Throne's heart finally returned to his stomach. For The Lands Between, even thirty years was nothing, but he was puzzled as to why the Tarnished had returned so quickly. Since The Lands Between had no chronology, no one knew how many years after The Shattering the first batch of Tarnished had returned, but by common logic, it would have taken a long time.
Sending messages took time, and the Tarnished needed time to travel. Not to mention that assigning a Finger Maiden to every Tarnished was a massive undertaking. Not just anyone could be a Finger Maiden; they needed to act as bridges, on one hand guiding (or swindling) the Tarnished, and on the other, converting Runes into the Tarnished's power.
"He just said I had no Finger Maiden following me, and judging by his expression, it's a common phenomenon. Does that mean this recall was very hasty?" Throne looked toward the Erdtree. He didn't know why the Two Fingers had made such a hasty decision, only vaguely feeling that it had something to do with him. Had he already been targeted? Fortunately, he had escaped by faking his death.
He immediately thought of Sellen. He had escaped, but his teacher must have been implicated as well. However, Throne didn't rush off to find her; instead, he looked at the small village next to the church. The Tarnished had returned, and it seemed they had already brought massive changes to The Lands Between. He needed to find out more about these 'peers' of his.
As the shepherd walked down the hillside, Throne didn't see the Tree Sentinel who taught countless novice Tarnished a lesson. For some reason, it hadn't run over here to block the path yet. Soon, he saw a small village with thick wooden walls on the outside. Armed militiamen stood on the watchtowers, and when they saw Throne, they raised their crossbows. "Such strong hostility."
Throne didn't know why the Tarnished were so loathed by everyone, but he very skillfully pulled a cloth bag from his spirit-calling ring and shoved it into the old man's hand. The latter weighed it in his hand behind his back before nodding in satisfaction and shouting at the militiamen:
"Chick, this Tarnished is fine. He's just lost!"
Throne was covered in mud, his armor in tatters, looking quite disheveled. The militiaman gave him a long, deep look and growled, "Don't be fooled by these Tarnished. Lord Baron was secretly killed by them." "I'll take responsibility if anything happens, is that enough? The few Tarnished who came in earlier were quite good; they even helped us fight off wild wolves."
The militiaman thought for a moment and finally waved his hand. Creak. The wooden gate opened, revealing low houses and men and women walking about inside. When the villagers saw Throne, they all looked at him with disgust. "Are the Tarnished really that annoying?" He curled his lip, feeling like he was catching strays for no reason. "You'd have to ask those 'righteous' companions of yours.
All that talk about the throne being built on a pile of corpses—what does that have to do with us common folk?" The old man stopped, his wrinkled face cold. "You know? Some Tarnished will slaughter everything for power, not even sparing the livestock. They kill, fine, but they have to wrap it in 'righteousness' to justify themselves. It's truly shameless!" Throne looked at the man coldly.
He wasn't angered by the resentful words; rather, some of his confusion was inadvertently cleared up. Right, the Tarnished were a mixed bag. Except for the few at the very top, the vast majority who woke up had strength somewhere between a soldier and a knight; their only strength was the ability to convert Runes into power and then grow stronger.
Power flowed from Runes, but where did Runes come from? Slaughter. Plunder. Like a vulture circling its prey, the Tarnished could torment a soul ten thousand times just to extract Runes. They swept through graveyards, villages, and cities like a swarm of locusts, stripping every scrap of material, every weapon, every item. All in pursuit of one grand purpose—to ascend as Elden Lord.
The Two Fingers had called them back, and now the original forces of The Lands Between couldn't unite to strike first. Dialogue? Throne almost laughed. It reminded him of a joke. "Become the Elden Lord to gain power." "But give me the power first!" "You'll have power once you're the Lord." "Then how can I become the Lord without power?"
A vicious cycle. Even the Two Fingers couldn't untangle it. To raise Gu, you needed fertilizer. And the fertilizer? The suffering of the people below. Raise an army for a thousand days, use it for one. Grace had been given for years; now it was time to endure being fodder. "It's almost like the Fourth Calamity," Throne muttered.
He sighed. "But not all Tarnished are like that."
"Exactly why I let you in," the old man said, tossing the bag in his hand. "There are good ones among them. Dealing fairly, for instance—that's a kind of 'good person.' An evil Tarnished would've forced me to spill everything, then killed me." Throne nodded.
He still hit bottlenecks in leveling up. Killing ordinary folk like this old man? Pointless. But for the Tarnished, quantity could tip into quality. Slay ten thousand old men, and the Runes might rival a top-tier hero's. "Introducing an uncontrollable force—those in power must've lost their minds."
"Who knows? Life's just getting harder."
Caravans didn't dare move without heavy escorts. Nobles retreated into their castles. One misstep, and they'd lose everything. Throne smirked. The Tarnished didn't fear nobility. Killing them was routine.
To phrase it diplomatically:
"Your life will become part of the future Elden Lord, indirectly repairing the Elden Ring. Truly, a deed of immeasurable merit."
As he mused, the old man ahead stopped and pointed. "There. Your companion." Throne looked. A young man stood in the distance. Simple armor, sturdy build, cropped blond hair. He carried water buckets with straight arms, exercising while doing chores.
"He's a good kid. Fights wild wolves, helps villagers in his spare time." He did look honest. Throne wasn't one to see things in black and white. Wicked Tarnished existed, but so did kind-hearted ones.
"What's his name?" Throne asked casually. The old man thought for a moment. "Vyke."
Vyke? Throne paused, then studied the young man with fresh interest. His aura wasn't strong—mid-tier knight level. Then again, the Tarnished all started high. Compared to commoners, they were leagues ahead.
The Tarnished traced their lineage back to the army of the first Elden Lord, Godfrey. Ages ago, for reasons unknown, that invincible force—Godfrey included—had been stripped of grace and cast out of The Lands Between. The Tarnished were their descendants.
They fought on the other side of the Sea of Fog, and from top to bottom, there were no weaklings; even a 'Wretch' could kill a foot soldier one-on-one. As for this Vyke, Throne remembered a big shot by the same name, but that one had been scorched pitch-black and was a crazed destroyer; he couldn't reconcile that with this simple young man.
The timeline was too early, and things had changed too much; he didn't have an answer. The young man's intuition was sharp, and he instantly sensed the gaze. He looked over and saw a person dressed in a strange outfit. His head was wrapped in a strange headscarf, and his armor was in tatters; he looked like someone who had suffered. He put down the water buckets and walked over.
"Did you encounter some trouble?" Yeah, I just performed the stunt of cutting off my own head in front of Radahn. Throne grinned, quickly constructing his new persona in his mind, and answered in a low voice, "I just woke up and encountered a formidable opponent." "Ah, that's a common occurrence. It's a pity the liveliest period has already passed; otherwise, there would have been people to help."
Vyke sighed, seemingly very sympathetic to Throne's plight. "The liveliest period?" "Yeah, that was when a large number of Tarnished woke up at once. Everyone would exchange information and help each other, and some powerful ones even established organizations to lead everyone." Isn't this just the early raiding phase of an online game?
Throne wasn't here to make small talk; he needed to get information from this'senior.' Just this sentence alone allowed him to analyze many things. In the beginning, a large number of Tarnished woke up. Most were returning to The Lands Between for the first time, and aside from a set of equipment, they had nothing but inexplicable guidance. Becoming the Elden Lord was the goal to clear the game.
Many people probably hadn't even left the newbie village before getting beaten up by the local nobility, so of course, they had to huddle together for warmth. In other words, this was the 'downtime' period, with the occasional 'noob' joining. By the time the destined Tarnished returned, the server would be about to shut down?
He chuckled self-deprecatingly and asked the youth, "How long ago was that liveliest period?" "About ten years ago, or so I've heard. By the way, that sword of yours—" Vyke pointed to the katana at Throne's waist and asked with interest, "Are you from the Land of Reeds?" He was actually that sharp? Throne didn't know how to respond, so he put on a nostalgic and world-weary look.
"My homeland, you've heard of it too?" "I've heard of it. It has constant internal strife, and communication with the outside world has been cut off for a long time. Still, I have met a few Tarnished who came from there." Vyke gave a hearty smile and reached out his hand. "My name is Vyke. What's yours?"
Throne certainly didn't dare use his real name, so he thought for a moment and quickly had an answer. He held his sword, raised his head, and said calmly, "I am Isshin Ashina." This name had once suppressed a nation, making the hundred-times-stronger Interior Ministry afraid to show their faces for decades. Of course, it held no pressure for Vyke. "Truly someone from the Land of Reeds.
The martial arts are strange, and the name is peculiar. Let's go, Lord Isshin, I'll take you to meet the others. I'm sure you have many things you want to know." He wasn't the only Tarnished in the village. Throne followed behind, exuding an aura that warned people to keep their distance, silently watching the villagers and the young man greet each other warmly.
"Auntie Vira, I'll find you some herbs later. No, no, no, it's just something I can do while I'm out." "Uncle, don't go out lately. If you run into robbers, just give them Runes to save your life."
Vyke was good—not just decent, but the kind of person who burned with enthusiasm, wore compassion like a second skin, and left doors unlocked. Give him power, and heroism would follow as surely as blood follows a blade. Throne didn't need prophecies. The truth showed in the way Vyke shared his last crust of bread with stray dogs.
Tarnished was just a title. Some carried it like a crown, others like a noose. Warriors and cowards, saints and butchers—all wearing the same label while tearing the Lands Between apart. Imperial decrees turned them loose like starving hounds. They swept through graveyards, picked ruins clean, left castles hollow as rotten teeth. What little order remained crumbled under their boots.
Now even nobles cowered behind barred gates while the land fractured into a thousand petty fiefdoms. Vyke? He endured. No meteoric rise for him, just the slow grind of a man sharpening himself against the whetstone of some backwater village. Helped enough stragglers, and suddenly he had followers. "No Finger Maiden?" Throne matched his stride.
"Not handed out like festival sweets." Vyke's grin held no bitterness, only the clean hunger of a man facing a worthy challenge. "Prove yourself first. Make them notice. Then she'll come." His eyes said he already saw her in his dreams—some golden-haired paragon with hips like temple columns and a smile to melt glaciers.
Throne bit back a laugh. Finger Maidens were blades wrapped in silk, equal parts guide and guardian. Loyal to the Erdtree first, their Tarnished second. Even if one knelt before him—his personal executioner in maiden's garb—he'd cut her down before she finished her greeting. "How do you grow stronger without one?"
"Same as always." Vyke shrugged. "Swing a sword until your arms scream. Slow. Steady." Then he chuckled, remembering. "Heard about one Tarnished who got his Maiden and quit fighting altogether."
"Quit?"
"Started a merchant guild. Buys power with Runes now." Vyke roared with laughter. "Pathetic, right?"
Throne's jaw tightened. Pathetic? More like ingenious. These Tarnished had cheat codes he couldn't touch. No need to hunt strength drop by bloody drop—just stack enough Runes and boom, instant ascension. Meanwhile he had to carve his path through flesh and bone, each step paid in violence. No shortcuts. No mercy.
"Fuck it, I want that." The words slipped out. "Empty the Carian vaults, crush Runes for a week straight—watch me soar." The fantasy tasted bitter. His path was set: climb over corpses or die trying. No shiny Maiden would change that.
Vyke stopped at a scarred oak door. Sunlight spilled through as he shoved it open, revealing a room that smelled of steel and sour ale. Weapons lined the walls—warhammers, straight swords, spears with nicked edges. Three men turned from their drinks. The leftmost was all shoulders and scars, his beard thick enough to stop a dagger.
The gaunt man beside him looked carved from shadow—sunken eyes, black robes, hair like brittle straw. Opposite the door stood a woman with brown hair and skin pale as moonlight, her lips crimson. Her leather armor clung to a figure that could steal a man's breath, and her rose-red phoenix eyes burned with a gaze that might pull the soul from his body.
"The big one's Singer," Vyke said, gesturing. "The skinny one's Al. And that beauty? Eina. She's got a sharp tongue, so don't take it personally."
Vyke paused, then turned slightly, his voice dropping. "And this—this is Lord Isshin Ashina. A Tarnished, freshly awakened."
Throne gave a shallow nod, his eyes scanning the room. Singer was built like a fortress, a tank knight through and through. Eina moved like a rogue, all grace and lethal precision. Al, his staff leaning against the table, had the air of an Astrologer. A standard Tarnished squad—nothing extraordinary, but efficient. They moved as one, striking together rather than rushing in alone to die. No Finger Maiden, no overwhelming power. Just ordinary warriors trying to survive.
Throne's gaze lingered on Eina. She flashed a smile, sharp as a dagger.
He nodded again, silent as ever, and his vision blurred. Eina darted forward, sudden as a striking serpent. Throne stepped back, barely avoiding a collision. Her laughter rang out, bright and teasing.
Because this persona was taciturn, he nodded to acknowledge the greeting. Then his eyes blurred as the brown-haired woman suddenly darted in front of him. Throne took a half-step back to avoid their heads colliding.