Blood pooled beneath them, mingling in the dirt. Malenia met Radahn's gaze, her face unreadable. She knew the weight of her actions, the sin she carried, and bore it without flinching. "Sorry," she said, her voice steady. "I cannot die here."
"Have you decided?"
"Yes. My mind is made." Her tone was casual, like discussing what to eat for dinner.
For demigods forged in countless battles, words were meaningless. The moment Radahn raised his blade, Malenia's prosthetic arm moved. Without hesitation, she drove the blade into her own chest. The sound was wet, final. The blade sliced flesh, dislodging the golden needle buried deep within her.
Radahn surged forward, but before he could reach her, a flower bloomed—scarlet, radiant, unnatural. It filled the air with its brilliance.
The shockwave tore through the dust, warping the atmosphere. An invisible storm swept outward, crashing into Radahn with brutal force.
This was no world-shattering explosion—just a tempest that halted him mid-step. His body stilled, his mind fractured. He stood frozen, transfixed by the monstrous flower erupting from Malenia's body. This was power beyond mortal comprehension.
Time seemed to pause as the Scarlet Rot unfurled, petal by petal, releasing an energy that threatened to consume the world. Radahn's eyes widened. "Fortunately," he muttered, "I made some preparations."
He refused to yield. His gaze locked onto the golden needle spinning in the air, veins bulging on his forehead as rot began to spread. Move! Move! Move! His mind screamed, struggling to wrest control from chaos. Then he felt it—a familiar presence. Ranni?
The thought startled him. Even on the brink of madness, it was her face that came to mind. But his confusion didn't last. A figure appeared at the crater's edge and leapt into the fray without hesitation. It's him. Throne had arrived.
Blade in hand, doll clutched tight, Throne descended into the heart of the storm. The hazy sunlight framed him as he charged toward the scarlet flower. "Just in time!"
He took in the scene at a glance: the monstrous bloom, vibrant and alien, and Radahn frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief. Why the hell are you here?
There was no time for answers, no room for awe. The Rot's energy engulfed him, a hundred times more potent than rot grease. His skin blistered, his muscles withered, his armor corroded, his belt snapped.
It felt like falling into the core of a reactor. His heart nearly stopped. Throne plummeted toward the crater's center, his body disintegrating into ash. He gripped the doll tighter. "Now, Your Highness!"
The energy was chaotic, almost overwhelming Ranni's senses. She didn't have time for small talk, only growling as she activated the energy. "Throne, I will wait for your return in Caria!" Her voice crackled with static.
Throne smiled. "As you command!" The doll shattered in his hands, and silver shards like frozen starlight coalesced into a Dark Moon. The power of a third demigod surged into the battle, tipping the scales once more.
The power of a third demigod surged. The Dark Moon enveloped Throne as he fell, but it melted like ice beneath a searing sun. Even Ranni's Dark Moon couldn't withstand the point-blank radiation—yet the delay gave Throne his chance. He moved toward the flower bud, his eyes locking on Malenia, who had stirred back to consciousness.
He thought of her as she once was—the Valkyrie who would've struck him down without hesitation, her blade swift and merciless. Now, she stood still, lifeless as stone. A hand emerged from the Dark Moon, precise and deliberate, slapping the golden needle that spiraled upward. It was simple, brutal—she slapped it back.
General Radahn's chaotic mind went still. Pain faded into numbness as he stared, transfixed, at the golden needle piercing the flower bud and returning to Malenia. It was as if a floodgate had slammed shut—the energy flow severed instantly. The bud, half-open, froze in place.
A roar echoed through the air—furious, desperate. It wasn't human. The supreme consciousness behind it screamed its defiance. No!!! No one could've foreseen this. At the final moment, it had been interrupted—not by the Two Fingers, not by Radagon, not even by a demigod, but by a mere swordsman. A swordsman in control.
The Dark Moon shattered.
Silver shards mingled with fragments of the scarlet flower, an eerie beauty in the chaos. The bud, now cut off from its source, hung suspended—perfectly, deliberately still. A figure tumbled from it, hitting the ground hard. He rolled, then rose slowly.
He was no longer human. His body bore the marks of Scarlet Rot, flesh decaying, wounds festering. Yet his eyes—blue, unwavering—locked onto Radahn's. "You… why?" The demigod's voice was strained, confusion twisting his words. He couldn't comprehend it, couldn't make sense of it.
The final strike had been blinding—a white arc that pierced everything. It was etched into Radahn's mind, the moment the scarlet flower's bloom was halted. It had saved Caelid. It had saved Radahn himself. Throne said nothing. He raised his sword slowly, his body numb with pain. Even knowing he could return, watching his flesh decay was no small torment.
But as a final act, it was enough. Moonveil rested heavy on his shoulder, and he managed a crooked smile. "General," he began, his voice dry and cracked, "what is a hero?" The question seemed out of place. Reason screamed at Radahn to leave, to escape this madness, but the scene before him held him fast.
The frozen bud. The dying swordsman. The future that had been ripped from its course. "To go against the current," Radahn said, his voice solemn, "to be loyal, to be courageous, to turn the impossible into the possible—that is a hero." He spoke with the last of his strength, every word weighted with conviction.
As he fell backward, he saw Throne laugh—a sharp, wild sound. The blade came down, swift and final, severing Radahn's head. "Well said!" The laughter rang in his ears as darkness closed in. Radahn didn't see Throne's body dissolve into crimson petals, carried away by the wind. He only roared—a sound both weary and resolute—before everything went black.
Thorne.— You are a hero!!
The autumn wind rolled by, and the fallen leaves brought news from afar. In Caelid, the long-awaited battle between the Valkyrie and General Radahn had ended. The outcome stunned everyone—from the golden lords to the monsters and ghosts.
The two demigods unleashed their most devastating blows to end The Shattering, but neither emerged victorious. The widespread destruction the conspirators had hoped for never came. Both the Valkyrie and General Radahn lay critically wounded, carried from the battlefield by their loyal subordinates.
With their leaders unconscious, the armies saw no reason to continue the bloodshed. Morale shattered, they disengaged. The Haligtree Army began their retreat homeward. Though defeated, they still numbered five thousand strong—a force not to be trifled with. A returning army is always dangerous.
Under Finlay's command, they scavenged supplies from military outposts along the way, exacted a toll from Stormveil, and marched north across The Lands Between. No power dared obstruct their path. The Redmane Army, claiming victory, made no attempt to pursue.
They carried General Radahn back to Redmane Castle. There, the army halted entirely. The scarlet flower never bloomed. Caelid, rich and fertile, escaped heavy losses from the war. Whispers spread that General Radahn's injuries were not grave—that he sought ways to heal.
A strange equilibrium settled over the land. Both the most powerful lords were grievously wounded, yet neither was broken. It seemed inevitable that once their "kings" recovered, they would resume their struggle for the throne. They had fought, but not decisively. They were defeated, but not entirely.
This limbo infuriated those who watched and waited. For the conspirators, the Erdtree's military might remained intact, capable of crushing monsters and ghosts alike. For the Erdtree, the conspirators still posed a threat. Neither side had achieved victory. Neither side had been vanquished. The masterminds behind the scenes found this outcome intolerable.
If the scarlet flower had bloomed, both armies would have been annihilated. The foundations of the current order would have crumbled, forcing its guardians into desperate measures, buying time for contingency plans.
The tens of thousands of soldiers, the hundreds of thousands of lives in Caelid—they meant nothing to those pursuing the "greater good."
But why hadn't the scarlet flower bloomed? This question gnawed at the minds of the powerful. Slowly, an answer formed. An unknown swordsman had intervened, using some unknown method to halt the bloom.
General Radahn himself acknowledged this figure as the Shattering Hero, the savior of Caelid. The Redmane Army erected a monument in his honor. The people of Caelid sang his praises. The Haligtree Army carried tales of his deeds across The Lands Between.
Preventing the scarlet flower's bloom spared the land from ruin, saved hundreds of thousands from disaster—a deed worthy of celebration. To the powerful, it was a bitter pill. Who cared about the lives of common folk? They wanted a decisive victor, or at least mutual destruction. Hooves clattered in the distance.
A funeral horse galloped, its hoofbeats urgent. The Nights Cavalry's ink-dark cloak flared in the autumn wind as he raced along the Altus Plateau Road toward a city that loomed ahead. The Erdtree towered in the distance, its golden light casting long shadows over the sprawling metropolis below.
Its walls were as thick and tall as a mountain, and there were still many military armaments and tents left in front of the gate— remnants from the combined royal armies years ago. Villages dotted the surrounding landscape. The people lining the road looked healthy, their clothes well-made.
Various carriages, carts, and peddlers traveled between them, showing the prosperity of this place. The city walls were covered with Erdtree flags, and knights in magnificent armor could be seen everywhere. Nearly a thousand steps paved with white marble led upward, and the sides of the stairs were filled with fully armored infantry.
They stood motionless like statues, letting the autumn wind stir their tassels. This was the center of The Lands Between, the location of the Erdtree, the capital city, Leyndell.
The Nights Cavalry stopped at the bottom of the stairs, jumped off his horse, and seeing the nobles coming and going from the stairs avoiding him and casting disgusted looks, a few sneers appeared on his face beneath the helmet, and he proceeded up the stairs. Iron armor and weapons clattered.
He gripped his sword and walked with his head held high toward the main gate of the outer city of Leyndell. As a person of the Fell Omen, being shunned by these arrogant, greedy 'direct descendants' of the Erdtree was normal, even if they had once knelt and cheered for their survival. Ordinary commoners could not pass through the main gate of the outer city, and a huge knight stood at the gate.
He was wearing golden armor and holding a thick and huge round shield. Seeing the Nights Cavalry walking over, he came up to meet him directly. "What is the matter." The voice didn't sound disgusted, but it couldn't be considered friendly either. The Nights Cavalry didn't waste words, directly waving the scroll in his hand: "Urgent military report, I need to submit it." "Regarding what?"
"The Battle of Caelid. Can you let me pass?" The Tree Sentinel paused for a moment, then stepped back half a step to clear the way. 'These stubborn fools.' The Nights Cavalry cursed in his heart, nodded slightly, and walked straight in.
The Elden Lord had already gone missing, and the garrison of Leyndell was temporarily listening to Morgott, but these were ultimately not the latter's direct subordinates. Their military power should have been in the hands of the Elden Lord, following strict military discipline, unwilling to do anything outside their scope of responsibility.
Coupled with the secret of Morgott being an Omen, many times Morgott had to sit in the capital and dared not appear easily. To interfere with The Lands Between, he needed to use the 'Fell Omen' Margit persona. Whoever dared to profane the golden order, whether it was a lord or a golden hero, would be dealt with by him. This was a huge secret.
Once the identity that both were one person was exposed, these supporters of the Erdtree would overthrow Morgott's rule. "That is why we are His Highness's sharpest blade." The Nights Cavalry, who had suffered much discrimination, raised his head. He could feel the undercurrents surging after the defeat at Mt. Gelmir, but he had no intention of retreating.
Whoever dared to touch this secret, whoever dared to threaten His Highness's rule, the Nights Cavalry would take their lives! However, he also understood the hostility of the nobles. An Omen in the Erdtree was a symbol of ill Omen, and the Nights Cavalry following the 'Fell Omen' were also implicated.
The capital even had a ridiculous rumor circulating:
Although Margit had made great military achievements, he had bewitched the great Morgott. All year round, the nobles could not even see the King, and he could be called the most mysterious among the lords of the Erdtree.
The cavalry did not enter the inner city, weaving back and forth through a dilapidated shanty town, and finally saw his master in a courtyard that was simple to the point of being dilapidated. That figure was wearing a worn cloak, hunched over, sitting on a small stool staring at the Erdtree in a daze, and when the cavalry approached, he suddenly spoke. "Enrique, you are back?" "Yes, my lord."
The cavalryman knelt, one knee pressed into the dirt. This general, born an Omen, could never set foot in Leyndell's inner city—the price of his pardon. The thought twisted in his gut, bitter as old wounds.
A savior of the capital, a master of war, yet shackled by his cursed blood. Two lives forced upon him, neither allowing the glimmer of glory owed to a Regent.
"My lord," the soldier began, hesitant. "Bad rumors spread in the city. Should we—" A sharp gesture cut him off. The man turned, and Margit—no, Morgott—revealed his face. Twisted horns jutted from his skull, gray and gnarled, markings of the Omen curse. Such a face had never known kindness. Commoners had their horns hacked away; royals were buried beneath Leyndell's streets, left to rot in darkness.
But he emerged when the kingdom teetered on the edge. Carried the weight of the crown, not seeking vengeance for his pain but bearing the burden of a king.