Lucian could clearly feel the Black Knife Assassin trembling in his grasp, her breathing ragged and uneven.
Yet when he looked down at her, she still glared up at him with venom in her eyes.
He could not tell what had triggered such fear in her, what had broken her composure and left her shaking.
Still, at least it was better than her previous silence, when she had given him nothing at all.
If there was a reaction, then there was hope. A reaction meant the chance to speak. And once she spoke, perhaps everything could change.
For now, Lucian decided to give her one last chance.
He removed the gag from her mouth and asked, "What's wrong? Do you have anything you wish to say?"
"If you've got something, best say it now. Once we're on the road, I won't have the time to listen."
But she still said nothing. No pleas, no curses, not a word.
They simply locked eyes in silence.
Her gaze was firm, unyielding, filled with defiance—but beneath it, fear flickered, impossible to hide.
It was the look of a knight who had cried, "Hmph, just kill me then," only to realize, a heartbeat later, that her fate would be far worse than death.
Her heart was shaking, her mind screaming with unease. But because of the words she had spoken—because she had shown defiance, she now forced herself to hold his gaze with all the resolve she could muster, covering her fear with pride.
Looking into her eyes, Lucian realized she had no intention of yielding.
He shrugged, pushed the cloth back between her lips, and tied it securely.
"If you won't talk, then there's nothing more I can do. I can't read minds."
If a prisoner voiced a request, as long as it was reasonable, he was willing to listen. But if she chose silence, then his hands were tied.
And so, he lifted her and forced her curled body into the great jar.
The vessel's lid was chipped, leaving small cracks where air could flow. Enough to prevent her from suffocating. That alone eased his worry.
With a dull thud, the lid closed. Inside, the world went pitch-black.
From within came muffled whimpers, faint and weak.
Lucian ignored them. He pressed his sacred seal against the jar, layering it in the bindings of holy law.
With the enchantment, the vessel—ordinary though it was, gained strength enough to withstand blows and pressure. Even if she tried to smash her skull against the inner walls, she would not break free.
Lucian tied ropes around the jar, looping them several times until he could carry it by hand or sling it on his back.
The sight was crude, inelegant—a jar bound in rope, slung like baggage. Melina could hardly resist laughing at the sight. But Lucian paid her no mind. It worked, and that was enough.
Even so, the assassin's strange reaction lingered in his thoughts.
She had only begun trembling when she realized he meant to put her in the jar.
Why? Did she have some particular hatred for jars?
In the game, there had been no text that mentioned anything like this. Jars were just containers. Nothing more.
Unless… it was because of the Living Jars?
They were filled with the remains of fallen warriors, after all.
But no, Living Jars were viewed kindly in the Lands Between. Anyone who had spoken with them knew they were gentle beings. None went hunting warriors for sport. They only grew stronger by honoring those who had already fallen.
Or perhaps she thought he meant to kill her?
Strange. She hadn't seemed afraid of death before.
Lucian frowned, then let the thought go. Idle speculation would do him no good now.
Still, he tucked the memory away. When the chance came, he would investigate. Perhaps it would lead to truths he did not expect.
After securing the assassin, Lucian did not leave the catacombs immediately.
There was still loot left behind.
First, the Deathroot and the spirit ashes of the Twinsage Sorcerer.
He also searched the hidden chamber where the assassin had concealed herself earlier, and there found a broken Black Knife [Assassin's Cerulean Dagger]—its blade stained with a faint, otherworldly blue.
Though shattered, lacking its hilt, it could still serve as a talisman.
Lucian remembered its effect well: when executing foes, it restored sorcery power. Useful, though not something he particularly needed right now.
Beyond that chamber, he discovered a path he had overlooked earlier.
A ladder led down to a lower level of the catacombs. There, after dispatching several crabs, he found a Rune Arc on a corpse.
Rune Arcs—treasures of no small worth.
He needed them badly.
All of Stormveil's stored Rune Arcs had already been spent to fill the base of Godrick's Great Rune. Even with Tarnished scouring the lands to gather more, the stock remained scarce.
The foundation of the Great Rune remained incomplete, still bearing empty notches where arcs could fit.
If fully filled, Lucian estimated it would grant +10 to all attributes.
And beyond that—he had a hunch.
If he could complete the circle of arcs entirely, the Great Rune might awaken a hidden power. Something new, something extraordinary.
He couldn't wait to see what it would be.
After gathering everything, he stepped briefly into the Grace-space to store his spoils, then drew out his map to plan the road ahead.
The next destination was clear—Caria Manor. He had to find Ranni.
From here, the distance was not far. The only trouble was the lack of direct roads.
But that was nothing new. Tarnished were no strangers to traveling rough paths.
Route decided, Lucian shouldered the jar with the captive inside and departed the catacombs.
The canyon outside offered no easy climb. Though stone slabs jutted from the cliff face, many were broken mid-way, leaving no clear path upward.
Jumping down had been simple. But climbing back up? A different matter entirely.
No, he would have to retrace his steps—return through the lands of the Ancestral Followers.
'So be it', he thought.
—
Days later, D and Rogier arrived at the entrance to the Black Knife Catacombs.
Rogier held a map Fia had given him.
It was crude, showing little more than a magic tower and a minor Erdtree. Yet after comparing it to the terrain over the past few days, they were certain—this was the place.
They looked down the cliffside.
There, built into the canyon wall, was the entrance to the catacombs.
But a spectral Mausoleum Knight stood guard before the door, headless, sword in hand.
This was the same knight Lucian had slain. But beneath the power of the Death Rite Bird's black feathers, it had risen again.
After all—what sense was there in speaking of death for one who was already dead?
Unlike the Deathborn, these revenants rose slowly. But as long as the feathers remained intact, they would rise again and again, never ceasing in their duty.
They waited.
Waited for Prince Godwyn to awaken. Waited for the age of Those Who Live in Death.
And unlike the Deathborn, they needed no Deathroot, no miasma of decay.
Their power came from ancient rites and curses of their own making—lives given up willingly, exchanged for eternal strength.
Not the Deathborn. But to D's eyes, they were no different.
Anything born of death was an abomination against the Golden Order.
And now, this one barred their path.
D and Rogier shared a glance, then charged.
For the first time in a long while, they fought side by side. And their coordination, once familiar, returned effortlessly.
Together, they struck the headless knight down.
D purified the feathers from its corpse, stripping every last trace of black death until it could not rise again. Only then did he nod, and the two of them entered the catacombs.
But after some time, they emerged again—disappointed.
The place had been thoroughly cleared.
Nothing remained.
Only a few lingering Deathborn, and a single, strangely tiny Deathroot that puzzled even D. Beyond that, nothing of worth.
The treasures did not concern them. What disheartened them was the absence of the Black Knifeprint.
Their trail had gone cold.
Rogier, however, found a small measure of relief. At least this way, he had no reason to lie.
Though he had promised Fia his aid, he could not betray D.
Perhaps he would have to seek another way.
The two stood silently at the entrance until D finally spoke.
"What will you do next?"
Rogier stroked his chin, uncertain. "…I suppose I must continue seeking the truth of the Night of Black Knives. The truth of Death itself."
"But… once again, the trail has ended."
He sighed. "I had hoped that by tracing the Black Knifeprint to its source, I might discover the one who wields the Death Cursemark."
"If we could find that, everything might become clear."
D studied his old friend for a long while. He had seen Rogier fight the Deathborn just now, with no hesitation. It eased his doubts.
At last, he said, "I've heard word of a half-wheel wound of the centipede. They say its mark has been found in a village nearby."
"I've helped you once. Now you'll return the favor. You'll come with me to uncover this."
"We'll need your lore, your learning, to decipher it."
"I'll let you sate your curiosity, but only if you swear you won't be deceived by that woman, Fia."
"If we find anything, it will be under my eye. The marks, the Cursemark—they will remain in my keeping."
He paused, then added, with more weight, "The Deathborn are not to be pitied. This isn't only the Order's command. It is my warning to you as a friend."
"Even if you foolishly mistake them for life, they will not thank you. They will only hate you, and in their hatred, they will try to kill you, and make you one of their own."
"Don't burden yourself with such false compassion."
Rogier blinked, surprised by the offer. That D would still invite him along…
Like the Knifeprint, the Centipede Sigil was tied to the Cursemark. If they traced it, they might yet reach the remnant of a demigod's death.
Neither of them knew the truth—that the Cursemark had been split in two.
Both thought the Knifeprint and the Centipede Sigil pointed only to Godwyn's body.
But Rogier knew differently.
D's brother had once stood before the Prince of Death. He had searched Godwyn's corpse and found no trace of the mark.
Which meant it must lie elsewhere.
And so, they had no choice but to continue. To chase every fragment, every sigil, in hopes of finding the truth.
Rogier hesitated. He and D shared the same goal—the truth of the Night, the truth of Death.
But what they would do with it… differed.
D sought to destroy the Deathborn. Rogier… to aid them.
When the moment came, when truth was in hand, they would stand opposed.
He did not want to betray D. He did not want to hurt him.
But still, this might be the only path.
One step at a time, Rogier told himself.
"If this can lead us to the truth, then yes—I'll come. If we find the Cursemark, it's yours. I only wish to understand."
—
Meanwhile, Lucian retraced his path, past the bear he had once smashed flat, and returned to the ruins of Uld Dynasty.
The Ancestral Followers rose to their feet as he entered again.
Males stood in front of females and young, eyes wary of the intruder.
And this time, it was clear he meant not just to pass the outskirts, but to enter their very heart.
They were not unfriendly by nature. But this man was not one to be taken lightly—especially with that massive weapon on his back.
Even the gentlest of peoples would take offense to strangers barging into their home.
One among them stepped forward—a burly figure adorned with horns and bones. Clearly, their chieftain.
His voice was muffled, his words thick with accent, yet earnest, almost childlike. "Outsider. Why have you come here?"
"If you have no reason, we will drive you away. We cannot allow you into our tribe."
Archers leveled their arrows at Lucian, ready to loose at the slightest move.