"Damn it." Throne cursed under his breath. Earlier, to keep up appearances, he'd let Vyke and the others take all the Runes scavenged from the Godrick Knight.
He regretted it now. Most of his own Runes were spent back in Sellia, and borrowing money would chip away at his carefully crafted image. Still, something caught his eye — odd trinkets laid out on a makeshift stall. Cheap, perhaps, but intriguing. "What's this?"
A wiry Tarnished leaned forward, pipe clenched between his teeth. He rose from his stool, inspecting the item Throne pointed at. "Grave Glovewort," he said, exhaling a curl of smoke. "Snatched it from a catacomb nearby. Nasty place. Lost a brother to the things crawling in there. Take 'em all, and I'll cut you a deal." The man spoke casually, as if admitting to theft was nothing special.
Throne glanced at a priestly Tarnished standing not far off. The man heard the exchange but offered only an awkward smile, pretending he hadn't. "And this?" Throne pointed to a small, unassuming box.
"Spirit Ashes," the vendor said, shrugging. "Doubt you'll be able to use 'em."
"Why's that?"
The wiry man didn't answer. Instead, he barked over Throne's shoulder, "Vyke! Where'd you dig up this clueless fool? Didn't you give him the basics?"
Vyke stepped forward, scratching his head. "Lord Isshin, using Spirit Ashes requires special items or spells. They're… rare."
Throne's mind clicked into place. So, because he had the spirit-calling bell, he could summon spirits. It made sense. If it were unique, there'd be no need for a profession like Spirit Tuner. He tossed a handful of Runes onto the stall and scooped up a few Grave Gloveworts. Wasteful? Maybe. But he didn't care.
"Uh, just so you know," Vyke added quickly, "those are a medium for communicating with spirits. You'll need a Spirit Tuner to make use of them."
"I think they look nice," Throne said, tucking them away. "Can't I just display them?"
Vyke blinked. No one had an answer for that.
By now, they'd reached the edge of the Waypoint Ruins. Guards stood watch at the entrance, their eyes sharp, barring any Tarnished from approaching. Throne glanced at Vyke. "How long until this market packs up?"
"At dusk. Why?"
Throne looked up at the sky, then toward the ruins' main building a hundred meters away. He did the math in his head. If Godrick's men weren't fools, they'd have pieced it together by now. Vyke's team was the only group of Tarnished in these woods. It wouldn't take long for pursuers to arrive.
Eina appeared then, returning from her scouting. She moved to report quietly to Vyke but caught Throne's gaze. Her voice lifted, just slightly. "I've asked around. Lately, Tarnished have been vanishing without a trace. Mistwood's put out an investigation quest."
Throne nodded. It was as he'd expected. Suspicion, once planted, was hard to uproot. And Godrick, arrogant as ever, hadn't learned his lesson. Did he think Stormveil was impregnable? That he could hide inside, growing stronger while the world burned?
Too bad. He'd chosen the wrong path. No amount of Grafting would save him now. The timing was perfect. With Vyke's help, Throne could mask his true purpose — finding his teacher.
He turned to Vyke, a faint smile curling his lips. "Vyke, do you have a high reputation among the Tarnished?"
Vyke hesitated, unnerved by that gaze. "It's… alright. I wouldn't call it a high reputation, but most Tarnished in Limgrave know me. I've worked with a few teams."
"That's good." Throne nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he stepped out of the ruins. "Follow me. I have a mission for you all."
Warhorses thundered into the ruins, dust swirling in their wake. At their head rode a Banished Knight, his silhouette hulking, two greatswords strapped across his back. He yanked the reins hard, his mount rearing as he spotted the knights already waiting. "Lord Owen." A Godrick Knight stepped forward, taking hold of the horse's bridle.
They were both knights of Stormveil, yet Owen outranked him. But the Banished Knight was different—a veteran who had fought beside Godrick a decade ago, during the failed siege breakout. Owen's hands tightened on the reins. That battle still haunted him. He'd been locked in combat with a mage when a Cleanrot Knight stabbed him from behind, forcing his retreat. The shame drove him, sharpened him. He dismounted, his men following suit.
Beyond the fence, dusk crept in. Tarnished packed up their stalls, preparing to return home. Owen's lip curled. Lawless vermin. Ever since that cursed mage had unhorsed him, he'd despised these so-called free people. He tossed a wax-sealed document to the side. "Hughs, the Prince's latest orders." "Yes, sir."
The knight unfolded the parchment, his brow furrowing. "A team of Tarnished attacked a patrol. Killed everyone, including two knights." He paused. "How is that possible?" Tarnished weren't killers. They might steal from a minor lord, but attacking Stormveil? It made no sense. Unless they were targeting Godrick himself.
Owen gestured toward the Tarnished beyond the fence. "Do they still fear the law? Or do they think they can kill whoever they please?" The men and women milling about were mismatched, but each bore a blade. Hughs said nothing. The truth was, the Golden Folk gained nothing from killing Tarnished, while the Tarnished gained everything from killing them.
"Attacking a patrol brings no benefit," Hughs murmured. "Unless…" He hesitated, recalling whispers in the ranks. "Are you questioning the Prince?"
The Banished Knight's icy glare silenced him. Many questioned Godrick, but in these dark times, everyone relied on a Shardbearer. At least he didn't slit throats for Runes. And this man—one of Godrick's most loyal commanders—was not to be crossed. Exile meant death, and death meant your gear made you a prize for scavengers.
"Your orders, sir?" Hughs asked. "Mobilize the troops. Find these people." Owen tossed out several portraits—Vyke and his companions. Hughs studied them, then nodded. "They were seen at Waypoint Ruins today. Headed south, likely toward Mistwood." Everyone knew the Tarnished stronghold lay there. Striking would be difficult once they reached it, but the journey would take at least a day and a night. Time enough.
"Do these idiots really think they'll be fine if they kill the witnesses? Fine, saves me the trouble of searching." Owen's smile was carnivorous. "Take half the men. Bring Sleepbone Arrows. Find them." "Sleepbone Arrows?" Hughs hesitated. "You want them alive?" The Banished Knight's gaze was heavy with exasperation.
Godrick's fatal flaw was his refusal to surrender—his hands always grasping for what lay beyond his reach. "Just obey orders!" A cavalry unit stormed into the Waypoint Ruins, emerging moments later with a full infantry detachment in tow.
Throne saw everything. He lounged at an open-air bar by the roadside, ale in hand, shielding his eyes from the dust kicked up by their passing. A Banished Knight leading. Five Godrick Knights. Five nobles. Dozens of foot soldiers.
Like swinging a warhammer to crush an ant.
His sneer met the Banished Knight's disdainful glance before the procession moved on. The village's intelligence confirmed Vyke's team excluded Throne. A diversion—luring the tiger from the mountain, fishing in murky waters. He needed chaos to mask his true aim.
"Ten years is too long. The odds of my teacher still lurking in these ruins are slim. If someone's using that lab as bait, at least I'll have an excuse." The thought chilled him—what if he opened that door to find a predator waiting? But with Vyke as his shield, the stakes shifted. Godrick hunted Tarnished for Grafting.
As one of the Tarnished, exposing the conspiracy was his duty. If I stumble into that lab by accident, who could blame me? Vyke would play the hero; Throne would simply finish his own business along the way. As for the risks inside—
What hero doesn't dance with death? "Besides, the danger's minimal."
Vyke was no amateur. He'd already whispered the conspiracy to the Roundtable Hold's envoy in Mistwood—they'd side with the Tarnished. "And Godrick's no novice at this hunt. He's left trails. With that rotten temper, he'll never talk his way out."
He'll take the fall. Perfectly.
Throne slapped his Runes onto the table and rose without a sound. He didn't slink into shadows. He strode straight for the Waypoint Ruins, bold as daylight. Torches flickered along the wooden palisade, their glow pulling him from the dark.
The watchtower sentries spotted him instantly. "Halt! Trespass means death!" Ballistae swiveled. The camp erupted into motion. Knight Hughs barreled to the gate with Tarnished and soldiers in tow, squinting at the figure in chainmail and a headscarf.
Across the road, Tarnished spilled from tents to gawk. Most thieves skulked in silence—who marched up like this? Throne stopped at the gate, eyeing the ballistae, the armored soldiers, their blades glinting. Inside, two shackled Trolls heaved to their feet.
He stood silent. Unmoving. The torchlight carved him into something spectral.
"State your business! Recruitment starts at dawn!" Hughs shoved forward, shield raised, fingers tight around his sword hilt.
"I've come to purge evil." The words slithered into every ear. Confusion rippled.
Drunk? Mad? "Evil? What evil?"
The knight's question hung in the air—then metal shrieked.
The long sword was drawn inch by inch, as if slowly unfolding a scroll of Rivers of Blood. "Godrick hunts Tarnished for Grafting. For such sin, I deliver judgment."
Wha—
The Tarnished stood frozen in place. Across the road, onlookers exchanged uneasy glances. Whispers of old rumors surfaced in their minds. For Throne to reveal himself now, to come seeking justice—he must have proof. The knight's stomach dropped. He didn't need to see the gleaming blade to know his fate was sealed.
Knowledge turned to panic. He hesitated, his mouth opening to plead. But Throne was already moving. The air hissed as he surged forward.
Bolts from the watchtower ballistae whistled past, slicing nothing but empty air. The knight barely managed to raise his shield. Too late. The advantage was gone.
No time for explanations. No time for truth. The man before him wanted blood. Losing the initiative to the Sword Demon would rattle even a Nights Cavalry veteran. This mid-rank knight stood no chance. His shield buckled under sudden weight. A shadow flickered overhead, landing behind him.
His sword cleared its sheath halfway. He twisted, desperate to strike. Cold steel kissed his throat. A ragged gasp escaped him. His gaze dropped to the blade protruding from his neck. So fast.
Throne crouched low, the knight's life spilling into the dirt. He rose slowly, surveying the stunned Tarnished and soldiers. "You killed Lord Hughs!" someone shouted. "Kill him!"
Several soldiers lunged forward. A flash of steel carved the night. Bodies fell in pieces. Throne stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the Tarnished. "Do you want to side with evil?"
Among them stood mages, swordsmen, and a bearded man wielding a great hammer. The leader's voice boomed. "You expect us to believe you? You strike first, talk later. Where's the reasoning?"
"Head south," Throne said, calm. "You'll find the truth. Vyke's team is being hunted by these people."
An arrow streaked toward him. He slashed it from the air, then flipped a broken spear and hurled it. The archer screamed, tumbling from the watchtower. "I am reasoning with you."
He turned slightly, flicking his blade upward. Dirt sprayed into the air, halting the charging soldiers. Dust swirled. A blade pierced through, finding a forehead.
The slaughter continued, precise and unrelenting. Twenty soldiers fell in moments. The Tarnished froze, their eyes darting to their leader. The bearded man's face paled.
He'd heard the rumors—Tarnished who defected to Stormveil vanished without a trace. But rumors were just whispers. What convinced him was the "reasoning" unfolding before his eyes.
A thunderous crash shook the ground. The Troll burst through the fence, its massive hands slamming into the earth. The impact reverberated for a hundred meters.
From the dust, Throne emerged. He sprinted up the Troll's forearm, stabbed its eyes blind, and leapt into the night. He flipped midair, descending like a meteor. Falling Slash.
The blade fell, extending from the Troll's face all the way to its crotch, nearly cleaving the giant in two. Throne landed, his back to the collapsing beast. The ground shook as it fell, the shockwave rippling through his clothes.
"Do you really want to side with evil?" His voice was calm, his eyes indifferent, as if he were asking about the weather.
The bearded man's cheeks spasmed uncontrollably. He hoisted his massive hammer, turning sharply on his heel. "Brothers, let's move!" he barked. "If it's true, we'll hold Godrick accountable." He marched down the exit ramp with deliberate steps—no one could accuse him of fleeing or breaking his word. Behind him, the dozen remaining soldiers stood frozen, their faces etched with disbelief. The damned Tarnished had actually run. They'd run.
Before they could hurl curses at the cowards, Throne's gaze swept over them. His blade, still slick with blood, flicked once—light, precise, final.