"Tch, hiding his head and showing his tail. Vyke, is this guy really okay?" "Yeah, how many instances of Tarnished killing each other have there been? There have even been cases of companions stabbing each other in the back." The skinny one shouted as well; he had also experienced the cruelty of the early exploration period.
At first, banding together for warmth was fine, but gradually, some discovered that backstabbing companions yielded higher returns. Now, everyone has to keep their guard up. Vyke scratched his head and said with a bitter smile, "Actually, Lord Isshin didn't intend to join us; he just came to ask a few things. Surely we can help with such a small favor."
The Tarnished who could survive until now were no innocent flowers; or rather, the base number of Tarnished was huge, and only one could ascend the throne. This 'gu' nurturing process was incomparably cruel. "Sigh, you're just too kind-hearted; sooner or later, you'll die because of it." Eina patted the young man's cheek and slowly retreated to her seat.
The group continued to drink ale, their days quite leisurely—a stark contrast to the Tarnished in his memory who was either killing people or on the way to kill people. In fact, this was the normal state. The ideal of becoming the Elden Lord was beautiful, but most people had self-awareness. Who would want to become a stepping stone for the king?
Throne also found a seat and glanced at the weapons on the rack; they were all mass-produced goods, a far cry from the blade at his waist. He coughed lightly, turned his gaze to the awkwardly smiling Vyke, and asked about the matter he was most concerned about. "First question, may I ask if the Tarnished can still be resurrected?"
The evening glow spilled onto Throne, the breeze blowing through his black hair. He stood on the roof, gazing at the distant Erdtree, his azure eyes lost in thought. Waking up late had its benefits. He didn't need to explore many things himself; even a low-level Tarnished like Vyke knew a lot of information.
Plus, with this person's enthusiastic personality, he could get information for free without paying. "Can the Tarnished not be resurrected?" Throne pondered for a moment. This information was not accurate; it should be said that at the level Vyke could reach, he had never seen any Tarnished able to resurrect, but it definitely represented the majority. "That's true.
If any random Tarnished could resurrect infinitely, The Lands Between would have been leveled by them long ago." Just think about it: a group of immortals infinitely looking for trouble. As long as the power gap wasn't too large, no one could withstand the slaughter, because there were only so many moves, and one could always find a way to counter them.
Besides, the resurrection of the Tarnished required a price, and that price was the blessing of the Erdtree. If a pile of Tarnished died every day, that tree would likely be drained dry. This was reasonable. In fact, it didn't affect Throne much. If the Tarnished could resurrect infinitely, it would be even better; he could catch one and keep shearing the wool until the Erdtree was bald.
"But ten years is a bit too long." Throne took a light breath; this was a bit of bad news. First was the terrain change. Standing here, he could see a much smaller Erdtree, which must be the Erdtree sapling mentioned many years ago. Secondly, the Tarnished had already passed the early exploration period.
According to Vyke, some Tarnished heroes had begun to consolidate their kind, and the various factions in The Lands Between had also passed the period of confusion. They began to take the newly emerged forces seriously, and there were people recruiting Tarnished all over The Lands Between.
The Roundtable Hold stood established, its presence etched into the fabric of Leyndell. Sanctioned by the powers that be, it was a crucible of talent, a gathering of the exceptional. Throne recalled the way Vyke's eyes had lit up when he spoke of it, a flicker of longing that betrayed years of quiet ambition. If a Tarnished were to ascend to kingship, it would be by surpassing the Roundtable's finest.
A saying echoed across The Lands Between lately, its frequency a testament to the Hold's towering reputation. Entry wasn't granted lightly; only the formidable dared seek admission. Within its halls, legends walked—Sir Gideon Ofnir, the Sorcerer; Vargram, the Raging Wolf; the Godslayer. Names that carried weight, figures who cast long shadows.
Throne's fists tightened. He wasn't a veteran, but he wasn't powerless either. His strength was enough to stand against these so-called heroes. While other Tarnished could be dismissed, the Roundtable Hold was different—a foe unavoidable, a challenge undeniable. "Let's find the teacher first. I hope she's still waiting for me."
He'd made his decision, turning sharply, when chaos erupted from the village. The crack of splintering wood tore through the air. A gaunt figure burst through a shattered door, barreling into villagers before sinking teeth into a shoulder. "Help! Carlo's gone mad!" Screams erupted, panic spreading like wildfire. Madness?
Throne froze for a heartbeat, then leapt from the roof, blade in hand. But before he could act—
"Move!" A streak of crimson flashed past, a boot connecting with the madman's face. Teeth and blood sprayed. The figure staggered back, only to be impaled by a war spear, lifted clean off the ground. A wet thud followed.
The body twitched, then went still. No cheers greeted the Tarnished. Instead, children threw themselves onto the corpse, wailing. "Daddy!" Vyke and Eina stood by, their victory hollow, runes meaningless. Their faces were grim, their hands busy calming the distraught until the militia captain arrived. They stepped aside, letting the family grieve.
Throne, blade still drawn, watched as the two approached. "Madness. It takes people suddenly. They turn feral, attacking anything living, destroying everything."
Vyke's usual smile was absent, replaced by a somber expression. "Is it common?" "Fifth case this week. Far more frequent than when I first arrived." More frequent than before. Throne remembered the town near the academy, the incidents he'd dealt with. Back then, it was one or two a month.
He stayed silent, and the pair mistook it for fear. "Don't overthink it. End their suffering if you encounter them. The records point to the shattering of the Elden Ring. There's nothing more we can do." "And be quick about it."
The brown-haired girl snapped her fingers. "These lunatics have explosive strength. One slip, and they'll tear out your throat." "Thanks for the warning." Throne didn't bother correcting her underestimation. He spun his blade, sheathing Moonveil. "Leaving?" "Yeah. There's more of The Lands Between to see."
Throne turned, his gaze lingering on Vyke. "You're not weak. You're not cowardly. Why stay here?" "I'll leave once I've trained more." "Where to?" The young man gripped his war spear, chin up. "To become Elden Lord. To end this suffering."
Before Throne could respond, the brown-haired girl burst into laughter.
Throne turned around and glanced at Vyke again. "You're not weak, nor are you cowardly. Why do you still stay here?"
"Alright, future Elden Lord, get some rest. We've got a cave to explore tomorrow." She shoved Vyke away, her chest pressing hard against his back, the softness distorting against his armor. His words came out garbled, more shout than speech. "Lord Isshin, once you're out there, don't trust the Tarnished. And stay clear of strange groups. I've heard rumors—someone called 'Bloody Finger' is hunting them."
His voice trailed off as Throne watched them walk away, his shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. He's a good man. Maybe it'd be better if he stayed here, lived a quiet life in this village. Throne knew the cost of kingship. These Tarnished had choices—he didn't.
Throne's gaze drifted to the Erdtree looming in the distance. He strode out of the village, the militia's wary eyes tracking him. This place wasn't unfamiliar—no lurking puppets, no barking orders from his teacher. His steps felt lighter now. A true death had cleared the slate. No one powerful was watching him anymore.
The return of the Tarnished worked in his favor. Not only had they stirred the stagnant waters of The Lands Between, but they carried infinite potential. "Even a nobody might one day slay a demigod. That's the power they wield." Throne stepped onto the road, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Beyond the Roundtable Hold, the Tarnished formed factions or went rogue. Even after the Death Eater incident, the Two Fingers couldn't pin anyone down. Perfect cover. Throne scanned the landscape with interest. Limgrave's wilderness was littered with ruins—crumbling structures of all sizes.
The road was empty, no nobles in their finery galloping by. Ten years wasn't long, wasn't short. Everyone played it safe, no one willing to die for the 'future Elden Lord.' After hours of walking, he reached a forest. Thick trees choked the central path. To the north, he spotted a checkpoint.
Second time here. Last visit, he'd come with Sellen, riding south around Agheel Lake to Summonwater Village. "Should've taken the southern detour straight to Waypoint Ruins," he muttered, smacking his forehead. Too much sleep had dulled his mind.
No point dwelling on it. He was here now. Might as well see if Limgrave had changed. He stepped into the woods. Evening had turned to night, the forest swallowed by darkness. His feet halted mid-step. An ambush? His eyes strained against the black, but instinct took over. He crouched, pressing his ear to the ground. Clop clop.
The earth shuddered faintly, like warhorses stamping. The full moon broke through the clouds. Throne rolled into the nearby bushes just as moonlight flooded the path. He scanned the area—nothing. Only faint glints of light at the forest's edge, reflections off steel helmets. They vanished quickly, pressed down by unseen hands.
"Idiot, exposing our location is punishable by military law!" A knight snarled, the crossbow soldier shrinking under his glare. "My lord, do we really have to kill those Tarnished? The Roundtable Hold won't take it lightly." "They get to use us for target practice, and we're not allowed to fight back?" The knight's voice dripped with venom, his resentment simmering.
Order crumbled. The world spiraled downhill. Knights once noble now teetered on the edge of becoming feral beasts. Many were slaughtered in secret, stripped bare—down to their last stitch. Most Tarnished arrived in The Lands Between as ragged wretches, armed with rusted blades and empty purses, their eyes gleaming with envy at the sight of knightly armor.
"His Highness wants them taken alive. Any deaths, and we pay with our lives."
"Why's he rounding up Tarnished? Didn't he capture a group last month? What happened to them?"
"Shut your mouth if you want to keep breathing." The knight's voice cut sharp as steel. He exchanged a glance with his comrade across the way, both men's eyes heavy with resignation.
The Haligtree Army had retreated. This so-called Highness no longer held the power to rule Limgrave. Yet, the Tarnished kept coming. Which faction dared stir conflict now? Survival demanded unity—even just to leave the city.
"They're here. Finish this fast. I'm not keen on drawing the Tarnished's attention."
Footsteps echoed down the road. Voices carried on the night air, careless laughter mingling with idle chatter. Limgrave was a beginner's haven, its stronger Tarnished long departed. Local factions avoided provoking them.
Vyke and his group approached, talking of caves and exploration. Throne perched silently in a tree, his form blending into the shadows. He studied them briefly before shifting his gaze to the roadside bushes. Red and green surcoats glinted faintly in the gloom—Godrick Knights.
Old enemies.
Why did Godrick always clash with the Tarnished? Wouldn't it be easier to nab a couple of Prawn Lords and graft them onto his flesh?
Throne sighed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. Fine. Ten years of laying low. Tonight, he'd stretch his muscles.
The forest swallowed the world in darkness. Torchlight flickered weakly, barely illuminating the village outskirts. There was no reason for Vyke's group to worry. The Tarnished were untouchable—their origins unknown, their backs possibly shielded by powers unseen.
Nobles hesitated to strike. Killing one could mean facing the wrath of their allies. The Roundtable Hold wasn't for show, and Morgott's influence loomed large.
Everyone knew the Tarnished were summoned by the Greater Will, the Erdtree's chosen. Who dared oppose them openly? Other regions might harbor dissent, but in Limgrave, no noble courted such folly.
"Captain, where to this time?"
The woman draped an arm around the young man's neck, pressing his face into her chest as she laughed. The gaunt Astrologer turned away, muttering curses. The burly man roared with amusement.
"Eina, let me try that."
A throwing knife whistled past his cheek.
The brown-haired girl ignored him. Vyke seized the moment to pull his head free, gasping for air.
"Groveside Cave. Word is there's something powerful inside."
"Treasure?" the burly man asked, unfazed by the near miss.
"Probably."
Vyke scratched his head and added, "Let's stick to the old rules: whoever gets the most kills takes the lion's share. The rest gets split equal."
"Agreed!"
The group's voices rang in unison, the kind of trust forged through countless battles and shared spoils.