The revelation struck like a blade between the ribs—unnecessary subterfuge when bloodshed served just as well. Varré would come recruiting on his own. Unless—
The gate exploded inward. A Redmane Knight burst through the wreckage with a squad of Tarnished at his back, taking in the slaughterhouse tableau at a glance.
"Bloody Fingers!"
His sword rasped free.
"You dare defile the Smoldering Church with your filth?"
Steel sang as a dozen more blades cleared scabbards. The stench of the Bloody Fingers preceded them like carrion, but to strike so brazenly within town limits broke their long-standing détente.
The old man rose slowly, still turned away.
"If this were a true blood rite, you'd be dead before crossing the threshold."
"Then what's this—strawberry preserves?"
The knight's laugh curdled into a snarl. Caught in the act, what defense remained? His straight sword leveled.
"Take them!"
Shields locked—just as a blade carved daylight through their ranks.
No one saw the ambusher drop from the rafters. Crimson armor identical to their own whirled among them, steel biting flesh with butcher's relish. The knight pivoted toward the new threat—only for his vision to flood red.
Clang.
Ten meters of gleaming death uncoiled from the old man's scabbard.
The knight's eyes crawled toward the figure frozen in iaijutsu's killing draw.
"You... wouldn't dare—"
His head hit the cobbles before the last syllable. The old man flicked gore from his katana and stepped over the twitching corpse.
Bodies littered the square. The warriors moved among them, delivering merciless coups de grâce. More townsfolk crowded the alley mouths, their advance stuttering at the carnage.
The old man's gaze swept the cowed mob. He jerked his chin at a twin-sworded fighter.
"Ichiro. Find that fool Varré. Tell him we're being played."
"Hai."
The warrior sheathed his blades and strode through the gathering throng—past more than a few festival champions who could have barred his way, yet chose not to.
The old man crossed his arms, boots planted on the church steps.
"Inaba Clan!"
His voice cracked like a whip.
"Clear this rabble in five minutes!"
——
Throne reined in his mount miles away, watching smoke coil above the Smoldering Church. Militia streamed toward the town from all directions.
"Actual Bloody Fingers inside the walls."
He rubbed his jaw.
Predators smelled blood—but prey had noses too. Once both sides caught the scent, this would escalate into a slaughterhouse. Neither Recusants nor Bloody Fingers were saints; they were the Land Between's twin scourges.
"They'll know it's my doing."
He turned the Bloody Finger badge over in his palm.
"Better they bleed each other in daylight than scheme in shadows."
Mohg owed him a debt. No satisfaction in letting others fight while he lurked in the wings.
The Caelid highway stretched east under his horse's hooves. No one marked the lone Tarnished, but Throne's thoughts raced. Mohg's hidden palace. His stolen god. To strike directly would be suicide—but when had that ever stopped him?
He wasn't arrogant enough to raid a demigod's lair and walk away unscathed. A quick assessment told him the Mohgwyn Dynasty didn't have much to offer either. The biggest prize was Miquella, but Throne had asked Ranni about this demigod, and she'd always been wary.
Miquella could never grow up, lacked Malenia's lethal edge, but wielded a charm even demigods couldn't resist. Terrifying. A blend of boy and girl, frozen in time, not yet a mummy.
If Mohg corrupted him and he turned on me, what then?
Throne clenched. He used to enjoy watching small horses pull heavy carts, but the thought of becoming the horse himself was unbearable. A joke, of course. The real fear was slipping under Miquella's charm and saying things he shouldn't.
He knew too little about Miquella. No way that one was a pure, innocent flower. Invisible mental control cuts deeper than blades. Backup plan material. First priority: connecting with the dragon race.
Throne rubbed his temples. He should've brought Adula to explain. Those irritable flying dragons weren't the type to sit and listen. Ideally, he'd make them bow with a few words, but he knew better. The success rate was zero.
If all else fails, worst-case strategy. Those beasts in Redmane's cage—something had to keep them in check.
He sighed, gazing at the distant wall of fire. Radahn had his ideals. Words wouldn't sway him. Ten years ago, Throne failed. Now, likely the same. Convincing Radahn to abandon the Golden Order and aid Ranni? Throne's current strength wasn't enough to shift his stance.
He couldn't kill Radahn. Didn't want to. Something to drag him down would be ideal. Stay put in Caelid. When I topple the Erdtree and create a fait accompli, we'll talk. Best-case scenario. One reason Throne came to Caelid. Kill Radahn, and Mohg would fill the void.
But could those flying dragons even communicate?
The Caelid highway stretched straight and wide. News of the Bloody Finger's invasion had spread. Militia patrolled the roads. Throne didn't look threatening, and the red parchment in his possession kept him from seeming suspicious.
He spurred his horse off the highway, heading for a nearby hill. From above, he spotted a larger town in the distance. Unlike the Smoldering Church's makeshift wooden huts, this place was built of brick and tile. Caelum. Northern Caelid's economic hub, nestled by the highway.
South along the road led to Redmane Castle. East, past canyons and mountains, lay the dragon race's gathering grounds. Southeast, the vast central swamp—now a restricted zone.
A blazing wall of fire loomed south of the town, with a Redmane camp stationed along the road. Last time we crusaded against the flying dragons, Radahn started here.
Throne narrowed his eyes. Canyons and high mountains were impassable for humans, but dragons? A flap of their wings and they're over. No wonder the elite couldn't wipe them out.
What historical trends had I changed?
He thought carefully. Two fatal shifts stood out. First, Radahn had returned to Sellia early.
The intelligence had been clear—Sellen's situation demanded immediate action. He'd left the army under Ogha's command and raced back. Worse, the Scarlet Aeonia hadn't fully bloomed yet. Greyoll, the Mother of Dragons, remained far from her half-dead state. A fatal complication.
Current dragon strength far exceeded what the Tarnished would later face. Worse still—an Ancient Dragon lurked among them, its allegiance unknown. Throne massaged his temples. Adult flying dragons packed hero-level power. He could handle two, maybe three. A full swarm would overwhelm him.
The Redmanes could take the brunt. Let them bleed instead.
Radahn remained sane. The Redmane Festival had drawn warriors like moths to flame. A fragile equilibrium held between the factions. Break it, and the general would be bogged down for years.
He tugged Torrent's reins toward town—best to scout the Ancient Dragon first. The spectral steed turned its head, then froze mid-step.
Pale pink hair cascaded over shoulders twenty paces ahead. Cold amusement twisted the woman's lips as she studied him. What the—Throne's hand found the Flowing Curved Sword's hilt before his mind caught up.
This wasn't part of the plan. He hadn't even begun his approach, yet Lansseax stood waiting like a spider at her web's center. The air congealed. Murderous intent flared—then vanished.
"You're not here for vengeance."
Throne loosened his grip. Only a fool would miss the signs. She'd tracked his aura again. Had she wanted him dead, wyverns would already darken the sky.
Not that he feared her. The Redmane camp lay within sprinting distance. A single Dark Moon could carve his escape route.
"Heh."
Her laugh carried the chime of broken glass.
"Just as I predicted—scurrying to Caelid like a cornered rat."
Lansseax flicked her wrist in dismissal.
"Forget our last encounter. I relish battling strong males. Being driven to retreat? That's... novel."
Madwoman. Throne exhaled through his nose.
"How'd you find me?"
"Ancient Dragons don't rely on eyes alone."
She licked her lips.
"Your disguise amused me. Had I not planted rumors to draw you out, you might've slipped through."
"You baited me?"
Throne's eyebrows climbed.
"Radahn skins dragons for sport."
Laughter peeled from her throat.
"That whelp? Few in the Lands Between can hinder my passage."
Arrogance, yes—but warranted. Throne dipped his chin. Ancient Dragons stood beyond demigods, beyond even their lesser wyvern kin. Only Greyoll approached their tier. Radahn's gravity magic might inconvenience her, nothing more.
Throne's mind whirred. Dealing with capricious immortals required finesse.
"Why fixate on me?"
"Powerful males abound."
Lansseax closed the distance. Torrent's hooves scraped earth until Throne's calming touch stilled him.
"But you? You consort with our kind yet remain unbroken. That's... rare."
Her scent hit him—ozone and volcanic ash.
"Smarag's here too."
Throne tested the waters.
"Why not harass him instead?"
A derisive snort.
"That blighted Troll? A flawed vessel for our power."
Lansseax walked over, her ancient-looking body getting close enough that Torrent's breath came in ragged bursts. Throne kept his hand steady on the steed's neck. No killing intent radiated from her—just predatory curiosity.
Lansseax smiled disdainfully and stopped next to the Spirit Steed, "Besides, it was you who took the initiative to find me."
'She is very disdainful of the Dragon Communion ceremony. This has nothing to do with power, but a sense of superiority in the hierarchy of life.' Throne grasped some key information.
Smarag, as an Ancient Dragon hunter, was not inferior to a top hero in strength, and the side effects of the power of Dragon Communion were also the greatest. For example, in the eyes of an Ancient Dragon, it was like a monkey wanting to become a human. The final outcome was just a hairless ape, not even as cute as a monkey. And I am different.
While obtaining dragon power, I also maintain my human essence, as if combining the advantages of both. No wonder she is so interested. Thinking through the key in just a few seconds, Throne simply jumped off the horse and straightened his collar: "Ahem, let me reintroduce myself, Caria Chief Throne, by the order of Lady Ranni, I want to talk to you... what are you doing?"
Before he finished speaking, Throne used a Bloodhounds Step to jump away. Just now, this dragon suddenly opened her arms and hugged him. If he hadn't felt any killing intent, he would have already drawn his sword. What does she want to do? Give me a guillotine, or a shoulder throw? Sure enough, she is crazy; there was no sign of her moving at all.
"Why are you dodging?"
Lansseax looked askance, a little uncomprehending.
"I don't want to have my neck broken by you."
"Haha, there's no need for such heavy caution."
Lansseax waved her hand indifferently, puffing out her proud chest, "After our King fell into slumber, the Ancient Dragons had long since scattered, each with their own way of dealing with long lives. To me, the future of the dragon race, the direction of The Lands Between, and so on, simply don't matter. I can only get excited about things I'm interested in."
Damn Troll. Throne was least used to dealing with Trolls because these guys didn't follow logic at all and did things entirely based on their mood.
"Then what are you interested in?"
Lansseax raised her hand and said without concealment:
"You."
As the overlords of two generations ago, Ancient Dragons have experienced long years of baptism. They are arrogant and lonely. Unlike flying dragons, they are not gregarious. Each Ancient Dragon is far apart, each building its own dragon nest. Some resist death for the sake of a promise, some guard the Crumbling Farum Azula alone, and some travel through The Lands Between.
When one lives too long, time loses its meaning, and immortal life becomes a curse. The strength of the body cannot replace the loneliness of the spirit, and Lansseax chooses to actively seek fun to pass this boring time, as if only in this way can she have the texture of living.
"Originally, the Tarnished who appeared recently were very interesting. If I could pick one or two to get to know well, I could pass the time. However, after discovering you, I changed my mind."
The dragon lady raised her head, hugging her arms in front of her chest, her voice high-pitched.
"Combining our power with yourself while still maintaining your original state is far superior to that lowly Dragon Communion, and far superior to that group of half-man, half-dragon soldiers created by the Nox. That is a fusion at the soul level, enough to be called a brand-new species."
So, I've become a soul-type dragon-man? Throne felt his teeth ache. He found he had thought too simply.
This Troll also had some kind of fanatic quality of Sellen, that infinite curiosity about the unknown. Dragon power was indeed a unique attribute for him. Killing other species was essentially no different from the Tarnished adding attribute points. Only special existences like the Crucible Knight could obtain some other abilities. But dragons were different. That was another skill tree.
The air between them crackled with tension. Throne's fingers tightened around his sword hilt.
"You want my secret? Or to steal this power?"
His voice carried the weight of centuries-old wariness. This wasn't just strength—it was his very foundation.
Lansseax's golden eyes gleamed with amusement.
"I am an Ancient Dragon, sky's sovereign. Why would I covet your trifling power?"
Her tail flicked lazily.
"I told you—pure curiosity. Tell me willingly, and I'll owe you a favor."
The smile never left her lips, but her tone turned razor-sharp.
For her, satisfaction meant instant boredom. This human's cooperation might stave off the emptiness for a while. Throne's knuckles whitened around his weapon.
"And if I refuse? Like before?"
"Impatient creature." Lansseax sighed, scales shimmering in the dim light.
"I've no intention of prying your jaws open by force. You're strong enough to escape me. War benefits neither of us."
"Then what?"
Suspicion coiled in Throne's gut. Was this some elaborate ruse to lower his guard? Even Melina didn't know his secrets. As he hesitated, the dragon's grin widened.
"Secrets are best unraveled slowly."
Her claws tapped against stone.
"Instant answers bring fleeting pleasure—then what? I'd need new diversions. How tedious."
Madwoman. Pervert. Throne nearly said it aloud. Then realization struck—of course she thought differently. Millennia of existence warped perspectives. What else could immortality bring but madness? Strength became a prison. Bonds turned to dust beneath time's wheel. Compared to the alternatives, her eccentricities seemed almost tame.
"Contact the flying dragons for me."
"No."
"Then if I slaughter them? Will you avenge your kin?"
Lansseax threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing through the ruins. "Vengeance? For those degenerate failures?"
Her mirth faded to something colder.
"Butcher them all. Watching you try might prove... entertaining."