"You, suppress the archers on the tower." "Take two squads, seize the tower, the rest follow me!" Behind the wall was the massive main body of the fortress. The castle was connected to the wall by a wooden bridge, and one could faintly see the backs of the Tarnished retreating in disarray. "Chase them down!"
Covered by greatshields, they formed a tight formation and advanced, blocking the arrows shooting from all sides. Suddenly, a figure dropped from the top of the castle and landed heavily at the entrance. 'The Dauntless' Vyke? The knight hesitated for a moment. Seeing this Tarnished raise his war spear, a sense of foreboding flashed through his mind, and then, his eyes widened in horror.
Figures appeared simultaneously at dozens of the castle's windows, some holding bows and crossbows, others holding staves, but all aimed at the enemies squeezed between the wall and the fortress. "Damn it, they had an ambush set up." Vyke stared at him, thinking to himself that it was a good thing he had defied public opinion and listened to Isshin's intelligence. He took a deep breath.
"Fire, detonate!!" The Old Knight, heart surging, raised his greatbow and fired a fire arrow at the massive pile of wooden barrels stacked at the corner of the wall. The arrow streaked through the field of vision and landed squarely on the prepared gunpowder barrels. Boom— Rumble—
Before Owen could react, a scorching shockwave sent him flying like a piece of paper.
His vision spun, and the last thing he saw was a rain of magic and arrows. In an instant, a massive mushroom cloud rose from outside the city. The explosion was so violent that even a dozen-meter-long section of the wall was thrown into the sky. Shattered bricks and stones sprayed in all directions like bullets, instantly turning the soldiers crowded onto the golem into a mist of blood.
No armor could block this attack, and no martial art could parry it. The shockwave mowed down the gathered soldiers like wheat. When the wailing reached his ears, the main camp was already silent as death. "What happened??" Godrick widened his eyes, his ears ringing, unable to recover for a long time.
The nobles were even more silent, just staring blankly at the black cloud rising into the sky, mixing with the muffled thunder like the wrath of the gods. The Lands Between did have gunpowder. This stuff was a byproduct of the Perfumers and began to appear widely during The Shattering; the Stormveil Stormhawks also threw explosive barrels.
But when it came to the use of gunpowder, no one in The Lands Between knew better than Throne. In his advice to Vyke, this stuff shouldn't be used as ammunition for catapults, but as a signal for counterattack at a critical moment. When all the gunpowder stored in Fort Haight exploded at once, the force was enough to make one tremble! "Damn it, those Tarnished were prepared."
Throne roared, finally snapping the group out of their shock. They had no way of judging how many people that fierce explosion had swept away, but they could clearly know the consequences.
This explosion had sent the elite Godricks Army crowded at the broken wall flying, cut off the connection between the knights who had broken into the city and the main force, and left the already low-morale noble soldiers pale. Even the circling Stormhawks were fleeing frantically. "Your Highness, what should we do now?" "How the hell would I know!" Godrick abandoned his dignity and cursed.
He thought for a moment, then grabbed his golden greataxe, looking as if he wanted to fight to the death. "Stay calm, Your Highness. Let's retreat first. Do you want to take that fortress alone?" Throne blocked him, firmly pressing down on the axe. If Godrick dared to break into the city alone against such firepower, he would have done it already.
The rain stung his eyes as he hesitated, watching the hellscape unfold before him. Soldiers fled in waves, their screams of "Our army is defeated!" cutting through the downpour. The formation shattered like glass. Godrick's rear guard—those who should have held the line—took the brunt of the explosion and now ran with the rest. The army collapsed like a dam bursting.
Bodies sank into the mud. Thousands of boots trampled them without hesitation. The Tarnished didn't pursue. They clung to the walls, picking off stragglers with methodical precision. If they charged, Godrick could take a hundred. But perched on those battlements? Not even the Valkyrie would brave that storm of arrows and magic.
No Thopss Barrier meant deflecting ten Comet Azurs was possible—but dozens? Mixed with ballista bolts longer than a man? Impossible. "Your Highness," Throne urged, voice steady, "stabilize first. Assess losses after." The words finally sank in. Godrick stilled. Winning wasn't the question anymore. Survival was.
If this army scattered, it was gone forever. "Then move!" Godrick barked. "Darian! Moray! Go with him!" The command came sharp, his composure cracking but not broken. The knight and Grafted noble snapped to attention. "As you command." No time for pride now. The army teetered on the edge. Throne didn't wait. "Follow me."
He swung onto his warhorse, blade already drawn. The remaining knights fell in behind him. "Halt!" Moonveil flashed. A noble knight's head hit the mud before his body. "Retreat and die!" The words weren't a warning—they were a promise. Those who should've fought back knelt instead. Begged. Died. The battlefield was chaos.
Throne carved through them, a reaper in black. Power flooded him with every kill. Behind his mask, he smiled. Melina watched, lips pressed thin. The irony was grotesque. Even if Throne had single-handedly held Fort Haight, it wouldn't have been this absurd.
A man who wanted Godrick dead was now butchering Godrick's own army—on Godrick's orders. The knights and elites fell like wheat before a scythe. "Melina," Throne called over the screams, "ever heard of 'borrowing a knife to kill'?"
His warhorse reared. A deserter died mid-plea. "It means using Godrick's own blade to gut his loyalists—and making him thank me for it!" Laughter edged his voice. A Banished Knight tried to reason. Throne rode him down, boot crushing his chest. The blade found his face. Mercy wasn't an option.
A count cursed him. Throne severed his legs at the knee, snatched up a war hammer, and crushed his skull. The sound was wet. Final. Even Darian froze. Cruelty to enemies was common. This? This was something else.
Lightning split the sky. For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze. Throne stood silhouetted against the storm, a demon astride a black horse. Around him, the mud churned with kneeling figures.
The soldiers shook. No one ran now. They kowtowed, foreheads pressing into filth. Darian's cavalry wove through the carnage. Their eyes weren't full of hate—just awe. To halt a rout this fast? That was talent. Rain dripped from Throne's cloak. Blood slid off Moonveil.
Throne straightened his body and looked at the thundering sky. Come on, Roundtable Hold. I've served you the opportunity on a silver platter.
Blood mingled with rain, pooling around fallen corpses. Blaidd wiped his greatsword clean and sheathed it across his back. Mud clung to his boots as he surveyed the ruined camp. His grip loosened, letting the headless corpse slump into the muck. Silence stretched. He'd come to Caelid after hearing whispers of the battle, drawn like a moth to flame.
The Godricks Army stood as enemies to the Princess of the Moon. Gathering intel along the way was practical. Blaidd despised Godrick's thievery, admired the Tarnished's cunning, and filed it all away for future use. But when the Godricks Army retreated, he froze.
The knight charging from the chaos was familiar. Too familiar. The movement, the killing strike, even the scent—all matched someone he knew. Blaidd snatched a fleeing soldier and interrogated him. The answer came clear: a newly appointed Tarnished knight, nicknamed 'Battle Demon.'
Being Tarnished wasn't the issue. Blaidd's instincts screamed warnings. This man was a master of disguise, and the sword he carried—Blaidd knew it. He clenched the Mimic's Veil, hesitated, then let it go. Rain dripped from his fangs as he bared his teeth, eyes burning with lethal intent.
"That bastard Thorne. Did he defect?"
'Battle Demon' Isshin Ashina—Thorne's new title. He carved fear into the hearts of routed soldiers with unrelenting cruelty. No one dared meet his gaze, even under the cover of night. The man executed a Banished Knight without flinching, proving he was no one to cross. Thorne spent the afternoon culling the weak, cutting down knights and nobles alike. Yet, no one dared challenge him.
Godrick himself gritted his teeth and praised the kills, handing Thorne the impossible task of restoring discipline. What else could he do? The army's morale was shattered, but retreating in the storm was suicide. The Tarnished had survived the day, but Fort Haight teetered on collapse. The Godricks Army had lost, but the casualties weren't catastrophic.
Owen and others trapped in the city had perished, and hundreds more were swept away by the explosion. Yet, Thorne's decisive actions had salvaged hope for Godrick. Victory was within reach. Tomorrow, even if it cost ten lives for one, they'd grind the Tarnished down.
Now, the task fell to Thorne—rallying the broken soldiers, forcing them to charge again. Lightning split the sky as rain hammered down. Thorne, drenched and weary, leaned on his sword and moved through the crowd. The wailing softened. A voice broke through the storm. "You… are truly a genius."
Melina was already speechless. An assassin had mixed in to become a general commanding the army. This world was too crazy, yet everyone was convinced. Without him rallying the routed soldiers, Godrick would have already been defeated. It was no exaggeration to say he had turned the tide.
"What do you even want?" Melina's voice cut through the air. "To kill Godrick? Or to become his second-in-command at Stormveil?" She couldn't help herself. With his achievements, taking Fort Haight would cement his position. Even the young master of Castle Morne walked on eggshells around him now. Who could deny his rise?
The Stormveil army, feared for its ruthlessness, bent to his will. Wasn't that proof enough? "Fame and fortune mean nothing to me," Throne said, his lips curling into a faint smile. He strode toward the high platform, each step deliberate. At the edge stood Darian, the knight commander, his gaze heavy with unspoken resentment.
A Tarnished, rising like a meteor, now stood above him. Darian's jaw tightened. Jealousy gnawed at him, but he couldn't deny the man's skill. Throne had appeared at the perfect moment, manipulated the Prince's whims with precision. "My lord," Darian said, saluting with a forced deference. "The men await your word."
Throne stepped onto the platform, his expression unreadable. Below him, thousands of Godrick's soldiers sat in uneasy silence. Even if they were nothing more than livestock, slaughtering them would wear out his blade. Yet now, not one dared meet his gaze.
Their resentment didn't faze him. He wasn't afraid of a knife in the back. His voice was calm, cutting through the tension. "His Highness commands it. We siege Fort Haight tomorrow."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Still fighting? Throne's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his chin tilting toward the side.
Godrick's knights moved swiftly, dragging out those who dared to curse. They were pressed to the ground, silenced. The camp fell deathly still. "From today," Throne continued, "all knights will be reassigned as centurions."
Darian stiffened. Centurions? What of the reserves? Who would protect His Highness in an emergency? He opened his mouth to object, but Throne's voice rolled over him like a wave.
"When Fort Haight falls, all spoils will be divided by merit." Kenneth Haight's eyes widened. His family's wealth, handed out like scraps? He stepped forward, but Throne's gaze stopped him cold.
"Rewards are mine to give. Discipline, however, is mine to enforce." Throne's voice was steel. "The Seventeen Prohibitions and Fifty-Four Executions are now in effect. Rank means nothing. Disobedience is death."
"Fail to advance at the drum's call, die." "Fail to halt at the gold's signal, die." "Neglect the night watch, die." "Speak against your commander, die."
With each word, a blade fell. Heads rolled. The stench of blood filled the air. Darian and Kenneth froze, their protests swallowed. Who would argue with a man who killed without hesitation?
The camp was silent, every man holding his breath. From a distance, Godrick watched, his lips curling into a grin. A rare talent. He couldn't graft this one—he was too sharp, too dangerous, but also too useful. Such a man, brutal and unyielding, was exactly what he needed. Godrick's heart stirred, visions of an unstoppable army forming in his mind.
He nodded, satisfied, and retreated to his tent. The noise outside—knights being reassigned, orders barked—was a small price to pay. He'd endure it. For now.
Leaving military affairs to this Tarnished was fine. Anyway, he looked much more reliable than that fool Darian. As a king, Godrick had bigger concerns. The clamor outside grated on his nerves, but he let it pass. Control was being tightened. That was what mattered.
The harsh military decrees were clear: soldiers flee, centurion dies; centurion flees, chiliarch dies. Fear trickled down, layer upon layer, ensuring no one dared desert. As for his own safety? He scoffed. Who on this battlefield would dare challenge the Lord of All That Is Golden, Godrick, and live? The clamor didn't last. It faded quickly.
The day's bloodshed left everyone drained—bodies soaked, spirits shattered. Throne, however, remained unshaken. Back in his tent, he sat cross-legged, regulating his breath. He'd conserved his strength, even profited on the side. "You're certain something will happen tonight?"
Melina materialized beside him, crouching in silence. "Without a doubt. The Roundtable Hold is waiting for their moment. I've practically handed it to them. Tell me—do you think spies slipped in among today's defeated soldiers?" Throne's fingers traced the length of his sword, movements almost tender. "Without a doubt."
That man's cunning wouldn't miss such an opening. By sunrise, Fort Haight would fall. But this victory wouldn't be clean. Melina hesitated. Wasn't this a gamble? What if the Roundtable Hold hadn't taken the bait? Before she could voice her doubts, chaos erupted outside. "What's happening?"
She strained to listen. The pounding rain and distant thunder mingled with hurried footsteps—sentinel shouts, sharp cries. The ground quivered faintly, a tremor of advancing forces. "They're here. Just as I expected of Sir Gideon Ofnir." Throne's eyes snapped open. He seized his sword, surged to his feet, and flung open the tent flap.
Outside, the world was swallowed in darkness, the deluge reducing visibility to nothing. Boom—