With the power check done, Arthur still wanted to try a real ult.
Not on Ranni, obviously.
He led her to the cliff at the end of the plain, raised his wand, and began channeling Comet Azur—feeding it mana until the spell strained at the edges of his control. Only then did he let it go.
A midnight lance ripped across the horizon.
The sea split down the center; even the clouds directly above sheared away as if combed from the sky.
Wind and backlash hammered the cliff. Arthur squinted through the spray. When the gale finally eased, he stared at the result for a long, quiet beat.
Only after an age did the water pour back, roaring like mountains collapsing.
"…So this is what it looks like to give the Lands Between a middle part," he murmured, deadpan. Compared to a certain famous bald guy, he still had some grinding to do.
The commotion was impossible to miss. Anyone nearby saw it—especially a certain wooden-faced maiden who'd been watching the whole time.
Melina had already arrived the moment Arthur entered the Lands Between. With the Sites of Grace she could slip across the map; and because Arthur and Ranni had politely avoided wrecking the Church of Elleh—their first-meet place, after all—Melina had a perfect perch.
Arthur hadn't told her he'd been in seclusion. She'd been waiting, wondering why the Tarnished who kept his promises hadn't appeared.
When he finally did, she almost jumped. Young. Beside him, Ranni—also young. And then the duel: two auras that felt like gods.
Since when can a Tarnished become a god?
Is this the frenzy's illusion?
Then came the beam that bisected the ocean.
"If that's an illusion," she swore to herself, "I'll burn the Erdtree myself."
Arthur had sensed her from the start, but let her lurk. Something else was on his radar, closing fast—his real target: White Mask Varré.
Varré haunted the First Step, shepherding fresh Tarnished toward cursed blood. The moment he saw the sky-tearing flash, curiosity dragged him here.
He arrived to find two teenagers standing at the cliff's edge.
"Oh?" Arthur smiled. "At last. I've been waiting for you, Varré."
The white mask tilted, baffled. When had he gotten so famous that children knew his name?
"You know me, little one?" Varré asked lightly.
Arthur didn't answer. He flicked a hand; invisible cords snapped into place, binding Varré head to toe.
"Hey—what are you doing?" Varré strained, but the unseen shackles didn't budge. "Child, you can't treat me like this. If you have business, we can talk."
"Oh?" Arthur's eyes danced. "We can?"
"Of course!"
Varré nodded vigorously. Banter was his element; he had, after all, been Mohg's silver tongue, a recruiter who could sell blood and bliss with a smile.
"In that case," Arthur said, "hand over the route to the Mohgwyn Dynasty."
Varré went still.
Wrong. Very wrong. How did this boy know his allegiance? Varré didn't advertise it; in the Lands Between nobody survived by wearing their colors openly.
He studied Arthur afresh. Perhaps the earlier catastrophe had been this child's doing. Perhaps the spectacle had been a trap to draw him in.
Arthur's voice cut through his daze. "Well? Yes or no."
Varré's grin returned, brittle. "Yes. Could you… loosen me first?"
"You're not in a position to bargain."
"…Fair. The method's in the breast pocket of my robe."
Of course the boy was headed to make trouble for Lord Mohg. Varré didn't mind. Whether you paid homage or went in swinging, the result was the same: in his eyes, Mohg was unassailable.
Arthur slipped a hand into the pocket and pulled out a medal—the Pureblood Knight's Medal. Activate it, and you were ferried straight to the Mohgwyn Dynasty.
"Wonderful," Varré said pleasantly. "Now that you've got what you wanted, might you—"
Arthur ignored him. He formed a longsword out of hard, cold light and drove it cleanly through Varré's chest.
The white clothes he wore were the robes of a battlefield surgeon—meant for mercy, meant for release. After the First Defense of Leyndell, Mohg had walked the charnel sands and stolen healers, gift-wrapping them in cursed blood. Those who endured abandoned former vows and became his faithful.
Varré was one of the successes—a man who once eased pain, now peddling a different kind of oblivion.
Maybe, for him, true release was the only kindness left.
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