He hung suspended in midair, watching the enemy swarm toward him like a tidal wave. Even if Egkis bought him thirty more seconds, they'd still intercept and overwhelm him. But now—
Throne extended his hand. A single, mocking flick of his fingers toward the seething mass.
"Keep chasing."
They couldn't. The Sellia garrison wasn't blind. Their defensive line already crowned the mountain ridge. And the Night Sorcerers—thanks to the Scarlet Bloom's failure a decade ago—still thrived.
Blades could cut Throne. Spears could pierce him. But not even the Rot Kings could advance under the combined barrage of a hundred sorcerers and ballistae. As the man, the girl, and the steed crested the slope, entering the kill zone, the crimson tide froze. The swarm collapsed into a single humanoid shape.
Two hundred meters. A distance it could cross in seconds—now an impassable gulf. It could only watch as the Spirit Steed surged upward, meeting the descending Redmane Knights. This was a hunt, not a siege. No amount of preparation would let the Kindred of Rot breach these defenses alone.
The other factions' cooperation remained uncertain. After a final glare, the crimson Rot King turned and vanished without hesitation.
"Huh?"
From the highest peak, 'Grand Sage' Edred frowned.
"Why retreat?"
Two days prior, wyverns had appeared without warning, startling him mid-experiment. He'd scrambled to intercept, but the beasts seemed to be searching—not attacking. They'd flown off, leaving Sellia on edge but otherwise undisturbed.
Then, at noon today, over a dozen wyverns blocked every exit. Strange. A dozen couldn't take Sellia. Edred had sent for the Redmane garrison, planning a cautious probe. If the wyverns withdrew, he'd dispatch a rider to warn the castle.
But before he could act, the swamp erupted. Countless Kindred of Rot surged forth. The Sellia knights knew the swamp hid vermin—but not an army. Just as they braced for slaughter, the enemy retreated.
"What are these insects playing at?"
"No idea. If they'd pressed the attack, we'd be bleeding."
"Maybe they saw our defenses and lost their nerve."
The sages bickered. Edred studied the knights below. He wasn't a fool. This was about him. The insects had been chasing that man.
"Invite that lord up. Politely."
He gestured sharply. That man's strength eclipsed his own. To break through a dozen wyverns alone? Unthinkable.
Not that the Redmane soldiers needed reminding. They regarded Throne with something beyond respect—awe.
His long robe stained with blood, charging forward without hesitation, several wyverns brought down by his hand, those ferocious giant reptiles not daring to face him head-on—such valor perfectly aligned with the values of Caelid's people. Throne sat on his horse, silently observing his surroundings.
Exhaustion dragged at his bones. He wasn't trying to loom—just surviving. Three hundred miles in two days with dead weight clinging to him. A Rot King's carcass cooling in his wake, a Bloody Finger hero's last gasp staining his blade, a wyvern's mutated corpse still twitching. A hundred lesser kills scattered behind him like breadcrumbs. Not a machine. Will alone kept him upright.
Millicent's fingers curled around her sword hilt. Her pride burned hotter than caution. If violence erupted, she refused to cower behind Throne again. Where's that senile fool Edred? Did they ship him off to die somewhere?
Throne stifled a yawn. The stares prickled like ants crawling over his skin.
Sleep could wait. The job wasn't done. A Night Sorcerer shoved through the gawkers, took one look at Throne's blood-caked armor, and bowed deep.
"Grand Sage Edred summons you, my lord."
"Lead."
Throne scanned the crowd.
"Stay sharp. Don't scatter like frightened rabbits."
"Caelid breeds sterner stuff than that!"
A knight's retort held no venom. After the carnage they'd witnessed, the man had earned the right to bark orders.
Throne nodded. A nudge of his heels sent Torrent forward. The sea of bodies parted.
Edred waited atop the slope. An old dance partner in games of wit and steel. The memory almost made him laugh. History repeating—ten years ago he'd infiltrated Sellia as a magic tutor, harassing sages until Radahn took the bait.
Same song, different verse. Fool me once? Try again. Throne's grin sharpened as he assembled a fresh mask. Only one worry gnawed at him—that crafty bastard Edred might sniff out the ruse and stall for time. This was the man who'd weaponized Redmane Knights to purge dissent.
No line he wouldn't cross. Radahn's lesson had carved caution into him, at least.
"Wait here."
Throne swung down from the saddle.
"Teacher—" Millicent wasn't stupid. This storm centered on her. Sellia just happened to stand in the path.
"Old friend."
Throne turned his back on her. When he faced forward again, his expression smoothed into still waters—calm surface hiding swift currents. His gait shifted, each step liquid, covering ground without seeming to hurry.
Edred's eyes narrowed. That flowing stride told him everything. So it's them. No wonder the Rot dogs their heels. Surprise melted into grim understanding. Anyone else would miss the significance.
But the Grand Sage was knowledgeable; just from these details, he pieced it together.
"I never thought to see you return."
Edred's voice weighed heavy as a tombstone.
"So. The successor walks as Tarnished now."
Bullseye. Throne's mental applause echoed as he offered Lansseax's Flowing Water Salute—a gesture as alien here as he was.
The Night Sorcerers had no way to judge what was standard anymore.
"Where corruption festers, flowing water purges it. My disciple Millicent and I came for this purpose—and stumbled upon a conspiracy."
So the girl was his apprentice.
"What about the Rot clinging to her?"
"Even flowing water isn't immune to corruption. Only through endless motion can it cleanse itself."
The answer came smooth, deliberate—a hook wrapped in silk. They could purge the Rot? It made sense. The Rot God had fallen to their kind long ago. Of course they'd know how to fight it. Every master among them earned the title Flowing Swordsman.
The greatest of them was said to be blind—the one who slew a god.
Edred's pulse quickened. He hadn't forgotten his general's suffering. Not even Leyndell's Perfumers had helped. He masked it well, but Throne caught the flicker in his eyes. Amusing. The man was a schemer, yes—but loyalty ran deeper than cunning.
Years of trying to cure Radahn had probably cost him half his hair.
The Grand Sage steadied himself.
"This conspiracy you mentioned—explain."
"The Kindred of Rot hunt for something buried in Sellia. They mean to take this town to claim it."
"What thing?"
"I don't know. But it reeks of Rot."
"Then why retreat just now?"
"Because I exposed them. No more surprise—now they'll strike outright. And they're waiting for reinforcements."
"Who?"
"Bloody Fingers."
Question, answer—a duel of words. But Throne's logic held. Or rather, he'd woven it the moment he sent Lansseax fleeing east.
Edred knew much—but not that Malenia could split her soul, nor that an Ancient Dragon lurked in the magic town behind him.
"That makes no sense. The Kindred, fine—but why wyverns? Why Bloody Fingers?"
There it is. The gap in the story. Throne couldn't answer—not truthfully. He tilted his chin up, unshaken.
"Because they're all Radahn's enemies. And Caelid has never been riper for the taking."
The Radahn Festival had scattered the Redmanes. Gathering them now would take time. Edred's breath caught.
He was their strategist. He saw the board. Take Sellia, and you hold Caelid's heart. Strike west to the Smoldering Church, south to Fort Gael—divide and conquer.
The entire defense network flashed behind his eyes. His fingers twitched.
"I've already sent word to the General."
"They won't get through."
A sorcerer approached, whispering in Edred's ear. The Grand Sage's face darkened.
"Just as you said. Roads are ambushed. Eight messengers sent—two returned."
His jaw tightened.
"No matter. The General will notice soon enough."
"The General will soon realize something is wrong."
"I fear it may be too late. Can Sellia hold against wyverns, Bloody Fingers, and the full might of Rot?"
Edred shook his head. The answer was obvious. Even Radahn would struggle here.
"Running isn't an option either. They aren't taking prisoners."
Throne left it at that.
He pivoted on his heel, fingers snapping the air. Torrent materialized in a swirl of spectral mist. The steed's hooves struck sparks against the cobblestones as he swung into the saddle.
"Battle stations. Shout if you need me. Against the Rot, I won't back down." The reins snapped taut as he wheeled toward Sellia's crumbling gates. The Grand Sage's outstretched hand hung suspended for a heartbeat before falling limp at his side.
"Master didn't question us?"
Millicent's whisper carried the weight of stolen breath. Her gaze darted to the retreating figure, then back to the unmanned checkpoint.
Throne's mouth twisted.
"Not only won't he ask questions—" The grin turned feral.
"He'll come begging."
Millicent recoiled. The stench hit them first—putrid sweetness clinging to Sellia's broken walls. The town writhed in visible decay, its streets choked with the detritus of abandonment.
Proximity to the Rot's heart had purged the weak. Only the desperate remained: Night Sorcerers muttering over candles, Redmane Knights with rust creeping up their blades, Tarnished who'd forgotten their purpose. Commerce had withered, but the crossroads still pulled wanderers like flies to carrion.
A gaggle of Tarnished scrambled past, their armor slick with yellow pus. One retched into the gutter.
Throne's fingers drummed against his thigh. The Rot cultists expected us. Lansseax drew the dragons. But why are Mohg's lunatics joining this mess?
The puzzle could wait. For now, he turned to study the girl at his back.
Millicent's sword gleamed in the sickly light, her stance taut as a drawn bowstring.
"What's this?"
"You're exhausted. I'll stand guard."
"Aren't you?"
She didn't blink.
"Tired? Yes. But dignity outweighs fatigue."
Her grip tightened.
"We need shelter. Rest. You first."
"Why?"
"Because you're the blade. I'm the hilt."
Her chin lifted.
"This is my duty."
Throne dragged a hand down his face. After years of cryptic demigods and oblivious sorcerers, here stood a miracle—a student who actually gave a damn.
No Ranni-style word games. No Sellen's obliviousness. Certainly no Melina fussing over his blood pressure. Just clear-eyed resolve and a spine of tempered steel.
"Master? You're crying?"
"Allergies."
He swiped at his eyes.
"Wish I'd found you sooner. Melina could've used the influence."
Millicent's brows knitted. The non sequitur hung between them as they picked through Sellia's corpse.
Abandoned buildings gaped like broken teeth. Throne kicked in a sagging door, releasing a cloud of dust. The interior stood barren—no chairs, no beds, just ghosts of furniture outlines on the floorboards.
He moved toward a corner.
Millicent unfurled a canvas with military precision, sweeping grit aside before planting herself at the threshold, sword across her knees.
"Sleep."
"It's safe. You too."
He dropped onto the makeshift bedding.
She didn't budge.
"Duty isn't negotiable."
Her voice carried the finality of a gavel strike.
"I won't be coddled."
The daffodil metaphor struck him again—golden and unbending. Then the realization: Of course she's rigid. She's Malenia's splintered shadow. Incomplete by design.
The thought dissolved as sleep took him, dragging him under like a stone in dark water.
Throne slept deeply, as if purging all fatigue and the remnants of the carnage. Truthfully, he had little choice. When his eyes cracked open, the first thing he saw was Millicent's silhouette framed in the doorway—unmoved, unbroken, a sentinel against the dying light.