On the twenty-fifth floor of the Hundredfold Haven sits the widest patch of land on the Orc-occupied territory. It also happens to be where you’ll find the Kingdom of the Elves.

Smack in the center of it all? Lothlórien—their radiant capital, tucked under the shadow of something ancient and holy.

Now, Lothlórien isn’t just a city. It’s a masterpiece. A love letter to Elven craftsmanship, wrapped around one seriously massive tree named Sylvandor. Its silver-green canopy spreads out like a living crown, tossing dappled light and soft shade everywhere. The trunk stretches skyward like a pillar, bark glowing with this slow, steady pulse, like the whole thing’s alive and breathing.

Runes and lores are carved deep into that bark, clinging on with the kind of stubborn pride only forest folks with centuries under their belts can manage. Sylvandor’s roots go so deep, they feel more like memory than wood. To the Elves, this isn’t just a tree. It’s their heart. Their past. Their last shot at holding on.

See, people forget what really happened on the Orc floors. History books pick a side and stick to it.

Heroes here. Villains there.

But the truth? It got ugly. Real ugly.

The war between Elves and Orcs has dragged on for centuries. One side’s got Morgath Skullcrusher, King of the Shadowed Peaks. The guy could crack stone just by shouting. And his temper? You’d lose a limb just for looking at him funny.

The other side’s led by Queen Elaria Silverleaf. The White Sorceress. Her spells twist the sky like taffy, and her battle plans make veteran generals sweat through their armor.

At first, the Elves dominated. Time after time, they shoved the Orcs back like waves crashing against a cliff. It looked like they might actually pull off a win.

Then everything flipped.

Enter Drakarion the Eternal Flame. King of the Dragon floors. Walking disaster. This hybrid lizard freak isn’t just a fire hazard—he’s a full-blown catastrophe with wings. And yeah, he’s got the attitude to match.

Worse, he sided with the Orcs. Then he went and cursed the entire twenty-fifth floor.

That was the turning point.

The Elves didn’t start losing in some massive, blow-up-the-sky kind of way. Nah. It was slower than that. Like rot. Their strength faded. Their magic dimmed. Sylvandor, their sacred tree, began to wither.

Bit by bit, the glow faded. Leaves dulled. The warmth in the soil slipped away, replaced with this bone-deep chill that just wouldn’t leave.

The Elves panicked. The legacy they’d built over centuries was crumbling. Even now, if you get close to Sylvandor, the silence doesn’t just hang in the air. It wraps around you. Tight. Smothering. Like the world’s holding its breath. Waiting. Bracing for the end.

Lothlórien wilted. Its people swayed between stubborn hope and straight-up despair. Some believed that if Sylvandor died, the city would die with it. The Elves would just… fade. Like smoke from a candle that’s already gone out.

And then… something shifts.

Over the past year, weird stuff starts happening on the twenty-fifth floor. In this one remote patch of land, the endless fighting just… stops. Orc numbers drop. Patrols get lazy. Raids slow down to almost nothing.

It’s fifty square miles of spooky calm.

To the Elves, it looks untouched. Like it’s never even heard of war. Sparkling brooks. Unspoiled glades. Ponds that reflect the sky like polished glass. They call it Haven Glade.

The Orcs, being Orcs, call it Bloodgrove. Not exactly poetic. Way more bitter. To them, the place stinks of loss.

But right there, between all that beauty and bloodshed, a new legend starts to take root.

Some lone figure’s making waves. Nobody’s seen their face, but the stories? They spread like wildfire dipped in gossip. Orcs are vanishing. Battles end before they even start. The Elves whisper about some mysterious hero, the one behind the peace in Haven Glade.

A shadow fighting for them.

But there’s one question in every story.

Why hasn’t this warrior stepped out of the Glade?

Why not save all of Lothlórien?

Nobody knows. But something rare, something almost forgotten, starts blooming again.

Hope.

On a blazing afternoon, three female elf warriors wrap up their patrol around the Glade. The sun’s cooking the treetops and making their armor shimmer. The forest’s whispering under the heat, and the leaves are drooping, all heavy and lazy from summer.

The trio moves like one thought. Every step’s in sync, shaped by years of fighting side by side. They’re not just comrades. They’re closer than sisters.

And after a long, sweaty day? They’re dying to cool off.

Their boots press softly over moss and roots as they head toward a little stream hidden deep in the woods. Sacred. Quiet. Theirs. The sound of running water reaches them like a promise.

They strip off their ranger gear with ease, laying it down neatly on the bank. No one says much.

They don’t need to.

But something’s different this time.

The scent hits first. Not sweat. Not moss or leather. Something cleaner. Sharper. Sweet, with just a little spice. Wait… the soap. The one they swiped off those shady little gremlin merchants last week.

It hangs in the air like a charm.

Without thinking twice, they step into the stream, totally bare. No hesitation.

The water greets them with a chill that sends goosebumps racing up their spines. Laughter bounces off the trees as they splash around. The day’s stress floats away, carried downstream.

Naerwen wades in deeper, the water brushing her knees. Her eyes gleam as she turns to her older sister.

“You bring it, Sis Naida?” she asks, grinning like a kid about to open candy.

“Of course,” Naida says, pulling the precious little bar of soap from her satchel. The scent instantly thickens, curling over the water like smoke.

Naerwen’s smile stretches even wider. She takes the soap and runs it over her arms and shoulders, sighing like her body’s melting in gratitude.

“This stuff’s magic.”

“You know,” says Nyrisse, the youngest, lounging in the shallows with a lazy smirk, “our guys’ve been staring a lot harder since we started using this.”

“Forget them,” Naerwen giggles. “I want to know who actually made it.”

More laughter. More splashing. Birds chirp somewhere up in the trees.

Then—

A soft rustle. Leaves shift in a way that doesn’t match the breeze.

The sisters freeze. Just for a beat. Eyes scanning the canopy.

Probably nothing.

They relax. Splashing starts again. Laughter returns.

“I asked the gremlin who sold it,” Naida says, leaning back against a smooth river rock. “He said the maker’s identity is confidential.”

“Gremlins and their dumb secrets,” Nyrisse mutters, squinting at the treetops. “I hope it’s one of our guys. Or someone from another floor.”

Another splash. More giggles. The kind that drift downstream like lazy leaves.

Then that rustle again. Louder this time. Still there. Still wrong.

They freeze.

Eyes sharp. Ears tuned.

Could’ve been the wind. Maybe a squirrel. Maybe.

They don’t move. Just wait.

Nothing.

Then—

“Well, whoever they are,” Naerwen says, her voice sweet as syrup, “if I ever find out who made this soap… they’re going to learn exactly what an Elf’s appreciation looks like.”

The sisters burst out laughing again.

Then it happens.

Not rustling.

Swishing.

Getting louder.

Closer.

The mood snaps like a twig.

“Scouts?” Naerwen asks, voice suddenly tight.

“Probably,” Naida mutters, already reaching for her blade.

A bush up ahead shivers… then stops dead.

Silence.

Not even the stream dares to gurgle.

Then, out of nowhere—

ZZZIIIIIPPP.

That unmistakable sound of a zipper flying up at warp speed.

“Ackkkk!”

The scream is male. Panicked. And way too close.

“Orcs!” Naida snaps.

Weapons drawn, the three ladies explode from the water, dripping wet and absolutely furious.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to spy on them?

They were about to find out just how much pain three naked, pissed-off elves could deliver.

And maybe get scrubbed down with something way worse than soap.

________________________________________

Cursing myself for always picking the worst moments to mess with my zipper, I tear down the forest trail like I’m being chased by fate itself.

The forest’s alive with chaos. Leaves swish overhead like gossiping obāsan. Twigs crack beneath my boots. My breath’s coming in sharp, uneven bursts. And somewhere behind me, something terrible is lurking.

Death. Or worse.

Maybe it’s public humiliation catching up.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Elves? Yeah, they’re basically the parkour gods of the fantasy world. They bounce between tree branches like they’ve got cheat codes. Me? I’m more like a potato rolling downhill. Fast, sure, but not exactly elegant.

So yeah, I’ve gotta hustle if I wanna stand a chance of not getting tackled by three angry forest folks.

“Stop right there!” one of them shouts.

I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, right! As if I’m going to stop just because you said so!”

Then I glance over my shoulder and almost flatline.

Three smoking-hot naked female elves, sprinting after me like I insulted their pointy ears or something.

Seriously, what am I even running for? Any other guy’d be setting out picnic blankets by now.

But just as I’m mentally composing my “I’m open to polygamy” speech, my foot catches a root, and I veer off trail like a drunk GPS.

Next thing I know—BAM. Full-speed headbutt into a tree.

Stars. Pain. Regret.

I hit the ground so hard I think I see my ancestors waving at me. And as I lay there in a haze of agony, three tall shadows fall across my face.

Oh no.

Oh yes.

Oh… wow.

Honestly, the view’s phenomenal. I could die happy now.

But before I can ask for a selfie, everything goes foggy. My eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“Don’t faint now, you idiot,” I mumble. “Not when things were finally getting interesting…”

The world spins—

Then I black out.

When I come to, the scenery’s changed. Still trees. Still forest. But now I’m tied to one, like some kind of medieval damsel. Except I’m down to nothing but my boxer shorts.

My dignity’s hanging on by a literal thread.

What the hell even happened?

I groan and tilt my head.

There they are. The three female elves. Fully clothed now. Bows slung. Blades sheathed. Looking like a fantasy RPG squad who just completed a side quest.

Oh god! Was I the side quest?

“You’re awake,” one of them says. Naida, I think. She’s got that “oldest sibling who’s done with your crap” energy.

“Yeah… unfortunately,” I mutter, tugging at the rope. It’s surprisingly tight for something that looks like twine.

“Who are you?” she asks, eyes narrowing like I’ve just spilled juice on her spellbook.

“Aoi player,” I reply, channeling my inner protagonist voice. Real stoic. Real cool.

Her sister, Nyrisse, steps forward, curiosity written all over her face. “You’re really a human male?”

“Last time I checked,” I say, though I’m starting to question my life choices.

Naerwen giggles, her gaze drifting down before flicking back up to my face. “I’ve only seen pictures of humans. Didn’t know they could be so… cute.”

My eyes light up. “Have you read about any of their traits?”

“Which ones?” Naida asks, one brow arched.

“The more cute they are,” I say, grinning, “the more trustworthy they tend to be.”

They burst into laughter.

Hey, I’ll take that over getting stabbed. Any day.

“Sis Naida, this guy’s got charm,” Nyrisse says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“Oh, he does,” Naida smirks, turning back to me. “But do you know what we do to cute men?”

My survival instincts? Completely offline.

“Uh… have a moonlit drinking contest and then snuggle until morning?”

Naida laughs, high and melodic. “No, silly. We test them.”

“Test? What kind of test do the Silver Maidens have in mind?” I ask, trying not to squeak.

Naerwen’s eyes sparkle. “So you do know who we are?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t know the legendary Silver Maidens?” I say, laying it on thick and smiling like I’m not tied to a tree in nothing but my boxers.

Naerwen leans in, voice dripping with sultry mischief.

“So, my dear sisters… what’s your take? Shall we show him our appreciation?” She runs her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, a sly smile curling at the corners.

“Absolutely,” Nyrisse chimes in, way too excited. “I don’t mind stripping off my clothes again.”

Oh dude. Could this finally be my year?

My eyes go full anime sparkle mode, gleaming like a kid who just found out Santa’s real.

But then—plot twist.

All three sisters look down.

No, not like that. I mean down down. Their gazes lock on the situation that’s suddenly pitched a tent beneath my boxers.

And I swear, I light up like a busted microwave trying to reheat a fork.

“Okay, hold up,” I say, voice cracking like I’m negotiating a hostage deal. “That thing down there? Yeah, it’s got a mind of its own. Don’t look at me. I didn’t give it any orders.”

Naida grins, then pops two fingers to her lips and lets out a whistle sharp enough to rally an entire goblin horde.

I blink. “You calling someone?”

“Yup,” she says, nodding.

“Who?”

“Our youngest sister,” Naerwen says.

“Wait, you ladies have another sister?” I look between them, eyes wide like I’ve just unlocked a hidden character in a dating sim. “Man, I didn’t know the Silver Maidens came in a four-pack. I’m so ready to meet her.”

They giggle in sync.

That should’ve been my first red flag.

Then comes the sound.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Heavy footsteps echo through the forest, loud enough to make birds scatter and my soul quietly pack its bags.

And then… she appears.

Not a beautiful elf girl.

Not even a mildly attractive one.

Nope.

A giant white wolf, the size of a horse, steps through the trees with the casual menace of a final boss making her entrance.

I swallow hard. Pretty sure I just peed a little. “That’s… your sister?”

“Mm-hmm,” Nyrisse hums sweetly. “Same mother, different father.”

“Huh?” My brows scrunch.

What even—how does that work? Is this some kind of elven nature documentary?

The wolf, Nymeria, slinks forward with unsettling grace, eyes locked on my crotch like it’s insulted her pack. She eases to a stop right in front of me, lips curling just enough to flash fang.

Naida steps forward, calm and graceful, like an executioner who swears by a ten-step skincare routine.

“Nymeria, you can start with that thing between his legs that just shrunk.”

Nymeria, the fluffy demon, lets out a low growl—

Then launches herself at me like a vengeance-fueled meat missile.

Her jaws are wide open. Her aim? Alarming.

Right toward the family jewels.

I shriek.

Not yelled.

Not shouted.

Shrieked.

“Ackkkk!”