The Greater Will surged across the world, cutting through the endless sea of fog, its voice slipping into the ears of the Tarnished who had long fallen silent. A summons echoed from The Lands Between, and heroes stirred in their coffins. Another force was hurled into the murky depths of this stagnant realm, sending ripples through its still waters.
The demigods who endured The Shattering, the golden citizens lost in confusion, the ancient monsters lurking in shadows—all were roused by this new power. Each turned their gaze, their motives cloaked in secrecy. The wheels of history creaked into motion. A new Tarnished was about to awaken. Drip...
Water fell in the black cave, droplets hitting the shallow pool, spreading ripples. The faint wave brushed against a hand caked in mud. A finger, adorned with a golden ring, twitched as if jolted by instinct. A young man lay on his back in the puddle, his black hair drifting lazily in the water.
He wore shattered armor, a longsword gripped in his hand, frozen as if caught mid-charge in a deep sleep. His chest rose, fell, and then his eyes snapped open—azure, wide with shock and confusion. In an instant, he sat up, rigid.
Dazed, he felt the cold dampness clinging to his skin, the foul stench of rot choking his nostrils. His hand rose, the blade catching the dim light. "Am I alive?" His voice was low, disbelief threading through it. He blinked, muscles responding as he touched his neck. The severed head had grown back.
Surreal. He didn't move, brows furrowing as he pieced together the fragments. Who am I? Throne of Ashina, Caria's honorary knight, Sellen's top disciple. What have I done? Defended Caria's manor, shaken Liurnia, forced Godrick to his knees.
I've killed dragons, cut down Nights Cavalry, thwarted conspiracies. Why did I die? I stepped between two demigods, halted the Scarlet Rot's bloom, let the Rot consume me, then ended it myself before Radahn.
"My mind's intact. Logic holds. I'm not a mindless husk." His frown eased. He'd suffered before. Resurrection wasn't new. Fear lingered, but it was manageable.
His heart steadied. This was the best outcome, though memory was only part of it. He sat in the puddle, running hands over his body. "No wounds. No Rot. Moonveil's here. The ring's untouched. The armor's decayed. Wait—where's my star-frost?"
His hand brushed his waist. Empty. The memory hit—the belt corroded as he neared the Rot flower, the star-frost and tools falling away. No time for regret. The clue clicked. "Does the Current World Reincarnation preserve the state at death?"
This was highly likely. If the star-frost was lost, so be it. Radahn probably claimed it. He'd get it back, and surprise him in the process. Most of his gear remained. Why ask for more? Slowly, he stood, scanning the cave. Statues. A gate. Familiarity tugged at him. "Where the hell is this?" Throne frowned, confusion creeping in.
Shouldn't the Current World Reincarnation have brought him back to the same place? No answer came. He shrugged it off, too lazy to dwell on it. This wasn't so bad. A mysterious cave beat being stared down on a battlefield any day. Where he was didn't matter. The answer lay beyond that door. All he had to do was push it open.
He lifted his blade. A sharp swish cut through the air.
The blade's wind pressure sliced the puddle clean. Water pooled back instantly, but Throne grinned. "Why's my strength a notch higher? Ah, those 'gifts' from the Death Hunters." He muttered to himself, sheathing the sword.
Cautious as ever, he pulled out his staff, unease prickling his skin. Comet. A magic sigil flared, conjuring a swirling ball of energy that churned the air. Ambush Shard. Another sigil, shards ricocheting off distant walls with a sharp clatter. Gravity Well! The third sigil erupted, yanking a stone sculpture from its perch and smashing it at his feet.
Glintstone, Night, Gravity—all three magics intact. He reached for the Erdtree Talisman next. Calm. Golden light surged beneath him, flooding his mind with stillness. "The prayer's fine too. Only one thing left." Throne inhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing into golden slits.
His heart thudded as he raised his right foot and slammed it down. Boom—rumble!!! The cave trembled, dust and debris raining down. He stood firm, letting the debris settle on his shoulders. A stiff pause, then he threw his head back and laughed. Good. Very good. That tired trope of starting from scratch after resurrection? Not for him.
It should've been this way from the start. That power wasn't handed to him. He'd carved it out, stroke by stroke, sweat by sweat. Thousands of miles walked, battles fought—why should he start over? His gaze fell to the water's surface. The cursed golden Grace was gone. His excitement surged.
This was a true windfall. Shaking off pursuers, slipping from the watchful eyes of the powerful—if he kept his head down, he could rebuild everything. The weight on his shoulders lightened. The loss of the power of death, one longsword, and Ranni's doll power? A small price to pay.
Still, a flicker of regret lingered. "If only the Current World Reincarnation wasn't restricted. I'd use ten fake identities. Kill a demigod, then off myself to clear aggro. By the time I reached the Erdtree, they'd still be scratching their heads."
He forced himself to calm down with another invocation of Calm, then pinched his chin, deep in thought. First, figure out where he was. Then decide the next move. He scanned the surroundings, stepped through the pool, and climbed the stone steps. The heavy wooden door creaked open. Beyond it lay a stone coffin.
Torches cast pale white flames. Bones and cobwebs littered the corners. A graveyard? Who'd put him here? Confusion flickered, then his eyes widened. No. It couldn't be. He sprinted up the steps, taking in more stone coffins, burial goods stuffed in jars and cans.
A deep, dark corridor stretched ahead. Gray mist clung to the right. A small imp statue stood guard. Imp Seal. Throne froze, even as the elevator at the corridor's end beckoned. The scene before him stirred long-buried memories. Fringefolk Hero's Grave. Where the fated Tarnished began.
The Site of Grace should have been there, right in the center of the corridor, but Throne saw nothing. Cold, musty air drifted through the graveyard, brushing against his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. This wasn't magic. No one would've dragged him hundreds of kilometers to the Fringefolk Hero's Grave.
There was only one explanation—
The Current World Reincarnation had triggered a spatial shift, pulling him from Caelid to this place. But why? And why now? The coincidence gnawed at him, unanswered. Then a darker thought crept in:
If the Current World Reincarnation could shift space, what about time?
His body told him only an instant had passed, but it felt like one of those gut-wrenching romance novels where the heroine wakes from a coma to find everything changed. Calm down. Ranni and Sellen couldn't have aged, not yet. If he'd woken at the end of the Tarnished's journey, the Lands Between would be a lifeless husk.
The butterfly effect of his presence loomed large. Who knew what ripples he'd already caused? Maybe the Elden Lord wasn't who he expected. The possibilities were enough to make a man lose his hair. Throne forced himself to stop spiraling. Focus. A flicker of golden light steadied his racing heart.
He stepped onto the elevator and pressed the mechanism at its center.
A low groan echoed as gears began to turn. The elevator, abandoned for who knows how long, shuddered to life. Dust cascaded onto Throne's shoulders, but he didn't bother brushing it off. His gaze fixed upward, watching the stone ceiling slowly recede. Here and now.
What was that Tarnished thinking? The prayer did little to quiet his racing thoughts. But the Sword Demon didn't retreat. Didn't escape.
Even if the surface was barren, even if he'd arrived too late and the Lands Between had fallen to the Loathsome Dung Eater's law, could he really hide underground forever? "I have to see for myself. My luck can't be that bad." Sleeping through the end would be the ultimate tragedy. The elevator halted.
A few stone steps led to a heavy iron door. The entrance to the underground grave, the Tarnished's starting point. Throne swallowed hard, stepped forward, and hooked his fingers into the groove at the bottom of the door. With a grunt, he lifted it just enough to create a crack.
Golden light spilled through the gap, easing the tension in his chest. The Erdtree still stood. Throne took a deep breath and yanked the door open with a sudden burst of strength—
The brilliance of the Lands Between flooded over him.
The afternoon sun bathed Throne in its warmth. In the distance, mountains rose against the horizon, their peaks hidden by storms. A massive bridge stretched toward a fortress shrouded in mist. Nearby, goats grazed lazily in a patch of woods. Limgrave sprawled before him, vibrant and alive. That bridge—it had to lead to the Divine Tower. And there, towering above it all, the Erdtree.
Beyond that, he spotted a village, a church, and a shepherd puffing on a dry pipe. The man didn't look like a mindless husk. Everything still breathed with life. Relief washed over him. His luck hadn't run out.
If he'd opened the door to the Loathsome Dung Eater's reign or the chaos of the Frenzied Flame, he might've slammed it shut and tried again. "Has so little time passed? But where are the Haligtree Army's tracks?" Confused, he pulled a Night's hood from Sellia over his head.
The black cloth clung tight, ninja-like, leaving only his eyes exposed. A veil that muted his presence. Confident no one would recognize him now, he approached the shepherd—a gaunt, weathered old man. The man didn't flinch at the sight of someone emerging from the graveyard. Instead, he tapped his pipe sharply, his face twisting in irritation. "You people never learn."
"Hiding behind a bit of martial skill, running amok, disturbing the peace of the dead. Tell me, are you here to beg the village militia to save your friends?" Throne blinked, his mind a storm of confusion. Grave robbers? Was that what the old man thought he was? Apparently, they were a common nuisance here.
A chill crept up his spine. Back in Limgrave, grave robbing was unheard of. Burial grounds were sacred, inviolable. Anyone dumb enough to defile them would swing from the gallows. "Old man, what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you lawless Tarnished," the shepherd spat. "Tsk. No Finger Maiden trailing behind you. Another unwanted soul, eh? Even if you can't claim lordship, why not live a decent life instead of skulking around graveyards?"
Throne's brow furrowed as he sifted through the old man's ramblings. Tarnished. The word clicked. His eyes—the golden glow of Grace was gone. That's why the old man mistook him for one. The Tarnished had returned. How long had it been since The Shattering? It didn't feel like the end of their era, but it had clearly been years.
"Old man, how long has it been since The Shattering ended?"
"How would I know?" The old man turned away, ready to herd his goats. But at the glint of Runes, he hesitated, grudgingly facing Throne again. "A few thousand moonrises, give or take. I don't keep count." One moonrise marked a day. So, three to twenty-seven years. The math didn't narrow it down much.