The young girl didn't seem to care much about these things, merely yawning: "You can keep my share, Vyke, just be my lover instead." Facing such a bold declaration of love, the young man laughed awkwardly: "Eina, you're joking again." "I'm not joking!" The young man stared at the earnest girl, silent for a long moment.
The atmosphere suddenly became somewhat awkward, but fortunately, the burly man patted both of them on the shoulders. "Alright, alright, don't talk about that before a fight. If you really want to chat, why not talk about that swordsman we met during the day." Distracted by his interruption, the two immediately shifted their attention. "Lord Isshin? He seems like a good person.
When the madman appeared, he was the first one ready to rush forward." "Heh, he was just a bit sluggish, and I snatched the victory from him in an instant." The girl snorted, though it was unclear who she was angry at. "Don't underestimate him; I've heard that people from the Land of Reeds are quite formidable." "They're also very bloodthirsty.
Rumor has it that people from that place have their minds clouded, and everyone has fallen into a frenzy of slaughter." The silent Astrologer chimed in, thought for a moment, and uttered a strange syllable:
"I heard this is called Shura." Shura? Vyke didn't quite understand, but felt it was profound. Just as he was about to ask more, he heard a faint 'twang' in his ear.
Before he could figure out what was happening, he was shoved away by Eina. It was the vibration of a bowstring! Swish, swish, swish... A dozen crossbow bolts suddenly shot out from the shadows on the right. As he turned his head, he saw blood burst from the girl's body, his face instantly turning pale.
He saw the Astrologer looking around in confusion, then being pierced through the chest by an arrow. "Ambush!" The warrior quickly brought out his shield, stepping forward to form cover. The second volley of arrows clattered against it, and by this time, Vyke finally fell to the ground. The incident was sudden, but the young man didn't panic.
He pressed his palm against the ground, sprang up instantly, crouched behind the warrior, and dragged his two fallen companions over. "What's going on? Who is attacking!?" "I don't know, but these are military-grade crossbows." Singer shouted. Fortunately, the shield in his hand was large enough, otherwise, they would have been turned into sieves.
The arrows couldn't break through the barrier, but Vyke dared not relax in the slightest. He hurriedly took out a flask of crimson tears and gave his two silent companions a sip each. This item was one of the few perks for the Tarnished; once used, one could go to a Minor Erdtree to replenish the tears. But this time, after drinking the flask of crimson tears, his companions remained unconscious.
He instinctively glanced at the swordsman stuck in the dirt, and his pupils constricted sharply. "Sleep arrows. They want to capture us alive!" Just as the volley of arrows stopped, and before the two could breathe a sigh of relief, they heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats. Clatter, clatter, clatter... Two warhorses charged along the road.
One of the two knights held a lance, while the other brandished a flail, and their surcoats—
"It's Godrick's men! Why is he attacking us??" Vyke found it even harder to understand. This Lord of the Golden was also a target of the Tarnished, always hiding within Stormveil and not daring to show his head, having even lost control of Limgrave. How could he suddenly launch an attack?
"I don't know, but if we continue like this, we'll definitely die." The warrior roared in response. Following the knights' charge, over a dozen soldiers also rushed out from the bushes, launching an assault with longswords and spears. It came too fast and too suddenly. This was the moment to test one's judgment, and Vyke clearly possessed the talent to remain calm in an emergency.
"Shield up! Cover me!" The words barely left his mouth when the flail struck. The heavy iron ball, propelled by the horse's momentum, hammered into the shield with a deafening thud. The impact reverberated through the warrior's arms, numbing his hands. The shield buckled, and he was hurled backward like a ragdoll.
Arrows whistled through the air, streaking toward their targets. Unlike the Tarnished, who thrived in chaotic skirmishes, these soldiers moved with military precision—layered, coordinated, deadly.
Vyke had heard the stories. Early expeditions often ended with knight-level Tarnished cut down by foot soldiers. He'd studied their tactics, their weaknesses. The moment the warrior was sent sprawling, Vyke rolled to the side. Arrows thudded into the ground where he'd been. He lay flat, spear pointing skyward. Just as the warhorse charged over, he thrust upward.
The blade sank deep. The horse screamed, its legs buckling, hurling the knight from its back. Vyke scrambled to his feet, but the second knight was already on him. The lance hissed past his helmet, close enough to frost his breath. He rolled again as the horse's hooves slammed down, kicking up a cloud of dust.
He didn't need to see the infantry closing in to know the odds. They'd planned this perfectly—neutralized the mage and assassin first, herding the rest into a kill zone. Vyke's jaw tightened. He pushed himself up, shield in one hand, spear in the other. Gone was the easy confidence, the faint smile. His eyes burned with raw, feral intensity. "I'll never go down without a fight!"
He stood firm, but the advancing soldiers weren't his only problem. A figure appeared out of nowhere, upright and unyielding, blocking their path. Vyke's brow furrowed. Where did he come from?
The soldiers hesitated, their charge faltering for a split second. Then, as one, they surged forward. Throne stepped into their path, his right foot forward, hand resting lightly on his blade's hilt. The second row raised their crossbows. Throne vanished.
Bloodhounds Step.
The spearman blinked, startled as Throne materialized in front of him. He barely had time to raise his weapon before Throne's thumb flicked the blade free. Moonveil's arc shimmered blue in the air. The blade sliced through chainmail, muscle, bone.
The second row froze, watching their companion stagger. A line of blood bloomed at his waist. He crumpled, cleaved in two. Throne was already moving, lunging at the next soldier. Moonveil flashed downward, shearing through the brass shield, carving the man in half.
Throne's smile was a predator's grin. He hooked a fallen sword with his foot, flicked it upward, and spun. The blade sliced through another shield-bearer's back, cleaving him from shoulder to hip.
He moved like a dancer, weightless and lethal. A roundhouse kick sent the sword spiraling through the air. It struck a crossbowman square in the brow, pinning him like a grotesque trophy. Throne landed lightly, wrist twisting, katana slashing back.
"What kind of monster is that!" The two Godrick knights, locked in combat with Vyke and Singer, finally noticed the chaos. They glanced up, eyes widening. A blur of motion darted among their soldiers, blades flashing, bodies falling. Their subordinates were being carved apart like overripe melons.
Crossbow bolts grazed his clothes without touching skin. Chainmail crumbled before his blade. Katana swords favor lightness and agility—they deflect off heavy armor and shields. To cut through flesh like paper demands two things: a razor-sharp edge and overwhelming force.
The knight kicked Singer aside. His opponent darted left and right, closing the distance fast. The knight seized the moment of hesitation and swung his flail. The weapon hissed through the air—fast, brutal, designed to shatter heavy armor.
Throne paused. He raised his blade to deflect the flail, but the chain coiled around the sword. The knight sneered. "Get over here!" He yanked the chain, expecting to drag his enemy forward. The chain didn't budge. His eyes widened as Throne's pupils narrowed into golden slits. Dragon. "It's you who's coming over." Throne twisted his waist, pulling the knight—armor and all—toward him.
The knight stumbled, slashing wildly with the sword hidden beneath his ribs. A desperate move, honed by years of combat. Throne leaned back just enough. The blade swept past his chest, missing by a hair's breadth.
He stepped forward. The knight released the flail, trying to retreat. Throne's uppercut connected with his chin. The impact sent the helmet flying, lifting the knight half a meter off the ground. Throne didn't glance back. A deep blue arc of light lingered in the air as he moved past.
The knight's body hit the ground. His head rolled down the slope. What a fast blade. Vyke stood frozen. He hadn't imagined killing could be so calm, so elegant. The remaining knight on horseback hesitated, then spurred his mount forward.
This hunt had turned into a disaster. He needed to retreat, to report. Throne watched the knight charge, lance lowered, aiming to break through. He paused, knees bending. The storm roared as he leapt, sword in both hands, meeting the lance head-on.
"Watch out—" Vyke shouted, but the words died in his throat. Throne slashed his blade meters before the lance could reach him. Storm-forged sword energy extended farther than the weapon itself. They crossed paths. Throne knelt, then stood slowly, flicking his blade.
Pfft.
The knight, already several meters past, exploded into a mist of blood.
Moonlight bathed the forest path, leaving no shadows. From the ridge above, the entire scene unfolded clearly. A slender figure stood atop a warhorse, hood obscuring her face. Her build suggested a woman, but the horse beneath her was anything but ordinary.
It was massive, muscular, with horns jutting from its head—some hybrid of horse and ox. The knight galloped past, lance tucked under his arm, tempered by countless battles. Yet the swordsman didn't dodge. He charged straight at the cavalry. The woman's breath caught. Who charges cavalry? Surely, one would roll aside, slash the horse's legs, anything but this.
The swordsman and the knight collided. One slash. Man and horse shattered. "How?" she whispered, her grip tightening on the reins.
She murmured, bewildered. The outcome had been unexpected. Their power levels were matched—no essential difference. The swordsman's timing had been razor-sharp. Her warhorse snorted beneath her. She stroked its head, pulled the reins, and turned to leave. "No rush. Observe a while longer." Someone's spying?
Throne stood, his head turning sharply. Ordinary gazes never escaped his keen intuition. He scanned the cliff to the right—nothing. His eyes narrowed. Bad luck. Discovered like this? He didn't know who was watching, but leaping kilometers to silence someone wasn't feasible.
He thought for a moment, then shrugged it off. The place swarmed with Tarnished. A few experts showing up? Normal. Next time, he'd switch to his mage persona. Versatility had its perks. Knight, archer, samurai, mage, even priest—he could play them all.
As long as it wasn't an old friend who knew him too well, who'd recognize him? Throne pondered his next move while Vyke stood there, dumbfounded, clutching his spear. Killed them all? Alone? Even with divide-and-conquer tactics, brains were part of combat power. This wasn't a gladiator show. Why face a group solo?
He exchanged a glance with Singer, whose arm hung broken, and approached slowly. "Lord Isshin, you—" "No questions." Throne's cold glare cut him off. He flicked his blade clean and sheathed it. The ground, littered with blood and severed limbs, radiated oppressive weight. The young man nodded, though he understood nothing. "I understand."
He didn't. This man was too strong. Such elegant, composed slaughter—he'd never seen it. Cutting down so many without a single drop of blood on him? It pointed to two possibilities:
Either he lied—no newly awakened Tarnished—or he was a borderlands heavyweight.
The latter seemed more likely. Tarnished weren't uniform. Strength varied upon awakening. The legendary King Godfrey wouldn't level up from scratch like some common Tarnished, would he?