Throne smiled with satisfaction. It was not just his physical strength; this power could also be stacked with the dragon's power to extend the duration of his burst, which was crucial for the upcoming decisive battle. As for the intelligence from Sellen, it was not actually of much value.
Regardless of whether this matter existed or not, he would still have a good talk with Godrick. 'If I obtain his great rune, I will at least reach the level of Oleg.'
The Storm King's wings were not common goods; such a powerhouse could be counted among the heroes, enough to elevate Throne's combat strength to the next level. Is it equivalent to going from Pan Feng to Hua Xiong? Interesting.
In that case, I can consider myself somewhat famous. With this kind of strength, if I can be a bit more insidious, I can handle many things. He laughed at himself. Narrowing the power gap would only make tactics useful; enemies were not fools, and similar opportunities were rare. When it truly came down to a head-on clash, he would have to rely on the combat strength in his hands.
"Throne, the pit is dug." Melina arrived at his side, panting. "Why do I feel like you have become much more obedient?" Throne stood up, his face full of confusion. "That is just your illusion." Melina was expressionless, though in truth, she no longer dared to say that this person was bragging. Even if the process was convoluted, he killed when he said he would.
the mysteries surrounding him were becoming increasingly thick; this man clearly knew Oleg, and the two had a deep-seated hatred for each other. But this was impossible. How long had it been since the Tarnished awakened? What happened ten years ago? Throne walked to the edge of the pit, glanced at the deep-in-thought young girl, and suddenly said, "Your choice was beyond my expectations."
What choice? Melina did not react for a moment, but after a while, she finally understood what he was talking about. When Oleg was 'victorious', she, who should have slipped away quietly, had appeared. "I just wanted to confirm your death." Tsk, of all people to learn from, she had to learn from Ranni.
Thinking of a certain princess gave Throne a headache, but he calmly added, "Next time you want to make a move, tell me in advance so you don't ruin my plan." Originally, Melina had no part in his plan. He had intended to shamelessly ambush him, stack full debuffs on Oleg, and ride Torrent away. As it turned out, Melina had suddenly jumped out.
If this blockhead had been hacked to death by Oleg, he would have felt bad. You were the one who asked me to make a move, and now you are the one scolding me! The young girl naturally did not know Throne's plan; she couldn't help but grit her silver teeth, turned her face away, and ignored him. Throne shrugged, letting Melina sulk.
He looked at the corpse in the pit and had to admit he held some respect for this steel-like knight. His will was like steel, determined to complete his mission even at the cost of his life; he was worthy of being called a hero. And Throne only had one way to express respect for a hero—exhaust all means and slay him!
He bent down, placed the blood-stained head back on the neck, took out the Pureblood Knight's Medal, stuffed it into Oleg's hand, picked up the shovel, and covered it with two thin layers of soil. It didn't need to be buried too deep; after all, someone would dig him up before long.
Melina didn't know what kind of tricks this person was up to again, or how a broken medal could drive the situation, but by now, she had established a sense of trust. "Let's go, we should return to Summonwater Village; it will get busy very soon." Throne sighed, stuck a pitted greatsword in front of the grave as a tombstone, and took the opportunity to look up at the sky.
The setting sun hung low, just like the curtain falling on a hero. ... Boom—
Lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the woods in stark relief. Torrential rain turned the road to mud, blood swirling with the runoff. Carriages sat mired in the muck, bodies scattered like broken dolls.
Black-cloaked figures moved among the dead, short swords flashing. One by one, they finished the wounded. Silence fell, broken only by the drumming rain. Gideon crouched in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the church ruins below the cliff. He barely registered the assassin approaching until the man stood before him.
"Sir." The assassin's voice cut through the downpour. "Two guards escaped. We've discovered what they were transporting." The battle between Thorne and Oleg had torn through the night, loud enough to reach Summonwater Village. Roundtable Hold operatives, already embedded in Limgrave, rushed to investigate—too late to beat Godrick's Army scouts.
A step behind didn't matter. They'd simply slaughtered the entire investigation team. "Two escaped?" Gideon's lip curled. He strode toward the battlefield where the final blows were being dealt. "Tell me. Which two heroes were fighting?" Only hero-level combatants could cause such destruction.
The assassin swallowed hard. "There's a corpse in the carriage. We've identified it—Oleg, the wandering knight, the Storm King's wings." Gideon froze. His pupils contracted. He didn't need analysis. The conclusion hit him like a thunderclap. Disaster.
He waved the assassin silent and moved toward the carriage. A group of powerful Tarnished stood watch. Dolores stepped forward, her hunting attire sleek with rain, short bow at her waist. "Confirmed," she said. "It's Oleg. Morgott's representative in Limgrave."
"Dolores." Gideon's voice was steel. "Say it plainly. I'm ready."
She pulled a blood-red medal from her belt. "Found this on a fleeing knight from Godrick's Army." The gathered Tarnished stiffened. They knew the symbol. A Pureblood Knight's Medal. Gideon's jaw tightened. "The Bloody Finger killed him?"
"No." Dolores shook her head. "This is a frame. They're not careless enough for this."
"Then who wants to pin it on the Bloody Finger?" Gideon snapped. "Or does the Bloody Finger even need to frame anyone?" Dolores met his gaze, her neutral beauty unflinching. She'd struck true. The Bloody Finger didn't need framing. Their infamy spoke for itself.
"Someone's fishing in troubled waters," Gideon said. "Muddying Limgrave to hide their own purpose." The Tarnished nodded, trusting his sharp mind. But knowing the enemy's intent meant little. The horned helmet of a heavily armored man turned toward Gideon. "Sir," he rumbled, "Oleg's death can't be hidden. Morgott will hear of it soon. He won't sit idle."
The Lands Between teetered on a knife's edge. The Tarnished and Godrick could destroy each other—but if the war expanded, no one could predict the fallout.
Gideon lowered his head and began to think seriously. If Morgott intervened, Godrick, fearing for his stronghold, would have to withdraw. But the man's pride wouldn't let him retreat quietly. He'd likely storm Fort Haight before word reached Leyndell, hoping to claim it as justification.
The fortress had become more than stone and mortar—it was a symbol now. Its fall would decide everything. Gideon never intended to slaughter every Tarnished in Limgrave. His plan was simpler: let Fort Haight bleed Godrick's army dry while he waited in the shadows, picking at their morale like a carrion bird.
Three months. That's all it would take. Godrick's forces would break under the strain. Then, a feint—just enough to make the Grafted Lord panic, to lure him back with his personal guard. Isolate him. Strike.
But that plan was ash now.
If Godrick lost his mind and marched on the city, the Tarnished couldn't stop him. And Gideon couldn't let the fortress fall. Fort Haight wasn't just a stronghold—it was the Roundtable Hold's credibility. Lose it, and the nobles would see weakness. They'd turn on the Tarnished like wolves. The backlash would be worse than Godrick himself.
Worse still, Gideon's own standing would crumble. The infamy of failure would cling to him. No prestige, no leadership. No future. This battle wasn't just about winning—it was about survival.
If Godrick withdrew, the dream of kingship died with him. The nobles who'd poured gold and blood into this cause would never bow again. Gideon would rot in Stormveil, waiting for some wandering demigod to carve the Great Rune from his flesh.
"Godrick has no choice," Gideon murmured. His eyes were blades in the dark. "And neither do I."
He almost laughed. Someone was playing them both. A masterstroke—an open conspiracy. Every move forced his hand. Godrick would rage like a cornered beast, and Gideon had to match him step for step. The alternative was worse.
"Listen well," he said, voice smooth as steel. The irritation beneath didn't show. "Godrick will throw everything at Fort Haight. Let the walls break his army. Harass his supply lines. Push him to the brink. Then end him."
Vargram's voice cut through the rain. "You're not even curious who's pulling the strings?"
Gideon didn't turn. "No time." His gaze flicked to the corpse at his feet. Water pooled in its empty eye sockets. "And it doesn't matter."
The storm swallowed the Tarnished whole, their shapes dissolving into the downpour. Some unseen hand had tipped the scales, turning careful plans into gambles.
Far off, atop a ruined chapel, Blaidd stood untouched by the lightning. Rain slicked his fur flat. His yellow eyes tracked the vanishing figures.
"Roundtable Hold dogs?" His lips peeled back, baring fangs. "Now this is interesting."
Both sides scheming. The Tarnished hunting Godrick, stumbling onto something bigger.
Blaidd shrugged. "Not my fight." He turned away, tail flicking. "The ruins are more fun."
He muttered to himself, baring his teeth in a grin that revealed pale, needle-sharp fangs.
He jumped off the church and heard a boom; the falling lightning happened to blast the spot where he had just been standing. The residual electricity that splashed onto him instantly stiffened the wolf-man's muscles, and he slammed into the mud in a spread-eagled pose. "Damn it, such bad luck."
After a moment, the strong wolf-man climbed up, patted the mud and water off his body, and pretended nothing had happened. The heavy rain had washed away many of the traces of the battle, but the deep craters still remained. Blaidd walked back and forth among the ruins, occasionally lying down in the mud to sniff. 'The scent is very faint. It's the scent of three people.
Judging from the direction of the movement, two were fighting, and one was actually watching from the side? Is it a woman with no combat ability?'
The wolf-man wore a puzzled expression. More importantly, one of the scents—why was it so familiar? It must be an illusion.
If that guy really wasn't dead, having had no news for so many years, only to be leisurely acting as an adventurer with a woman, causing Her Highness to worry and making me search all over The Lands Between... Blaidd straightened his back and revealed an incredibly cruel smile. That bastard, he must be tired of living!
Achoo—
In Summonwater Village, Throne let out a fierce sneeze. Looking at the rain outside the window, he rubbed his nose with some helplessness. 'Why have I been feeling like someone is thinking of me lately?'
Throne realized that sometimes having too sharp an intuition was not a good thing.
For instance, someone in the Roundtable Hold must be cursing him up a storm, and he didn't suspect for a second that it was a certain mud-covered wolf-man. In his view, it was already good enough that Ranni was willing to wait; why would she send someone out specifically to find him? That would be too self-indulgent. "It seems Oleg's corpse has already been discovered."
He walked to the window and saw the firelight flickering in the encampment outside the village. Hundreds of soldiers were lining up, apparently preparing to flee. This was simple. After receiving the news, Godrick no longer hoped for a complete victory. His top priority was to quickly take Fort Haight to have something to show for it, and then lead his army back to hunker down in Stormveil.
"Besides Godrick, didn't you also want to plot against the Roundtable Hold?" Melina quietly came to his side; she was always like a ghost. "Once Godrick moves, the Roundtable Hold will inevitably have to change its plans." "Why? There shouldn't be any connection between them, right?" Throne looked at the "wooden" Melina, speechless, and once again missed Lady Ranni.
He thought for a moment and, in order to improve Melina's intelligence, decided to explain:
"Fort Haight is not just bait for Godrick. The people at the Roundtable Hold dare not give it up either. Even if not a single Tarnished is killed, if Godrick takes the fort, the entire Lands Between will discover an opportunity." "What opportunity?" "An opportunity to unite and exterminate the Tarnished.
The Greater Will focuses on survival of the fittest and won't truly intervene. And Morgott, who is behind them, suffered a crushing defeat at Mt. Gelmir; he isn't enough to back them up." Melina thought for a moment and finally understood. Fort Haight was currently in the hands of the Tarnished.
If it were taken back by Godrick, it would only prove the incompetence of the Tarnished, and those restless nobles would take the opportunity to start a war. But then again... "When you were giving advice to Vyke, had you already thought of this step??" "Otherwise? If the Tarnished just ran around aimlessly, this war would be endless.
"Worst case, Godrick retreats to Stormveil. He'll emerge to clear them out once the heat dies down." Throne spread his hands, a sly grin twisting his lips. "But now? Fort Haight's a bone lodged in his throat. With such a glaring target standing firm, all eyes across the Lands Between are fixed on it." His voice carried a calculated edge, chilling in its precision.
Melina swallowed hard, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Your methods—they're formidable."
"Wrong." Throne's tone sharpened. "This isn't subterfuge. It's an open conspiracy. I'm nothing if not honest. Every move I make is for the Tarnished. If they want to win, they must hold Fort Haight and wait for reinforcements. Do you truly believe the Old Knight is a fool?"
His words dredged up memories of Mistwood, where every strategy, every conversation, hinged on the Tarnished's survival—their only path to victory. The Tarnished themselves were unaware, pawns in a game they couldn't see. The Roundtable Hold knew the stakes, yet had no choice but to play along. Melina sighed, her body shifting subtly, half a step away, as though distancing herself from the man radiating danger.
Throne didn't notice. His gaze was fixed on the torrential rain, his mind churning with calculations. Every possible outcome, every variable, was cataloged and weighed. But what's the point of showing off to a block of wood? Godrick will summon me soon. What now? His eyes flicked toward Summonwater Village, barely visible through the downpour.
The once-charming buildings stood weathered and crumbling, neglected for years. Small boats bobbed listlessly at the pier, rising and falling with the sway of the lake. A café, long abandoned, bore a balcony strewn with debris. I met my teacher there. Evening, I think.
Throne remembered it vividly: Sellen in a red dress, her excitement palpable as she handed him a doll—more art than toy. The scent of Hya tea lingered in the air, crisp and comforting. The passersby who had once admired them were gone, vanished like soap bubbles. Even Summonwater Village, once bustling with life, now lay eerily desolate.
"Melina?" "I'm here." The girl looked up, roused from her near-slumber. Lately, she'd grown fond of these idle moments—eyes closed, thoughts still, time slipping by unnoticed. "How about I draw your portrait? Don't look at me like that. I'm just reminiscing."
Throne's thoughts lingered in the past, tinged with regret. If only I'd bought that painter's manuscript. At least it would've been a keepsake. The soft patter of rain seemed to amplify his melancholy, tempering his usual boldness. Melina hesitated, but something in his demeanor softened her resolve. She nodded, sitting upright by the bed.
"Fine. Draw." "Have some respect for art. Relax. Pose however you like." Throne pulled her to the window, his tone firm but not unkind.
Only then did he return to behind the square table, take out a sheet of white paper used for conveying military orders, pick up the pencil used for sketching maps, take a quick look, and dive straight into drawing. Splatter, splatter...