"Despicable?"
Honestly, if we're talking about despicable, who in The Lands Between could beat you, you stubborn, undying demigod?
Feints to trick people, stabbing them the moment they blink, and that tracking slam from the sky—weren't those all your favorite moves? But the moment I answer you with a lightning blade from a dragon, suddenly I'm the villain?
The double standards were almost impressive.
Ah—right. He wasn't human.
He was a demigod.
Fine. That explained everything.
"Die—pawn of the flame of ambition! Rejoice, for you shall fall by the hand of Morgott, the Grace-Given King!"
He'd snapped.
Omen Teacher—no, Morgott—was furious enough that he stopped hiding his identity altogether, roaring out his true name as he attacked.
Staff raised high, he leapt into the air, locked onto the Tarnished's position, and came crashing down, delivering that familiar "judgment from above."
Once upon a time, he'd used this very strike to repel countless invaders who dared approach Leyndell.
Now, he repeated it again.
"Tch. This one again."
Beneath the helmet, the Tarnished's brow lifted.
He knew this move too well.
He'd been killed by it dozens of times. There were nights he'd drift off at a Site of Grace, only to jolt awake from the memory of that descending staff.
But now—
Boom!
The staff speared into the ground.
And the Tarnished slipped away cleanly, avoiding it as if the attack were a slow, predictable ritual.
Margit—Morgott's projection—started to wrench the staff back out.
Then his body jolted.
He froze, locked in place.
A sharp, crimson blade slowly pushed through his chest.
At some point, the Tarnished had drawn the fully reinforced Rivers of Blood, and the katana had already punched straight through Margit's torso.
This was Master Hewg's finest work—something that could be called a god-slaying weapon.
More than enough to end a mere projection of Morgott.
The Tarnished reversed his grip on the hilt and ripped upward with a savage pull—
Riiip!
The crimson edge tore him open. A mist of blood burst from Margit's back like a violent exhale.
With a heavy crash, the massive body slammed to the ground, throwing up dust and grit.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood ran down the blade in slow beads.
Under the Erdtree's light, the blood-red katana gleamed with an eerie, unnatural brilliance.
"…Tarnished… bewitched by the flame of ambition… your life… will, in the end, be claimed… by Morgott… the Last of All Kings…"
"Claim my life?"
The Tarnished smiled faintly.
"Don't worry. It won't be long before I come to Leyndell to find you."
Those were the last words Margit—Morgott's projection—heard before everything dissolved.
Altus Plateau. Leyndell, Royal Capital.
Leaves drifted down, turning slowly as they fell.
The royal capital was once magnificent beyond measure—yet now it was drowned in a deathly silence.
On one end of the city, the colossal carcass of an ancient dragon lay weathered and crumbling, its body bowed in permanent defeat.
Beneath the Erdtree's shadow, before the throne that led toward the audience chamber of the Elden Ring, Morgott sat in stillness.
He had guarded Leyndell for ages beyond counting.
And at Stormveil, he had guarded the Great Rune once associated with Godwyn's legacy for equally unfathomable time.
Yet just moments ago…
His projection had been slain.
What kind of Tarnished was it, this one who dared assault Stormveil?
Morgott did not know.
The defeat itself did not surprise him.
But the Tarnished's behavior—his very existence—was profoundly wrong.
He could wield incantations of the Erdtree.
He could even call upon the power of the ancient dragon Lansseax…
And then there was the armor.
If Morgott's memory did not fail him, that was the armor of Malenia—one of the twin Empyreans, cursed from birth by Scarlet Rot.
Which meant—
Slowly, he raised his head, staring at two seats set side by side, close enough to feel like an accusation.
"The twins blessed by the Greater Will… Miquella and Malenia…"
His voice was calm, yet threaded with a strange nostalgia—as if he were remembering something long buried—and beneath that, a simmering rage.
"Have you begun to move again… to steal the throne?!"
Bang!
In anger, he slammed his scepter into the floor.
"I swear it by the name of Morgott, the Last of All Kings—I will never allow you to succeed!"
His gaze darkened as killing intent flooded in, thick enough to suffocate the air.
"A Tarnished bewitched by the Empyrean Miquella… your life will be taken by my hand, in the end."
Meanwhile.
After looting the Grace-Given Runes from Omen Teacher's body, the Tarnished watched as the corpse began to break apart—turning to dust, then scattering on the wind.
He couldn't help feeling a little sentimental.
"Man… Omen Teacher's gone and died again."
Then he lifted his head toward the massive silhouette of Stormveil Castle ahead, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
"But it's fine. We'll meet again in Leyndell."
His tone held the easy certainty of someone talking to a future inevitability.
"Isn't that right, Morgott, the Grace-Given King?"
The truth—that Margit, the Fell Omen was Morgott—had been something he'd uncovered by accident.
At first, he hadn't even thought much of it.
After all, Omens weren't "omens" to begin with. They were manifestations of the Crucible—once a mark of pride, a sign of the old world's vitality.
It was only after the rise of the Erdtree that they were branded as cursed.
And there were plenty of people twisted by the Crucible's traits.
Morgott himself.
And his brother—Mohg—hiding away in the Mohgwyn Dynasty.
So a similar appearance wasn't strange. If anything, the white hair was what stood out.
But in his second cycle, something felt off.
Back then, still new to the loop, he had already tasted Omen Teacher's terror, so he decided to "skip class" and avoid provoking that monster.
He spent months finding a remote route, dying countless times along the way, just to bypass Stormveil and reach Liurnia of the Lakes.
He visited the Academy of Raya Lucaria to meet his "mother-in-law," Rennala, then sought out his second wife, Ranni.
In the end, he killed Morgott, burned the Erdtree…
And watched Melina die again.
Pain and rage swallowed him whole.
So, to vent it, he turned back and returned to Stormveil—looking for Omen Teacher.
Only to find… nothing.
Just an empty bridge.
That was the first thread of doubt.
In the cycles that followed, as he tried to save Melina again and again, he kept testing that suspicion, carefully, relentlessly.
And in the end, the conclusion became unavoidable:
Margit wasn't just "related" to Morgott.
He was Morgott's projection.
Absolutely shameless.
By blood and lineage, Morgott was Godrick's uncle.
An uncle guarding the gate for his nephew?
That was a new one.
But then again… maybe it wasn't so strange.
Godrick's Great Rune was a critical piece on the board.
And from the Tarnished's guess, it all tied back to Godwyn—dead even before the Shattering War truly erupted.
He didn't know exactly what relationship Godrick had to Godwyn, but Godwyn's title and Great Rune had effectively been inherited by Godrick.
So perhaps Morgott wasn't guarding Godrick at all.
Perhaps he was guarding Godwyn's remnants.
Thinking that far, the Tarnished clicked his tongue.
"Tch. What the hell kind of charm did that guy have?"
Even the ancient dragon Fortissax—an enemy—had ultimately chosen to wrestle with Death for Godwyn's sake.
Fia had been willing to sacrifice herself.
Even Miquella—said to be the closest to Marika—wanted to bring him back.
And now Morgott was guarding his legacy, too.
If you had to pick the most charismatic man in that whole traitor-filled family…
It was probably Godwyn.