After the meeting concluded, Blaidd set off for Caelid ahead of the rest to prepare for the Radahn Festival. Gawain remained at Stormveil Castle for a short respite, spending his time refining his control over Gravity Sorcery while overseeing the completion of essential preparations.
"Are you certain this thing is drinkable?"
"Rest easy. It might not look like much, but I brewed this exclusive recipe exactly according to your specifications."
Philia puffed out her modest chest with a look of absolute confidence.
"I used every last petal of the Altus Bloom I had left on these aromatics. This red one is a Fervent Aromatic. I added a trace of neutralized Scarlet Rot extract. It won't spread, but it will allow your body to burst with even more formidable power for a short duration."
Gawain opened the aromatic bottle and took a sniff. The scent alone was intoxicating, sending a jolt of localized frenzy through his mind. Heaven only knew how potent this concoction—with its "extra ingredients"—would be.
"And this one is an Ironjar Aromatic. I borrowed a few shards from the warrior jars in the castle, so the materials are more or less complete. Combined with a precious Arteria Leaf, this won't just turn your skin to iron and boost your defense; it will also allow you to withstand a single, devastating blow."
Taking the silver Ironjar Aromatic, Gawain noticed other hues swirling within the liquid. Philia had likely mixed in ingredients from Uplifting Aromatics, granting it an additional layer of utility.
"Very well. These two will be useful; I'll take them. This area is yours now—or rather, it belongs to your order of perfumers."
Gawain looked out the window toward the courtyard. "Not far from here is the territory of the Finger Maidens. In the future, battlefield healing and logistics will be in your hands. Can you handle that?"
Philia struggled to contain her excitement. She had truly managed to latch onto a powerful patron and secure such a high position. The only issue was that while the neighboring ward already housed over a dozen Finger Maidens—Tarnished who had come to Stormveil to seek their fortune alongside the warriors—she currently didn't have a single assistant under her command.
"Us? But... I'm the only one here."
"Don't worry about that. I'm already selecting suitable assistants for you. Most of them have some experience as healers, though they certainly won't match a Royal Perfumer like yourself. You'll need to train them."
Gawain watched as another caravan left the castle gates, transporting supplies toward the Caelid front. His voice was calm.
"If you need any tools or materials, just ask. We have a long war ahead of us—a war against the Scarlet Rot. On that battlefield, I believe a capable perfumer can be even more vital than a Storm Knight."
Philia nodded solemnly. Having traveled through Caelid herself, she knew exactly how long it would take to fully remediate such a vast area. But no matter how long it took, it was a task that had to be done. This was the core virtue of a perfumer in the traditional sense. Though the duties associated with the title had shifted drastically over years of war, she still aspired to be the kind of revered herbalist the title originally represented.
Meanwhile, inside Redmane Castle, the news of the upcoming festival had spread far and wide. Warriors of all stripes, intending to participate, were trickling in to join the grand event.
Ordinarily, weaker warriors might have perished on the road due to the Kindred of Rot. However, because of Gawain's recent "cleansing" of the swamp, the Caelid highway was significantly safer than usual, even if a new generation of pests had begun to gestate.
Furthermore, with Storm Knights and the Redmane Legion holding the border and bolstered by ample supplies, they had begun to push back against the rot's encroachment, reclaiming several destroyed outposts. This allowed aspiring warriors to reach Fort Gael safely and use the portal directly to Redmane Castle's gates.
Patches was among those gathered "heroes." He was currently doing quite well for himself, clad in a suit of genuine heavy armor. With this gear alone, he could practically "stat-check" most common thugs.
He had spent the journey looting a wealth of goods from corpses to stock his "Patches' Emporium." Once inside the safety of Redmane Castle, he donned his classic attire; after all, business came first.
He had a fairly realistic grasp of his own combat prowess. His last encounter had been a stroke of incredible luck; that "sucker" he met had allowed him to make a killing, covering the cost of the shield he'd had kicked into splinters and even allowing him to buy this well-fitting, high-tier armor.
Without that windfall, he doubted he would have had the nerve to venture into a place as dangerous as Caelid. Just as he was fantasizing about the Runes he was going to make, a customer approached to inspect the wares, interrupting his thoughts. Patches immediately slapped on his professional "customer service" smile.
"Hey friend, how much for these arrows?"
"40 Runes each. Buy ten and I'll give you a 10% discount."
"What's up? Are these feathers made of gold, or are the tips gold?"
Patches' smile faltered. His prices were barely double what those nomadic merchants charged—a complete bargain in his eyes. If this fellow couldn't afford them, he should reflect on his own lack of wealth.
"Look around, friend. Where else are you going to find arrows? These were 'borrowed' directly from the fallen soldiers. You think they're expensive? I think they're a steal!"
"Fine. Give me twenty. Let me see the quality."
Patches hurriedly pulled a bundle of arrows from his pack—stock he'd spent days painstakingly looting from the dead.
"How are these? Satisfied? I guarantee you'll turn the General into a pincushion at the festival with these."
"Are these arrows the real deal? I don't want them snapping mid-flight."
"You're a funny one, guest. I've got a shop set up right here; you think I'm selling junk? Use them with confidence."
"I'm asking you... are these arrows for real?"
Patches bristled. Even if there were quality issues, that was the fault of the soldiers' logistics, not his. He was just a middleman taking a modest fee for his transport services.
"You're looking for a fight, aren't you? You want them or not? If not, stop wasting my business time."
Just as Patches moved to shoo the man away, the "customer" thrust a spear toward his chest. Fortunately, Patches had spent years screwing people over and knew retribution was always around the corner; he had developed a habit of constant vigilance.
He hopped backward to dodge the strike, immediately raising his shield and howling for the Redmane Knights nearby.
"Murder! Help! Someone's being murdered!"
Seeing the first thrust miss, the assailant prepared to lunge again in a fit of rage, only for his arm to be seized by a massive hand. He looked back to see a hulking man in heavy armor standing behind him. One hand gripped the assailant's arm like a vise, while the other held a warhammer so large it bordered on the absurd.
After a surge of pain that made the man feel as though his arm was about to be crushed, the stranger let go. The assailant, his courage vanishing instantly, stood frozen. Then, a boisterous voice rang out.
"We are all warriors who have come to Redmane Castle for the festival. What honor is there in an ambush in a place like this? Do me a favor and stay your hand, or you'll have to deal with me—Great Horned Tragoth."
The assailant, clearly holding a grudge against Patches specifically, ground his teeth. "But he's a crook! I bought a longbow from him once for two thousand Runes, and it snapped after two uses! I finally found him; how could I let him go?"
"Whatever private business you have is not my concern, nor can I judge the truth of it," Tragoth replied calmly. "But do not engage in such cowardly sneak attacks within Redmane Castle. Do not tarnish this stage of heroes!"
The man was clearly still indignant, but looking at Tragoth's hammer—which was larger than his own head—he decided he probably couldn't tank even a single hit. He chose to swallow his pride and slink away, vowing to find another opportunity later.
Patches watched the man's retreating back for a long time, trying to remember when exactly he had scammed him. He had fleeced so many people that remembering every victim's face was an impossible task.
He turned toward the giant figure who had helped him and offered his thanks. He had heard of this man's formidable reputation.
"Much obliged, hero. A man of your strength is a shoe-in for General Radahn's Great Rune. Tell you what—since you helped me out, I'll give you a 20% discount. I've got the good stuff right here."
Tragoth simply shook his head. He could tell at a glance that these wares weren't of much use to him.
"My apologies, but I have no need for purchases at the moment. I came to this festival primarily to witness the combat prowess of the legendary 'Strongest Demigod.' To trade blows with him is honor enough; I have no expectations regarding the Great Rune."
Tragoth was here mostly for the experience and to help other brave warriors.
"I heard that a few days ago, someone broke through the Castellan's trial with ease—facing both a Crucible Knight and a Misbegotten Warrior at once. I wonder what kind of warrior possesses such strength. Well, enough talk. I'm off to the plaza to see the intensity of this trial for myself."
Tragoth didn't linger, walking toward the plaza and leaving Patches alone at his stall.
While Patches was annoyed he hadn't made a sale, the news he'd just heard reminded him of that "sucker" he'd met not long ago. If he wasn't mistaken, that fellow wouldn't miss a grand event like this. Does that mean I can fleece him again?
Inside Castellan Jerren's quarters, the old warrior leaned back against the wall. For some reason, the pestilent Kindred of Rot outside had been quiet for the past few days, allowing his frayed nerves a rare moment of relaxation.
He scanned the records his subordinates had brought him, his mood brightening. More people had arrived for the festival than he had anticipated. Naturally, he wouldn't let just any "trash" through; otherwise, a single gravity wave from the General would leave everyone face-down on the ground.
Still, a crowd to build the atmosphere wasn't a bad thing. The festival was a spectacle he had meticulously planned for a long time; he wanted the most vibrant send-off possible for his General. He, too, would take to the battlefield when the time came.
It was a pity, though. The elites of the Redmane Legion had mostly perished during the Battle of Aeonia. Those brave warriors always led from the front, meaning they were the first to be struck when the Aeonian Flower bloomed. The General's personal guard had been wiped out. If not for that, Jerren—an outsider-general from the Academy—would never have had to take command of the entire operation.
As Jerren planned the upcoming itinerary, a Redmane Knight rushed in with a shocking report.
"What? You're saying Freyja is still alive? And she's already returning to the castle?"
"Yes, Castellan! She just reached the gate. I can't believe she survived so long in the depths of the swamp. It seems someone rescued her."
Jerren was overjoyed. He hadn't forgotten the personal guard who lived for the thrill of battle. She had disappeared into the Swamp of Aeonia during the chaos of the war. Whoever had saved her deserved his profound thanks.
"Bring her to me at once! She loves combat, doesn't she? Then I'll give her the grandest battle of her life."
At the gates of Redmane Castle, Redmane Freyja stood with her greatsword shouldered, gazing at the familiar fortress. Despite the scars of war and the piles of corpses, the sight brought her a sense of warmth.
"Home at last. When I was infected by the rot, I thought I'd die a pathetic death in the depths of that swamp. I would have hated to miss this grand festival."
"Give thanks to Lord Miquella," a voice beside her said. "Only that gentle Empyrean has the compassion to embrace and save all."
Freyja nodded. She had never imagined she would receive personal treatment from an Empyrean. Regardless of anything else, she had decided that after this festival, she would follow in that Lord's footsteps.
"So, Leda... did you come back with me because you want to participate in the festival too? I've wanted to see the strength of the 'Needle Knight' for quite some time."
The knight in golden armor and a snow-white surcoat shook her head.
"I only wish to witness the moment a long-overdue promise is fulfilled. Nothing more."
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