"Clever excuse. Why didn't I think of blaming the Recusants?" Throne caught the implication but neither confirmed nor denied it. His voice cut like ice. "Scram, or I'll kill you too." The insult was sharp enough to draw blood. If not for the Avatar of the Erdtree slamming its staff down again, Eleonora would've lunged forward to teach him a lesson.
Varré, unbothered, gave an elegant bow. "If the opportunity arises, do visit the Mohgwyn Dynasty. Our goals align." The Recusants were few but formidable. Their opposition to the Erdtree made them a rare faction, and forging connections could only benefit the Bloody Finger. "If there's a chance, I'll come."
Throne circled the battlefield, dodging beams of light. He seized the moment while the Avatar hammered at Varré, darting forward in a zigzagging Bloodhound's Step. His long blade slid into its sheath as he hurled a Freezing Pot. Frost exploded in the air. In the same breath, he drew his sword—Moonveil.
Clang——
The blade's brilliance carved through the Avatar's left leg, searing itself into Varré's vision. He wasted no time, calling to his battered and bloodied subordinates. "We're retreating!"
"Wait," Eleonora protested. "We paid such a price just to leave this to him?"
She'd pushed herself to the brink, draining most of the Erdtree's power. But even with the advantage of a sneak attack, she had to admit—this man was formidable, easily a match for any Bloody Finger leader. "Anyone who defies the golden order isn't our enemy. Our targets are the Tarnished. What good would killing the Avatar do us?"
Varré's tone was calm, almost calculating. If the chance arose, they might even collaborate in the future. Thud!! The ground shook as the Avatar's massive body crashed down, the impact reverberating through the earth. It was finished.
Eleonora thought of the Erdtree's wrath, the forces it would unleash. Having an ally to share the burden didn't sound so bad. She hesitated no longer, hoisting the wounded and fleeing. But Throne had anticipated their retreat. He planted a boot on the Avatar's abdomen and raised his sword high.
The air whistled, coalescing into a storm blade several meters long. His eyes shifted—golden vertical pupils.
Dragon Slash!!!
The greatsword came down like a lumberjack's saw, carving through the Avatar's chest cavity, threatening to split it in two. Still, it writhed, struggling to rise. "Stay down."
Throne clenched his left fist. The flying roots solidified mid-air, then shot back like bullets. Bang, bang, bang… The roots, hard as steel, collided with the Avatar's body, slamming it back to the ground. Melina appeared at his side but didn't intervene, watching as Throne stood atop the monster's belly, unleashing a relentless barrage.
Comet Azur, Crystal Burst, Gavel of Haima, Carian Piercer… Under the onslaught of high-powered spells, the Avatar of the Erdtree finally ceased to move, reduced to smoldering wood fragments. Throne stood amidst the crumbling remains, head lifted, drawing a slow breath.
'What immense faith energy. Is this the power of the Erdtree's origin?'
He'd once hunted a Rotten Tree Spirit, but that creature had been tainted by the Death Rune. The faith energy from this Avatar rivaled that of five hero-level Death Hunters—there was no comparison. The foundation was laid. Now, it was a matter of harnessing the Erdtree's faith.
He had a faith warrior right beside him. "I don't get why you went through all that trouble to kill the Avatar of the Erdtree," Melina said, walking over slowly. She wasn't as quick to spot the problem as Sellen had been back then. "Sharpening the spear before the battle, huh?"
Throne didn't bother explaining his cheat. He crouched and sifted through the wood fragments, pulling out two items. One was a crystallized tear, deep red, like a gemstone. Crystal Tear? Too bad I can't use it now.
The second item was simpler—a corpse. Varré's subordinate, left behind in the rush.
Throne removed his silver mask and fastened it to his face. The mask seemed furious, its expression wild, and paired with his disheveled black cloak, it made him look almost feral. He slipped two Pureblood Knight's Medals into his ring. He already had one, but who knew when he'd need more? "Melina, is the syllabus ready?"
In the distance, large birds circled. He could almost feel the demigod's approach. "I want to start praying."
Stormhawks sliced through the night sky, their bladed talons catching the moonlight. They circled above the Minor Erdtree, but their sharp eyes found no living soul. The ground was strewn with shredded tents and fallen bodies, the pile of wood fragments glaringly out of place.
As guardians of Stormveil, the Stormhawks weren't dumb. Sensing trouble, they flapped their wings and headed northwest. Godrick's army had entered Mistwood, but progress was slow. The terrain was treacherous—searching for Tarnished while dodging ambushes.
Hidden arrows often forced them to halt for hours. The main force had swept through the west side of Mistwood, scavenging the Tarnished's town cleaner than a dog could lick. For the lower ranks, the feud between nobles and Tarnished meant nothing. Looting was the real prize.
Godrick understood human nature too well to bother with discipline. Instead, he donned golden heavy armor and strode into the town's center, taking the seat that once symbolized the Roundtable Hold.
The high-backed chair was too small, but as a trophy of victory, he sat stiffly, projecting kingly authority. His towering, deformed frame squeezed into the narrow seat, making him look faintly ridiculous. Godrick's frown deepened. Lately, everything annoyed him.
First, the Tarnished gathering at Fort Haight. Then, that Banished Knight Oleg causing trouble. "Why won't these lowlifes listen to their betters?" He clenched his fists, teeth grinding. He'd planned to pin the blame for Waypoint Ruins on the Tarnished to curry favor with Morgott, but Oleg wasn't a fool. He wouldn't be used for nothing.
Evidence pointed to the Tarnished triggering alarms and exposing conspiracies. When it came to sticky fingers and curiosity, no one outmatched them. Where am I supposed to find a Death Eater? Godrick felt his intelligence wasn't enough anymore.
Just then, Owen entered. "Your Highness, the Stormhawks report a battle at the nearby Minor Erdtree. Scouts are verifying." Godrick blinked. Minor Erdtree? Then it clicked—the Tarnished he'd been unable to handle. "What happened?"
"The Tarnished turned on each other. Heavy casualties." "Tsk. Typical gutter trash. Infighting at a time like this? What else?" Knight Owen hesitated, his voice unsteady. "The Avatar of the Erdtree has been destroyed." "What did you say?" Godrick shot to his feet.
He wasn't angry—not truly. Since Leyndell cast him out, he'd grown disillusioned with the Erdtree and its twisted justice. But this? This was unexpected. Even he wouldn't dare approach the Avatar, let alone destroy it. What kind of Tarnished would risk such a death sentence?
If it wasn't the Roundtable Hold Tarnished, then who? The question gnawed at him until it clicked. "It must be her. That witch. She's nearby."
"The sorceress of the primeval current?" Owen responded instantly.
Years had passed, but the witch's identity—and the scars she left—remained fresh. "It's her. It has to be. That swordsman who traveled with her died in Caelid long ago."
Godrick's certainty bordered on arrogance.
Many factions in The Lands Between bore grudges against the Erdtree, but seeing Godrick's excitement, Owen held his tongue. "Your Highness, one more thing. We've located the Tarnished traitor mentioned in Count Haight's letter. He wants to meet you."
Godrick stopped pacing, his mismatched eyes widening. "Him? He dares?" So far, he'd failed to capture even a single Tarnished—his reputation preceded him.
"He says you only want his limbs, but his kin want his life."
"Interesting. Far more interesting than those wretched, hypocritical Tarnished."
Godrick settled back into his chair, gesturing grandly. "Bring him to me!"
Throne stood at the edge of Mistwood, his gaze fixed on a Banished Knight in the distance. The camp teemed with them, but this one stood taller than the rest. Was it him? Memories—bitter ones—flooded his mind.
Back in Summonwater Village, he and Sellen had faced Oleg. It had taken everything they had to escape. Could he defeat him now? Throne wasn't sure, but he nodded in greeting as Oleg's eyes met his. His mind raced. Oleg must have been camping near Waypoint Ruins—otherwise, he wouldn't have arrived so quickly.
But why wasn't he guarding inside Waypoint Ruins? Or even nearby? The first question likely stemmed from Morgott and Godrick's strained relationship. The second? Thanks to the Tarnished. From a distance, Oleg looked no different from any other Banished Knight.
That armor, though—magnificent and deadly—was a beacon for greed. Early on, countless Tarnished had fallen to him. Oleg had no mercy, but as Morgott's subordinate, he couldn't slaughter potential allies en masse. So, he hid.
Now, the powerful Banished Knight studied Throne in return. At first glance, Oleg frowned. He couldn't see Throne's face, but that sharp killing intent, the long blade at his waist—it all felt familiar. Unpleasant memories surfaced, unbidden.
Decades back, a swordsman with that same lethal aura and curved blade had crossed steel with him—killed a Night's Cavalry, slaughtered a Death Hunter, walked away unscathed toward Caelid. The memory barely registered now. That madman had died long ago, another corpse in the gutter. Nothing to do with this fresh batch of Tarnished. Their eyes locked for half a breath before both looked away, mutual revulsion hanging thick between them.
Oleg radiated pure disgust. Throne? Relief flooded his veins like cheap wine.
He didn't recognize me.
Of course not. The Lands Between didn't do second acts. No crawling out of coffins here, no Erdtree blessings for forgotten enemies. The disguise held. Even if blades crossed, he'd rebuilt his entire fighting style from scratch.
A katana only bends so many ways. No one could ID him by swordplay alone. Throne's pulse steadied, the calm of a veteran hound scenting no danger. He rested a hand on his scabbard, radiating bored confidence until a Godrick knight clanked forward. "Tarnished. His Highness summons you."
"Understood." His reply scraped like gravel under bootheel. He passed Oleg, paused, offered a bow so polished it could cut glass.
"Knight. You're... formidable."
Oleg didn't rise from his seated position, just tilted his head up slightly. No words. Only after Throne had gone did the man shake his head. Night and day difference between this courtly bastard and that rabid swordsman from the past. One fought like a starved wolf. This one moved like he owned the ground beneath him.
Heh. Bet you didn't see the level grind coming.
Persona crafting was Throne's specialty. At the chamber door, he rapped knuckles against oak—once, twice—before a voice like crumbling marble boomed from within. "Enter."
The door groaned open.
No finery here. Just a round table in a barren hall, and behind it, a mountain of gilded armor that could only be Godrick. Two knights flanked him. The demigod's presence hit like a warhammer to the chest. Familiar, yet none of the cowering terror remained from their last encounter.
Godrick didn't need to stand to crush men under his gravity.
If I hadn't watched you grovel at Malenia's feet, I might actually be impressed. Throne bit his tongue. The image from ten years back was too vivid—so vivid he forgot to kneel. That 'shock' on his face? Pure catnip to Godrick's ego.
"You lack manners, Tarnished."
Godrick raised pallid hands, voice oscillating between screech and thunder. "Yet when standing before a lineage too radiant to behold, when granted audience with sovereign might incarnate... this disrespect becomes reverence! Thus, I pardon you!"
Gods, do you hear yourself?
Throne's toes curled inside his boots. He ducked his head in 'awe,' playing along with the farce. The world worked in strange ways. Four demigods met, and only Malenia and Radahn ever stirred real dread. Ranni? Her Highness could freeze hell over with a glance.
Godrick preened at the Tarnished's 'speechless admiration.' A satisfied nod. Then, business.
"Explain Fort Haight's fall."
Throne had the lie ready. "Your Highness, the ambush initially succeeded. But a warrior from the Roundtable Hold shattered our lines—cut down Haight where he stood. Defenders lost heart when their banner fell."
Afterwards, a large number of Tarnished poured in from the city gate...
His knuckles cracked as they tightened. The jealousy tasted like copper in his mouth. He'd rehearsed those same moves in his head a thousand times—executed them in back alleys with broken bottles for opponents—only to have reality smash his teeth in.
The memory burned hotter each time. His pulse hammered against his temples. That bitch would scream. Soon. He'd make sure of it.
Throne watched the man's pupils dilate, the vein throbbing in his neck. Absolute lunatic. One battlefield anecdote and Godrick was coming unglued. "Is he strong?!" Godrick snarled, spittle flying.
"Very strong," Throne nodded decisively, then added, "Of course, compared to you, it is like a firefly to the bright moon."