"…Incantation—Black Flame's Protection."
His preparations finally reached their end.
A faint, golden shimmer drifted across his body, while black flame seeped into him like an inner coat of armor—an invisible plating layered beneath the light.
Against Margit, the Fell Omen, caution wasn't optional. This wasn't some frail demigod like Godrick in the capital's shadow. This one hit like a calamity.
"Alright. That should do it."
He felt the power surging inside him and nodded in satisfaction.
Normally, because of faith and doctrine, you had to choose: either the Erdtree's incantations or the Godskin's prayers—never both.
But that rule was for believers.
He didn't worship the Erdtree.
He didn't worship the Gloam-Eyed Queen either.
He was just a nameless Tarnished… and a looter who took what he needed.
With that, he drew out his fully upgraded Carian Knight's Shield and stepped onto the bridge paved by countless corpses.
This shield had once belonged to a knight of Caria—armament forged to oppose the Erdtree.
The moment his boots touched the stone, he heard that familiar voice.
"Tarnished—
thou'rt but a fool, led by the flame of ambition."
The aged words echoed through the ravine. In the distant watchtower, amid a faint glimmer of gold, a blurred figure appeared.
A silhouette so familiar it was almost ridiculous.
"Why covet Destined Death… and the Elden Ring?"
As the mocking question fell, the figure leapt—crashing down at the bridge's entrance like a meteor, throwing up a choking wave of dust.
"Then, extinguish thy flame. Along with thee."
The dust slowly thinned. A towering presence emerged, standing like a sentry before a royal gate.
In his hand was a weapon like a wooden staff. Even motionless, his body radiated crushing pressure.
A tattered yellow cloak hung from his shoulders. Pale, wild hair framed a gaunt, twisted face—while from the other half, grotesque branch-like growths jutted outward, as if a dead tree had taken root in flesh.
A nightmare given form—
Margit, the Fell Omen.
And yet, the Tarnished greeted him as if meeting an old friend.
"Long time no see, Omen Teacher. How've you been lately?"
"…"
Margit said nothing at first. He narrowed his eyes, studying him, then let out a cold snort.
"Hmph. A circus trick."
"A circus trick?"
The Tarnished glanced at the layers of blessings clinging to his body, genuinely puzzled.
Most of this "circus" came from the Erdtree you're so devoted to.
He didn't say it aloud.
Because Margit was already moving.
Two daggers of condensed gold tore through the air toward him. The Tarnished sighed, almost disappointed.
"Tch. We were having such a nice chat. Why do you have to start swinging all of a sudden?"
Omen Teacher really had no shame—ambushing a Tarnished who'd lived through over six hundred cycles.
Still, the attack meant nothing to him.
He raised his greatshield and blocked perfectly.
Margit's patterns were carved into his bones now.
Aside from the staff itself, it was always the same handful of forms—golden daggers, a long sword, a curved blade, a massive hammer… or the sweep of that enormous tail. Leaps, wide swings, ground slams, fast-and-slow feints.
He had a full toolkit, he'd give him that.
And those thrown daggers were only a distraction.
The real strike was the follow-up—Margit closing the distance.
Just as he expected, once the daggers failed, Margit surged from the entrance and brought the staff down with brutal force.
Boom!
Stone shards exploded outward.
The staff smashed into the bridge—
But it missed.
To be exact, the Tarnished simply shifted one step to the side and let the blow carve empty air.
Margit's gaze sharpened.
He'd expected the Tarnished to die on the spot… or roll… or hide behind a shield.
He hadn't expected him to evade with something so clean, so measured, so infuriatingly calm.
A short blade formed in golden light and slashed.
Dodged.
A long sword.
Dodged.
The tail—whipping through the air like a siege weapon.
Still dodged.
This… wasn't right.
Margit sprang backward, widening the distance.
He had pressed with everything he had—and this Tarnished had slipped through it all.
Golden light swelled in his hand, shaping into a massive hammer. He spun once, gathering momentum, then leapt—crashing down like a golden comet.
Boom!!
A thunderous roar detonated through the ravine.
The ground split beneath them, jagged fissures crawling across the stone—
And even so, the Tarnished caught it with his shield.
"…Hm. Not to be underestimated. Tarnished—truly descendants of warriors."
It sounded like praise.
But the flat, casual tone carried far more contempt than respect.
As if to say: still only Tarnished.
The Tarnished didn't get angry.
Instead, he smiled and bantered right back.
"Is that so? You're not bad either, Omen Teacher…"
He paused—just long enough for that smile to turn strange.
"Hmph. Sharp tongue."
Seeing that expression, Margit poured more strength into the hammer, trying to crush through the shield.
Then he froze.
No matter how he pushed, he couldn't force it forward even an inch.
The Tarnished watched the surprise spread across Margit's face, and spoke again—softly, almost cheerfully.
"No… I suppose I should call you by your real name."
"…"
"Blessed King Morgott."
"!"
Margit went rigid.
How does this wretch know?!
In the heartbeat of that shock, a red glare flared—casting harsh light across Margit's twisted features.
A crawling dragon-shaped sigil flashed into existence.
Crimson lightning poured into the Tarnished's palm, condensing into a gigantic blade of red thunder, and he swung.
BOOM!
The storm-sound tore across the sky.
"Huh?" The Tarnished blinked. "Whiffed?"
He glanced at the scorched, blackened stone—then at Margit, who had already leapt far away.
Surprised, yes.
But not shocked.
After all, this "Omen Teacher" was a projection of Morgott—the one who guarded Leyndell to the bitter end. Dodging was well within his ability.
"Despicable Tarnished…"
Margit's voice no longer held lazy scorn.
It was heavy now—serious.
He'd barely avoided the strike, but the damage still bit deep. His abdomen was charred black, the wound smoking faintly.
He recognized that lightning.
It was the power of Lansseax—the ancient dragon who took human form and came to the capital as a priest of dragon communion.
So how could this Tarnished wield it?
But beyond that—
Margit needed to know how this wretch had learned his identity.
And in his heart, killing intent thickened into something absolute.
This secret could not be allowed to spread.
So the Tarnished…
Had to die.