves of our enemies before they strike again.
They are unaware. This is an advantage. How do we maximize it? Stall. We need to stall for time, while we whet our appetite with small morsels for now. Morale. The elves desperately need morale. We need to attack soon. The ‘human settlement’ as Varen called it is the perfect target. Attack it. Erase it. Never leave any witnesses. Bury them. Demolish the place. Leave nothing behind.
As I jot down my thoughts in the journal, a sense of purpose settles over me like a cloak. I may not have all the perfect answers, but I refuse to let impulsiveness and inaction dictate our momentum. We'll face this challenge head-on, together, and emerge stronger for it. I need to be smarter than them, more wicked, and more prepared.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the clearing as the day fades into night. But I remain where I am, my mind ablaze with ill thoughts of how to murder the other person.
“No plan survives first contact with the enemy,” It is a quote attributed to many persons and something I half-heartedly believe. Sadly, I won’t be able to indulge in it. The elves are weak and this is a fact. For us to win, the only viable method is to avoid making mistakes. “Perfection is key, and only by striving to attain it can we have a fighting chance.”