"No problem. These are all powerful Erdtree incantations, especially this Sword of the Golden Order. As an offensive incantation, ordinary Tarnished cannot even touch it, and even among the Confessors, they are few and far between."
Throne looked at him calmly, though this calmness was mingled with a holy madness, and he roared from the bottom of his heart:
"I will kill you first, and then I will inflict divine punishment upon Godrick!"
Throne's anger was like a raging storm, and it was genuine, yet he infused it with a touch of holiness, as if he were carrying out a divine execution. The blade of light collided with the greatsword. Oleg was still a bit confused about the situation.
his status was awkward—he was part of a ragtag group that had defected—and thinking that he might cause trouble for Morgott, he did not counterattack for a moment. "Are you insane? Why would the Two Fingers issue such an order?" Bang! Throne raised his foot and kicked him in the chest, causing the breastplate to dent slightly.
Oleg stumbled back several steps, gasping for air in stifled discomfort. As expected of a high-ranking Confessor, his strength is formidable! The knight's pupils constricted slightly. This level of strength was a bit weaker than his own, but there was no longer a gap in rank, leaving him with little room to remain composed. Swish!
The golden blade of light tore through the air, slicing a wall apart, and sunlight immediately flooded in. The knight appeared at his side like a ghost, his two greatswords slashing down from above and below. The strong wind billowed his robes. Throne stepped back half a step, slipping out of the attack range, and a cold sneer appeared at the corner of his mouth.
This man indeed dared not use his full strength. From Ashina to The Lands Between, Throne had experienced countless victories of the weak over the strong. The perfect method was to disguise himself as 'one of their own'; as long as the enemy was hesitant and constrained, there would be a chance to turn the tables.
Just like now, he exploited Oleg's awkward status and utilized the Erdtree incantations he had only recently learned. Even though there were still flaws, who could think calmly in a high-intensity battle? It's a bit scummy, but very effective. Swish, swish, swish... The knight spun like a tornado, cold glints of light flashing before his nose.
Throne retreated continuously, and in a fleeting moment, his back was pressed against the wall. The sword edge, which could have sliced him into pieces, paused. Storm Stomp! Oleg stomped both feet, and a powerful storm rushed towards him. He was determined to stun this person, tie him up, and interrogate him slowly. Wrath of Gold!
Unexpectedly, Throne raised his Sacred Seal at the same time, countering the storm with a golden shockwave. With a 'boom', the long benches inside the church were all swept into splinters. Very rich combat experience. The knight became increasingly solemn, and then he saw golden ripples emerging from the dust. Not good. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh...
Five or six golden thrusts came piercing through, forcing the knight to retreat repeatedly. Of course, this move of Throne's could not be compared to the Avatar of the Erdtree; it could only be used to stall. Taking advantage of this opportunity, he quickly drank two gulps of the Cerulean Flask. His Focus Points were instantly replenished.
He flicked the hand holding the Sacred Seal—Sword of the Golden Order. The golden blade of light, composed purely of energy, appeared once again. Then, taking advantage of the dense dust, he quietly used Bloodhounds Step. The next moment, the pervasive dust was directly swept away by the storm. Seeing the priest lunging before him, Oleg's pupils could not help but constrict.
He moved impossibly fast. The dust cleared—his defenses wide open. That blade of light aimed straight for his chest. Too late to dodge, but muscle memory took over. His elbows snapped inward. The golden blade hissed against heavy armor, melting through metal like butter.
The blade froze three inches from his chest. He didn't look—just drove his knee up. Impact. Throne's body jerked back, robes offering no resistance. Blood sprayed from his mouth, staining his twisted, handsome face. "Still won't yield?!"
Oleg lowered his right leg, left knee already raised. "A man of the cloth fears no evil!" Throne's voice dripped with mocking piety. Evil? Me? After all I've endured for your precious demigods? Another knee strike. Throne's grip tightened on the Sacred Seal, eyes blazing. Energy surged.
The Sword of the Golden Order extended, a molten blade slicing through armor that once defied arrows. Heat seared Oleg's chest. He twisted violently, hurling Throne away. "Are all Confessors rabid dogs?"
He glanced down. A jagged gash ran from chest to abdomen, half a meter long.
The Banished Knight's armor had failed against the incantation. Barely charred skin—he'd reacted fast enough. "A variant incantation?" Oleg growled. "You a disciple of Bishop Shimlei?" Who's that? Throne thought. Just increased the energy injection, nothing more. Still, he filed the name away.
Throne wobbled to his feet, gulping a Crimson Flask. "The holy blessing heals me. A sinner like you? Never." Oleg scoffed. "I serve the Storm King. Of course I don't have the Erdtree's blessing." Fanatics. Always so unreasonable. Something felt off.
"You're here for Lord Morgott?" Throne smirked. "Not as dumb as you look. Let me enlighten you." He shifted his stance, sword raised. "The Fell Omen and Morgott are one. He's deceived the golden subjects. His crimes demand death."
This wasn't the nonsense he'd spouted to fool Campore. This was a truth that could unravel The Lands Between. Margit is Morgott? Oleg's sword hand trembled. The revelation cut deeper than any blade. As a high-ranking officer in Morgott's forces, he'd suspected it. Now, the pieces fit.
The truth didn't matter. His loyalty was to Morgott himself. What mattered was the Erdtree forces knew. A threat to His Lordship. Oleg hesitated—just a breath—and Throne lunged, reckless as ever. No more holding back. Escape. Get to Leyndell. Now.
Storm—
Both greatswords rose, the roaring gale tearing through the church. A cross slash. Heavy Slash. The air screamed. Walls crumbled, bricks scattered like leaves. The church split clean in two.
Throne, who had charged toward the sword edge, had completely disappeared into the dust. Only a golden gleam pierced through the dust, stabbing into the knight's right chest and pushing his body back half a meter. "Resolved." Oleg took a breath, watching the golden sword on his chest dissolve into particles. He ignored the pain and did not bother to check if the other party was dead.
Leyndell. Must reach Leyndell. My allegiance is to Lord Morgott. The knight spun around but froze mid-step, his gaze locking on the slender figure standing in the plaza outside the church. Someone else? How did I miss their presence? Oleg's expression hardened, his body tensing. Melina, in stark contrast, stood still, her face unreadable, her mind churning.
She'd seen it with her own eyes—the sword's edge plunging into Throne. But doubt gnawed at her. Dead? Just like that? Or is this another one of his schemes? The air around her seemed to hum with tension as bricks and tiles clattered to the ground. Her thoughts raced, chaotic and unmoored. She hadn't meant to reveal herself, but instinct had taken over. Now here she was, exposed, her mind scrambling to make sense of the situation.
Before she could react, the knight—who should have been meters away—was suddenly in front of her, his towering frame blotting out the world. Oleg didn't care about their history or ties. He had a mission, and anyone standing in his way would die.
The greatsword slammed into the ground with a deafening crash, carving a deep crater. Gravel sprayed in all directions. Melina moved like a wisp of smoke, her body drifting effortlessly to the side. She didn't draw her blade, but the lethal intent radiating from Oleg as he twisted his wrist triggered something primal in her. Her instincts screamed at her to act.
Storm Dance. Oleg didn't hesitate. His greatswords became a blur, spinning like windmills, leaving pale arcs of light in their wake. Melina, small and agile, darted between the slashing blades like a dancer weaving through a storm. The ground beneath her feet splintered under the onslaught, but Oleg's unease grew with every swing.
She was unharmed. Her robes were torn, her movements fluid, but not a scratch marred her skin. His jaw tightened as realization dawned. A Black Knife Assassin? Why hasn't she drawn her blade? The Black Knives weren't just killers; they were legends. They'd taken down Godwyn the Golden. This was no ordinary foe.
"Get lost!" Oleg roared. He slammed his foot into the ground, unleashing a violent gale that hurled Melina dozens of meters back. He had no intention of prolonging this fight. Identities could be faked, but power couldn't. A Confessor tied to a Black Knife Assassin? That spelled conspiracy, no matter how you looked at it.
Storm Leap. Oleg bent his knees, and the air itself propelled him skyward. In an instant, he was high above the ground, the world shrinking beneath him. His gaze swept over the battlefield. The dust had settled, revealing the half-collapsed church and the figure standing amidst the rubble.
The priest. His golden robes were shredded, his once-pristine skin marred by deep gashes. Yet he stood, arms outstretched, palms facing Oleg. How? Impossible. Erdtree incantations didn't allow for teleportation, and there was no escaping the Heavy Slash's range. But then Oleg's eyes widened. He felt it—magic power, surging from the priest's palms.
Throne's voice cut through the chaos, calm and measured. "Some unexpected issues, but it's still within control." In an instant, his form shifted, the priest's robes dissolving into the shadows as he transformed into a Night Sorcerer. Magic pulsed from his fingertips, dark and consuming.
Night Comet Barrage. The spell erupted like a storm, pitch-black comets streaking through the air. Each one was the size of a basin, fast and relentless, raining down like bullets from a machine gun. This wasn't just Night Comet—it was faster, denser, and far more deadly.
If he were on the ground, Oleg would have at least ten ways to evade, but suspended in the air, his options were slim. His greatswords slashed through the air, cutting down the dark comets, but the barrage was too much. His swings couldn't keep up. One, two, three—the comets struck him in quick succession, exploding on impact.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The force of the blows shattered his armor, sending shards flying in every direction. Oleg's body jerked with each hit, the momentum driving him back as the dark stars tore through him.
Throne clenched his fist. "Get down here!"
Gravity Well.
The Banished Knight, already faltering, plummeted like a meteorite. His body slammed into the plaza's center with a deafening crash.
The ground trembled violently. The church, teetering on the edge, collapsed in a shower of stone and dust.
Throne didn't flinch as debris rained down. He raised both hands. A cerulean crest flared on his left palm. A cannonball traced a fiery arc through the air. In his right hand, the Erdtree Seal glowed, five or six ripples shimmering behind him. Cannon of Haima. Golden Land.
The cannonball struck. Magical flames erupted skyward.
From within the inferno, magic lances shot out in every direction. Time seemed to freeze—then shattered as a crescent-shaped storm tore through the air. The Heavy Slash loomed, magnified in Throne's vision.
He dissolved into particles, reappearing ten meters away.
The statue of Marika and the church's rear half vanished, reduced to ash.
Throne landed just as a tornado surged skyward.
The knight stood in the center of the crater, armor shattered, body bloodied. His eyes locked onto the 'Starlight movement.'
"You didn't die!"
It was more shocking than the deception itself.
A man confirmed dead by two demigods stood unscathed, wielding the purest Erdtree incantations. It defied reason. This killing intent, this madness—there was no mistaking it. The swordsman from ten years ago had returned. Oleg knew it instantly.
He couldn't fathom how the man had risen from the dead or grown so powerful, but one thing was clear.
Oleg tore off his broken armor, revealing his muscular frame. His greatswords crossed with a metallic scrape.
"In the name of the storm, I'll shred you!"
Throne lowered his gaze. From the start, he'd never planned to let the knight walk away alive.
There was nothing to apologize for regarding the process; facing the strong with the weak, not using tactics would be equivalent to suicide.