"If you would behold me—then why do you not kneel?"
"Kneel to you?" The Tarnished let out a cold laugh. "That's funny."
Who did this trash think he was? Just because he slapped the word golden onto his own name, he believed he was someone like Godwyn?
Even if Godfrey and Marika were standing here, they still would not be qualified to make him kneel. And this useless thing wanted worship?
Because he'd stitched a pile of mismatched limbs onto himself?
Fine.
He would show Godrick what it meant to be torn apart by hand.
That contempt—casual, effortless, absolute—stabbed straight into Godrick's fragile pride.
"A mere Tarnished… and you dare swagger before me…"
Dragging his grotesque bulk, Godrick rose from the throne. He stood three to four meters tall, his cracked crown gleaming amid a mess of white hair. The ragged drape that covered his body slid away, and the grafted arms and hands along his shoulders and back shot upright like seaweed caught in a sudden current, snatching broken blades from the piles around him.
Like a human porcupine.
Godrick himself seized the golden greataxe beside him and began to advance, the huge weapon scraping the floor as he walked.
With every step, the ground trembled—an ugly imitation of a quake.
Far behind, Roderika watched from the courtyard, hands clenched tight as she whispered a prayer into the cold air.
Please… let Tarnished succeed. Please… end this evil king.
"I am Godrick the Golden! Now—KNEEL!"
He raised the greataxe and slammed it down.
The impact shook the hall. Stone cracked, and jagged fissures burst outward across the floor, racing toward the Tarnished's feet. A violent gale followed, a roaring storm meant to crush the will as much as the body.
The Tarnished did not even blink.
He stepped calmly over the blackened—over the creeping fractures—and let the screaming wind wash past him like a harmless breeze. He did not roll. He did not dodge. He did not retreat.
How strong was he, truly?
Even he couldn't say anymore.
Because somewhere along the countless cycles, he had stopped fighting with everything he had—whether it was the Elden Beast within the Erdtree, Dragonlord Placidusax, or the malformed star-born horror Astel, Naturalborn of the Void, the thing that had once trampled an entire civilization into ruin.
Not because he lacked power.
But because power, by itself, changed nothing.
The dead stayed dead. The lost could not be reclaimed. His beloved could not be pulled back from the ending that always waited.
Godrick's storm did nothing—and his face tightened with humiliation. Slowly, he lifted his left arm.
The grafted dragon head writhed as if alive, its jaw stretching wide as it unleashed a roar that shook the air.
"ROOOOAR—!"
Flame—fierce, blazing, eager to consume—spewed from the dragon's throat. Under the shower of sparks, Godrick didn't flinch. He threw back his head and laughed like a madman, raising the burning arm toward the ceiling as if proclaiming himself to the heavens.
"Ahahahaha! Ancestors of mine… witness it!"
The dragon head became a blade of fire, sweeping toward the Tarnished from afar.
"Boring."
He had seen this attack too many times to count.
A mere wyvern's breath—nothing compared to an ancient dragon. No, not even comparable to those lesser drakes guarding gates and ruins. At best, it was slightly stronger than the soldier stationed near the Cathedral of Dragon Communion.
Slightly.
He couldn't even be bothered to sigh properly.
He drew the Cuckoo Knight Shield and "politely" blocked the breath. The flame crashed against the shield's face—and split cleanly in two, spilling away to either side.
With the fire roaring around him, he walked forward anyway.
Step by step.
That slow, steady advance was more terrifying than any charge. It was a death sentence written in motion.
Godrick's eyes widened.
Blocking the dragon's breath…?
Outside of demigod elders, he had never seen anyone do that.
But he refused to yield.
"I… AM GODRICK THE GOLDEN!!!"
His roar sounded like he was trying to buff himself with sheer noise. The breath surged stronger, hotter, louder—yet it still could not halt those footsteps.
Snow vanished under the sweeping flame. Stone glowed red beneath the heat. The air warped and shivered.
And then, like a faucet running dry, the breath faltered—shrinking, weakening—until it died completely.
When the fire ended, the Tarnished was already right in front of him.
He looked up at Godrick's towering body, silent and unmoved, his gaze asking only one question:
That's it?
That look was the final insult.
"Despicable Tarnished—"
Thud.
Godrick barely managed to lift the greataxe before a punch drove into his abdomen.
The impact was obscene.
Godrick's body flew backward, smashed through the throne, scattered loot across the floor, and then slammed into the wall hard enough to stick there for a heartbeat—like some grotesque mural.
The Tarnished's fist weapon—a round, metal ball-style gauntlet—flashed briefly in view… and then he pulled it off like he didn't even care to wear it.
"Tsk." He clicked his tongue. "Morgott's nephew, huh? You even swear the same way."
He had noticed it a long time ago—Morgott, Mohg, the whole bunch. Whenever they ran out of ideas, it was always the same word.
Despicable.
As if they weren't the ones who specialized in cheap tricks.
"Cough… cough…"
Godrick slid down the wall, collapsing into a trembling heap. The pain had locked his limbs; he couldn't rise, couldn't even properly raise the axe.
And as the Tarnished approached, that crimson hair and gilded helm overlapped with an old memory—
Malenia.
For an instant, he truly believed she had come.
Terror swallowed him whole. Yet fear this deep didn't even allow him to beg. He could only stare, helpless, as the figure drew nearer.
In the dim light, those scarlet eyes watched him with an icy calm.
The demigod who had barked commands like a king moments ago now looked like a beaten street thug—curled up, shaking, reduced to nothing.
The Tarnished did not hesitate.
When Godrick's men murdered the Finger Maiden meant for him… had anyone hesitated then? Had anyone offered mercy?
He planted a boot on Godrick's body and pressed down, forcing the grafted mass to sink into the stone beneath.
Then he bent at the waist—
Rip!
Blood sprayed.
The dragon-head arm was torn off—ripped free by brute strength—and tossed aside like garbage.
He had promised to tear Godrick apart.
So he would not use a blade.
"AAAH—!!! No!! My power!! No—!!!"
Godrick finally found his voice, but it wasn't a king's voice.
It was the shriek of a butchered animal.
"Weak."
Without the slightest pity, the Tarnished seized the grafted arms along Godrick's back—those stolen Tarnished limbs—and began tearing them off one by one, methodically, like dismantling a corpse-built machine.
The scene was so brutal that Fujiwara Chika, watching through the stream, instinctively looked away.
Then the chat exploded.
Fujiwara Chika: "Um… Tarnished… does he have a grudge against this 'Godrick the Golden' guy?"
Aizen: "From what we're seeing, yes."
Otto Apocalypse: "I believe so. Fujiwara Chika, do you remember the livestream Tarnished opened when he first joined? That spider-like monster we saw likely belonged to Godrick's faction."
Fujiwara Chika: "Ah—I remember! The one that looked like a giant spider! Then… the body in the church…"
Otto Apocalypse: "Most likely Godrick's doing. And that dead woman… she's probably someone extremely important to Tarnished."
Forever Seventeen: "Oh my. Then Godrick truly isn't wronged at all. If it were me, I'd go that far too."
NorthNorthNorth: "Serves him right.jpg"
Director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor: "Let's have a three-second silence for Mr. Serves-Him-Right Godrick. May his soul rest in peace."
The Oldest King: "Hmph. A mere mongrel…"
If anyone hated this sight more than the Tarnished, it was Gilgamesh.
But his feelings were complicated.
He had thought this "golden king" might at least have some substance.
Instead—this?
This was an insult to the very name of gold.
"Hmph," Gilgamesh repeated, voice sharp with disgust. "Mongrel."