Vargram rarely saw such a puzzled expression on Gideon's face, so he quickly asked, "What is it now?" "Information has come from Istvan. A hero has emerged in Limgrave, named 'The Dauntless' Vyke." Sir Gideon Ofnir shook the letter and smiled. "Guess how he became a hero?" "Just say it, don't be so mysterious." "You can be so dull sometimes.
He exposed Godrick's plot, claiming he was capturing Tarnished for Grafting—undoubtedly an unforgivable sin." "Godrick? Didn't some Banished Knights arrive in Leyndell yesterday?" Vargram immediately made the connection. "Likely to complain and explain. This man is hell-bent on washing away his shame; why would he miss this chance to show off? But for us, this is also an opportunity."
Capturing Tarnished for Grafting was certainly a compounding of crimes, but currently, there was only witness testimony and no physical evidence. Given Godrick's personality, he would likely use the situation to his advantage and become the first of the old powers to openly oppose the Tarnished. "You want to strike while the iron is hot and call upon all Tarnished to crusade against him?!"
Vargram suddenly grew spirited; this was indeed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The Tarnished lacked an opponent they absolutely had to defeat. If they could launch a siege on Stormveil, they could take the opportunity to truly establish an army.
they had to win this battle; otherwise, the already conflict-ridden nobles would all join in, and then they would have to rely on the protection of the Two Fingers and Morgott. "Wrong." "Then what do you plan to do?" Gideon did not answer immediately, his voice rational and heartless: "We will respond based on his reaction.
If Godrick loses his head and dares to declare war on all Tarnished, we have the reason and the right to launch a counterattack. If he only purges the Tarnished in Limgrave, then we'll just pretend we don't know." "Pretend you don't know? You're going to betray your own people!" Vargram clenched his fists, his eyes as fierce as a wolf's.
"No, I simply want to use the sacrifice of a small few to seek welfare for all Tarnished." Gideon didn't care about his companion's hostility, merely looking toward the royal palace. "If the Tarnished wish to continue growing stronger, they need to show their value. And in The Lands Between, nothing is more valuable than obtaining a great rune!"
...
Melina realized she was wrong, and quite significantly so. Aside from drinking a belly full of wine, that man had done nothing but brag and shoot the breeze, even getting into a fight with a few Tarnished. Looking at the swaying man ahead of her, her calm heart felt a flicker of annoyance. She couldn't help but quicken her pace to catch up, saying coldly:
"Is this what you wanted me to see?"
Throne shook his head and replied indistinctly, as if he were completely drunk, "Yeah, what do you think?" You... besides bragging, did you actually do anything?! Melina recalled the scene just now. In that smelly, dilapidated tavern, Throne had bragged without restraint.
He claimed he chatted and laughed with the Valkyrie and was on brotherly terms with Radahn; it seemed as if no Tarnished in The Lands Between was more powerful than him. Please, before the Tarnished even woke up, those two demigods had already fought to a standstill where both sides suffered. And by the time the concept of 'Tarnished' appeared, Malenia hadn't even been born yet.
One couldn't believe a single punctuation mark he said. The girl fell silent and sullen. She looked up at the sky and saw it was nearly the middle of the night, and the swaying man was heading into the woods. Mistwood was too small to have an inn. Since the Tarnished wouldn't get sick anyway, they simply set up tents in the forest.
Looking around, the woods were filled with tents of various colors, and snoring could be heard from all directions. These tents served as houses. The closer they were to the town, the higher the status of the Tarnished who occupied the limited open space. Moving further out, the people became much sparser, and the dense forest was not suitable for long-term residence.
Melina felt something was eerie and couldn't help but ask, "What are you planning to do now?" "Business." Throne pointed to the campfire ahead. "There's an idiot who always likes to sacrifice himself for others. He was too embarrassed to take someone else's spot, so he could only run out to the very edge. Just wait and watch the show."
Melina peered ahead and saw only the campfire at first, but after another look, she saw people by the fire. The visibility was dim, making it hard to see what was happening. She could only vaguely identify two people intertwined together, though the young man seemed a bit ill at ease. "Eina, what are you trying to do?" Is it infighting? Melina frowned immediately and leaned out to look.
With the help of the firelight, she could just barely make out their posture and heard a strange sound. "Mmm~~ where are you putting your hands?" The girl's face suddenly turned bright red as she made a strange noise. "Don't be in such a hurry." As she spoke, she boldly leaned her head down. "Is this the'show' you mentioned?!" Melina quickly turned her head away.
Perhaps illuminated by the distant firelight, her fair face was also slightly flushed. How the hell was I supposed to know Eina would just go all in like that? Throne spread his hands innocently. He wasn't some pervert; why would he come to peep at such things? But since they were already here, there was no harm in looking. Of course, he was watching with the research mindset of a scholar.
He thought to himself that this Vyke truly had the protagonist archetype—in the future, he would not only fall in love with a Finger Maiden but even have a Dragon Girl! Melina clearly misunderstood his intentions, and her expression darkened. She was disappointed and prepared to dissipate into spirit particles, but at that moment, she heard hurried footsteps. "Someone's there?"
Throne looked to the left before she did. The leaves blocked the moonlight, and a thick white fog swirled around, making it so dark you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. The swordsman, who had almost been made a scapegoat, suddenly smiled. "They're finally here." The footsteps were approaching, though the sound was faint.
The couple clearly couldn't hear them; the timing was quite ingenious. Melina was no fool either. She looked toward the campfire again; clearly, these people were after Vyke. Did I misjudge him? But how did this man know? "Did you really think I was just bragging in the tavern?" Throne glanced at her, his drunken state completely gone.
At his level, even snippets of conversation from mutual bragging could yield intelligence. For example, while he was talking about how amazing he was, some Tarnished told him that certain compatriots specialized in hunting hero Tarnished.
They had betrayed the Golden Order and pledged their loyalty to a power known as the 'Mohgwyn Dynasty.'
Throne dismissed them as mere rabble, and they had even gotten into a fight afterward. Zheng—
The friction of the long blade being drawn was faint, but the footsteps had already stopped. Clearly, the opponents had also discovered that there were others near their target.
Facing the surprised and uncertain Melina, Throne simply raised his blade. "Wait a moment. I'll be back after I kill a few people."
White fog coiled between the trees. Silence swallowed the forest whole—those earlier footsteps might as well have been ghosts. Melina stood motionless. The realization hit her: Throne had pieced together clues, gathered intel, laid this trap deliberately. But why? His mind worked in shadows even she couldn't penetrate.
She glanced at the couple by the campfire, lost in their next stage, then watched Throne's back vanish into the mist. Her fingers tightened around the dagger at her waist. Anticipation prickled her skin.
Throne moved through the woods without sound. Melina's thoughts meant nothing to him.
Two reasons drove him. First, Vyke was his handpicked hero. Second—
"We've got unfinished business."
Mohg ruled the Mohgwyn Dynasty. They'd never met, but blood debt ran deep between them. If that bastard hadn't snatched Miquella, the Haligtree Army wouldn't have marched south. The Battle of Aeonia would never have burned the land.
Without that battle, he'd still be wandering the roads with Sellen, not stranded worlds apart. Mohg owed him. Mohg's lackeys owed him their lives.
Had they already sunk their claws into the Tarnished?
"Personal or professional—you're paying tonight."
Throne's pace quickened. The first taste of Mohgwyn's blood thrilled him. He drew his meteorite staff, whispered two spells into the air. Unseen Form. Invisible Blade. His body dissolved into the fog.
They came.
Footsteps whispered through the mist again. He froze, then sprang like a cat up a nearby tree. Branches parted under his hands. Five figures emerged below—light armor under long robes, crossbows and short swords gleaming.
The stench of blood rolled off them, thick as the merchant's earlier. No mistake. These were Tarnished, or what passed for them now: Bloody Fingers. Elite killers, steeped in dark incantations, veterans of slaughter.
The merchant wasn't with them.
"Wait?"
His real target wasn't here. But the campfire glowed faint in the distance. By his count, the boy was nearly finished. If they struck now, he'd die without lifting a sword.
Vyke couldn't die. The Roundtable would trace the victory back to Throne, paint a target on his back.
"Useless lumber. Could've used a hand."
A sigh. A half-step forward. Gravity took him.
Leaves erupted in a violent shudder.
The Bloody Fingers snapped to attention, weapons raised—but Unseen Form cloaked him. That heartbeat of confusion cost them.
Pfft!
A crimson flower bloomed. His falling slash split the crossbowman clean through, helmet and skull parting like rotten fruit.
Throne darted out of the blood mist and met the nearest person with a thrust. Steel shrieked—twin blades intercepted Moonveil. He twisted for leverage—
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
Gone. Bloodhound's Step carried him clear as pottery shattered where he'd stood.
The stench hit him first—rotten, cloying, thick enough to taste. Then the buzzing, a relentless hum that drilled into his skull. A swarm of flies erupted into view, their jagged teeth glinting like shards of glass. They moved as one, unaffected by the 'Unseen Form,' their wings a blur of motion. A Swarm Pot? Throne's eyelids twitched. Behind the swarm, the Bloody Fingers charged, silent and swift.
His first encounter with these Tarnished had been brief but telling. They were unscrupulous, devoid of honor. Martial arts meant nothing to them. They fought dirty, exploited every weakness. And now—
"You're showing off before an expert." Throne raised his meteorite staff. Purple light erupted, rippling outward. Gravity Ring.
The buzzing ceased. The swarm plummeted to the ground, crushed under an invisible weight. The Bloody Fingers behind them staggered, their charge faltering as if they'd stepped into quicksand. Slow. Too slow. Throne's blade flashed, piercing one man's forehead. He flung the corpse aside. Puff. Puff. Puff.
A flurry of throwing knives embedded themselves into the body. Green pus oozed from the wounds—poisoned. Throne's Gravity Magic wasn't limitless. He glanced at the scattered enemies, the flies already stirring again. He raised his right foot. Storm Stomp.
Boom.
The gale tore through the swarm, reducing it to dust. The Bloody Finger retreated, staggering. Throne moved like a shadow, passing by, leaving behind a headless corpse. His gaze locked onto the Bloody Finger who'd thrown the Swarm Pot. The man realized escape was impossible. He hurled another pot. Hua.
A Storm Blade shattered it mid-air. Foul blood sprayed, splattering onto Throne. Melina, watching from the shadows, frowned. A Cursed-Blood Pot. The cursed blood, cultivated by the Lord of Blood, was no ordinary poison. Its purpose was simple. Deadly.
The last Bloody Finger raised his withered hands, clutching a staff adorned with skulls. Ghostly orbs of pale blue light surged forth. Rancorcall. The spirits, drawn to the cursed blood, moved faster, hungrier. They lunged at Throne, frenzied, desperate to rip him apart.
The Tarnished were unpredictable. Their methods were varied, their abilities unknown. Throne didn't hesitate. He hurled his meteorite staff. It struck the pot-throwing Bloody Finger like a projectile, sending him sprawling, blood spurting from his mouth. Against the undead, magic and swords were useless.
"I know a little bit of everything." Throne gripped the talisman at his chest. Golden light erupted, bathing the Mistwood. A low-level incantation, but in his hands, it rivaled the skill of a seasoned clergyman.
The rancors froze mid-air. Throne moved, his blade a blur. He cut through the spirits with precision, as if they were nothing more than practice dummies. He advanced steadily, unhurried, ignoring Melina's surprised gaze.
Gravity Magic, Erdtree incantations, and powerful sword skills—Throne defied his usual lazy demeanor. But this was routine. He retrieved his staff, delivered a final blow to the pot-thrower's skull, sliced through the Glintstone Sorcery with a magic blade, and stepped forward, calm and deliberate.