The Devil's Cursed Witch novel Chapter 398

Draven and Erlos arrived at the enormous graveyard where thousands upon thousands of supernatural beings could be seen standing under the bright morning sun.

'This is what Lvenor had been reduced to.'

Before this vast wasteland earned the name Netherfields, this place used to be the main city of the High Elves, Lvenor.

Amongst the proud elves, the High Elves were excessive lovers of art, always demanding stone masons for the most luxurious materials and artisans for creations nothing short of the best, that was why numerous beautiful houses and creative architectures were built in their city.

Lvenor was once the most magnificent city of Agartha, even rivaling that of human empires of the past.

However, at this moment, not even the ruins of their fallen city had remained. The once blood-soaked soil became covered with grass, and now, there was nothing but vast green fields covered with the gravemarkers and tombstones of everyone who died.

It became known as the Netherfields, and in place of houses were rows of graves, extending so far that gravestones could be seen for as long as one's gaze could reach. Unending rows of graves marked with white tombstones—each of them a family member, a friend, a lover, of those who had come to mourn.

'A hundred and one years had passed since that massacre,' Draven thought as he solemnly walked from the outskirts towards the graveyard.

Many of the elders and high-ranking officials of each race could have arrived at their destination through their powers and bloodline abilities, but like Draven, they chose to slowly walk step by step towards the graves they were visiting. It was a sign of respect for the dead.

The Netherfields had no clear demarcation among the graves, as the warriors and those whose lives were sacrificed need not be divided, but in general, the graves of those belonging to the same clan or family members were kept side by side. As such, one could see those of the same clan or race mourning together.

As Draven and Erlos walked, they saw familiar faces.

Cornelia Grimm and her coven members were standing in front of the graves where the witch race were buried. Beside them, there was a small number of witches not wearing white—they were the villagers from the Millow Circle. After all, regardless of their attribute, both the White and Black Witches belong to the same race.

The stooping old witch, Zelda, was in the lead, and though the Black Witches had a small number of mourners, the number of graves under them were one of the largest, second only to the High Elves. Other than the High Elves, the Black Witches were the ones that were killed the most in that war, and their remaining numbers were not even fifty.

On the side of the elves, Draven saw High Elder Leeora lead her clan members, from kids to the elderly.

Likewise, he saw Logan together with his father, standing in front of the graves of the fallen White Tiger warriors, as well as Morpheus and Aureus, standing side by side the Chief of the Shapeshifters, and they were talking with each other, probably Chief Agraleus sharing brief stories about his brother and sister-in-law towards his nephew and grandnephew.

Draven stopped in front of the largest part of the Netherfields. At this moment, it had no visitors aside from him and Erlos, unlike the rest of the graveyard.

"My people, this unfilial child has come to pay his respects," Draven heard Erlos murmur as the young elf lowered his head, his real thoughts unknown.

Draven and Erlos were standing in front of the graves of the High Elves. Erlos, being the last descendant, and Draven, being Erlos' guardian, would always offer their prayers in front of the gravestones of Erlos' clan.

It was an absolute tragedy, where everyone from a new born child to the elderly were killed, with no one spared. An entire clan disappeared from the face of the land. Erlos was fortunate to survive that massacre.

Draven closed his eyes, and as for his prayers, only he knew in his heart.

Time ticked by, and soon, the sun had risen to a certain point in the sky.

As basically all the residents of Agartha had convened in the Netherfields, except for those with special circumstances, like the warriors appointed elsewhere for the sake of security, the prayer ceremony would begin.

A loud, deep sound of horn echoed within the Netherfields. Those who were murmuring amongst themselves turned quiet.

At the second sound of the horn, everyone kneeled on the ground in front of the graves and closed their eyes.

Some solemnly chanted while offering flowers, some sang war songs while crying, others read out prayers while others silently prayed in their hearts—each clan and race had their own ways of showing honor for the dead, but in the end, all their actions were for the souls of the deceased who had lost their lives in that terrible, terrible war.