Lucian galloped along the direction of the Smoldering Wall.
On the map Jerren had given him, the Dragonbarrow was not marked. The parchment merely hinted at a route to reach it.
Unlike in the game, there was no need to leap across cliffs—the regions were connected by land.
But for Jerren and his Redmane soldiers, this was territory they seldom entered.
The Dragonbarrow was home to many dragons, and sending men here was little better than sending them to their deaths.
Perhaps due to the terrain, the spread of Scarlet Rot was less severe in this region. From where Lucian rode, he could still see healthy trees and thriving vegetation.
With less corruption to cleanse, Jerren and Redmane Castle had no reason to send frequent expeditions here.
As a result, their knowledge of the Dragonbarrow was limited.
Thus Lucian now rode without a proper map.
Still, he had a general impression of the land's layout.
Using Fort Faroth as his center, the Bestial Sanctum lay to the east, the Divine Tower of Caelid to the west. Clear and simple—so long as he kept to these bearings, he would not be lost.
He chose the west, spurring Torrent forward. There should be a Site of Grace nearby; best to claim it first.
The path ran straight along the continuation of the Smoldering Wall.
Yet before long, Lucian discovered he had underestimated how troublesome it was to travel without a map.
Though he kept to the general direction in his memory, he found himself wandering to an isolated Evergaol.
He circled it once, pausing at the cliff's edge to gaze down into the Swamp of Aeonia.
"How did I end up here?" he muttered.
Melina, sitting sidesaddle behind him, cast her gaze across the land.
"It can't be helped," she replied calmly. "We have no map. But judging from the surroundings, this should be north of Aeonia's center. We're close to the road marked toward the Dragonbarrow."
Lucian nodded. Close enough. Once he headed toward the Divine Tower, he would surely find the right way.
But since he was here…
He turned back toward the Evergaol.
Melina sighed, already sensing his intent.
"You mean to release whoever is imprisoned here as well?"
Lucian grinned and nodded.
"Of course. Can't come all this way for nothing."
Melina gave him a long, helpless glance.
For some reason, Lucian had developed a strange fondness for these Evergaols—like a collector's habit.
The truth was that everyone sealed inside was guilty of grave crimes. Dangerous individuals, by any measure. The wise would avoid them altogether.
Yet so far, the two he had freed—Elyssa, leader of the Ancient Hero Zamors, and Redd, a mighty knight of the Crucible—had proven not only sane but deeply loyal. Through Redd, Lucian had even drawn another Crucible Knight, André, to his banner.
How could Melina complain when every "blind box" Lucian opened yielded another formidable ally?
Still, the way he stopped at every Evergaol, intent on cracking it open, felt less like recruitment and more like indulging a guilty pleasure.
What was the word he once used? "Gacha pulls"?
Even so, she felt compelled to caution him.
"You've been lucky so far. But should a madman feign loyalty only to betray you later, it could bring disaster. Many in the Lands Between are broken in mind. They'll swear allegiance one moment and drive a blade into your back the next. Your army is young, unsteady—be wary of inner strife."
She spoke out of concern, unaware that Lucian already had insight into each prisoner's background through their "drops."
He chuckled. "Relax. I have ways of making them obey. A teacher once told me: 'If someone refuses discipline, beat them until they submit.'"
Beyond brute force, he knew each Evergaol inmate's history and temperament. That gave him leverage in negotiations.
For instance, this one should hold the Battlemage Hugues.
Born in Sellia, trained in the Haima Conspectus, Hugues had once been a battlemage who wielded both punishment and artillery. But he grew addicted to war itself, consumed by bloodlust.
And Lucian could offer him war in abundance.
The new Stormveil he was raising burned with ambition—recruiting warriors, drilling armies, preparing to march toward the throne of Elden Lord.
Compared to the stagnant factions of the Lands Between, his Stormveil thirsted most for conquest.
Caelid's Redmane Army was crippled, both by the rot and their lord, General Radahn, now a mindless husk. The Academy had sealed itself away, even imprisoning its own queen, Rennala. The Carian royal family was but a shadow, left only with Ranni the Witch, whose designs lay far from war. Rykard had forsaken soldiers for serpents. Miquella and Malenia were both lost—one abducted, the other dreaming. The Haligtree was too distant, too unreachable.
Only Leyndell retained strength, yet Morgott never left his throne, even shunning the chance to reap fellow demigods.
As for his twin brother, Mohg, his Mohgwyn Dynasty brimmed with ambition but not the manpower to sustain it.
In truth, Lucian saw only those two brothers as his true obstacles.
All others he would absorb.
Stormveil would march to countless wars—against the rotspawn, the sorcerers of the Academy, the Mohgwyn Dynasty, even the Erdtree's capital itself.
Compared to such foes, what was one war-hungry sorcerer?
Still, Hugues was only one man. Unlike Elyssa or the Crucible Knights, he lacked true renown. Perhaps not essential.
"Never mind," Lucian muttered. "Let's see what he's worth."
He entered the Evergaol.
The response was immediate. A Cannon of Haima blasted toward him.
Lucian conjured a storm-shield to deflect it and set eyes upon his assailant.
A ragged sorcerer stood there, eyes bound with red cloth beneath a battered glintstone crown, a crooked blue hat atop it. His robes were threadbare, riddled with holes. The Evergaol floor was cratered from constant detonations.
Unlike most mages, Hugues wielded both a staff and a crude stone club, carved straight from raw glintstone.
He hurled spell after spell—Glintstone Cometshards, rapid as rain, laced with Sellia's Night Sorceries.
Instead of anger, Lucian felt a thrill. This was no weakling. Only a true graduate of Raya Lucaria could wield such sorceries with speed and precision. Even locking onto him for the cannon had been instantaneous.
And the Haima sorcerers were trained in melee besides—the club in his hand was no ornament.
Perhaps this one was worth keeping after all.
Lucian smashed comet after comet with his Swordspear, calling out as he advanced:
"Battlemage of Haima! Do you crave war? Will you march with me into battle?"
Hugues gave no answer—only more spells.
"Too long in the Evergaol, then? Driven mad with hunger for combat?" Lucian laughed, surging forward cloaked in storm.
The mage raised a glowing Gavel of Haima overhead and brought it down.
Lucian met it with his Swordspear. Lightning clashed with sorcery, shattering the conjured hammer.
Hugues staggered back, swinging his stone club in riposte.
Lucian deflected, then kicked him square in the gut, folding him over like a shrimp.
He seized the mage's staff and dragged him close.
Hugues lunged with a headbutt.
Lucian grinned. "Not with that crown, you don't."
He dropped his Swordspear and drove his fist into the glintstone helm. The impact left Hugues dazed, collapsing to his knees.
Shaking the numbness from his own hand, Lucian tore the crown free.
"Let's see your face."
Beneath the helm was a visage already decayed into living corpse—half-rotted, yet burning with bloodlust.
"Still clinging to war, even like this…" Lucian sighed. This one was too far gone. Unlike the long-lived Crucible Knights or Ancient Heroes, his humanity had decayed.
Hugues staggered up again, readying another spell.
This time Lucian did not hold back. His Swordspear drove through the mage's chest.
As life fled him, Hugues's lips quivered.
"Send me… to battle…"
Blue flame consumed him, reducing him to ash. What remained was his Spirit Ash.
Lucian gathered the ashes, sealing them within Hugues's glintstone crown.
"One day, when I can summon armies at once, I'll give you your war," he murmured.
Melina watched, startled. "He burned himself? That was no guarantee of leaving anything behind… he could have been gone forever."
Lucian shrugged. "Then fortune smiles on us. Though… he was but one mage. Not like Elyssa or the Crucible Knights."
With that, he departed the Evergaol and mounted Torrent once more, heading west without detour.
Soon he descended into a shallow vale where a clear pool lay. Two or three young dragons splashed within.
At his passing, they shrank back in fear, then fled.
Lucian ignored them, dismounting before a weathered stone stele.
He began to dig at its base with his Swordspear.
"Again with the digging?" Melina arched a brow. "It was luck to find a map at Gatefront. Surely not here, in such a remote place."
Her words faltered as his Swordspear struck a small stone box.
"…You've got to be joking."
Lucian pried it free, brushing away dust. He carried it to the nearby Site of Grace, where he and Melina sat side by side to open it.
Inside lay a tattered hand-drawn map—and a piece of parchment.
The handwriting was different from the Gatefront map.
Lucian's eyes widened as he read.
These notes had been left by none other than Vyke, the Roundtable Knight, the "Dragonspear," the Once-Chosen Lord.