"A phantom wall mechanism—since when did the old bat cook up this trick?" The craftsmanship was flawless, the kind of puzzle only a madman would design. Most Tarnished would hack at a wall a hundred times without ever suspecting performance art. Not that suspicion would help. Only Throne held the key.
Smashing through would work—if you didn't mind reducing the contents to splinters. The illusion dissolved, revealing a recess the size of a grave niche. Disappointment flickered through him until he spotted the stack of books and a single letter waiting at the bottom. He snatched the envelope first, tearing it open with his thumb.
One glance froze him. Then the bitter laugh came. Of course Sellen had outmaneuvered him again. The letter swam with ciphers only he could parse.
The first section was pure academic drivel—her glorious research progress, pages of drafts so abstract they might as well be star charts. "Who the hell wants to read this? Romance is dead with this woman." He crumpled the page, then forced himself onward.
His grip tightened. He read the next lines aloud before he could stop himself:
"Heard rumors about you. Might visit Caria, though that princess is insufferable (crossed out). If I piss her off and die, will you avenge me?" Throne's blood ran cold. Letting Sellen near Ranni alone had been idiocy.
The woman had mastered the Thopss Barrier. She'd reduce Caria Manor to kindling. He skipped past the death wish, scanning further. "Research comes first. Without you here, I waste hours on laundry and scavenging meals. Annoying. But the primeval glintstone nears completion. Freedom soon." His stomach dropped. Sellen wielding a primeval glintstone spelled disaster.
"P.S. Prepared a reunion gift. Guaranteed satisfaction." A gift? His spine remembered Summonwater Village and turned to ice. He flipped the page—
"That's it?" The letter ended mid-thought. He stared at the abrupt void, knuckles whitening. This wasn't her style. If she'd left willingly, there'd be trails, taunts, something.
Elimination left one answer: she'd bolted under duress. Godrick's stench was all over this. He exhaled sharply, shredding the letter with a gust of storm magic. Pointless to fret over timelines now.
Even hunting Godrick demanded precision. The coward hid deeper than a turtle in its shell. Throne smoothed his expression, reaching for the tome beneath. The cover fell open. His pupils flared. A slow grin cut across his face. "You actually did it?"
"This reunion gift of yours is truly precious!" Densely packed schematics and equations swam across the pages—a language only masters of theory could decipher. Let Raya Lucaria's dogs find it. This was the real prize: Implanted Magic Circuits, one of the two original heresies.
Here's the polished version with all content preserved and enhanced for impact:
Fusing glintstone into flesh, etching circuits onto skin—turning the human body into a living staff. For common mages, this would be as pointless as stripping naked to fart. For Throne's brutal artistry? Divine revelation. No more staves as crutches. Another leap beyond his star-frost sword-staff hybrid.
Even Lusat, that walking library of arcane mastery, still relied on external foci. His own staff was a masterpiece beyond lesser mages' comprehension—yet its amplification felt like chains to Throne.
Traditional theory treated glintstone as the core, the staff as a transformer channeling power through delicate spellwork circuitry. This research burned the transformer. Made the body the conduit. Raw glintstone energy flowing direct. Methodology? Amplification ratios? Throne didn't care.
He snapped the tome shut. Rose. Three steps toward the exit when his boots ground to a halt. The back of his neck prickled. He turned—half expecting to see her there in the gloom, glintstone mask glinting, chin propped on one hand like she'd been waiting centuries. "Teacher," he muttered to the empty air, "I'll crack Godrick's jaw open soon enough."
No hesitation now. The door slammed behind him. A decade's dormant battle-lust surged through his veins like molten silver. Golden Lord. Shardbearers. You're in my way. Consider yourselves target practice.
The stairwell spat him back into daylight. He'd barely oriented himself south when hoofbeats shattered the quiet—a cavalry unit in full rout. Their Banished Knight captain led the charge, but these were no triumphant conquerors. Helmets missing. Breastplates dented. Blood streaking their tabards like war paint.
Throne's brow furrowed. Then torchlight erupted across the road—dozens, no, hundreds of flames bobbing in pursuit. A roaring tide of Tarnished in scavenged armor, weapons glinting. "Think Stormveil's walls will save you?" "We'll tear that castle down and hang Godrick from his own battlements!"
Frontrunner of the mob? Vyke, of all people. Mission accomplished then. Throne's lips curled. He'd set this test expecting to bail them out after locating Sellen—lure the tiger, then circle back. But Vyke? The kid hadn't just survived. He'd lit the fuse on a powder keg.
Godrick harvesting Tarnished limbs? Unforgivable. We return as the Greater Will's chosen blades—and you dare treat us as livestock? "You swallow these fairy tales whole?" Owen twisted in his saddle, spittle flying. His retort died when he saw Vyke—an arrow's fletching protruding from his thigh, yet still gaining ground. "Then stand and fight! Let's settle this at Roundtable Hold. If I'm lying, take my head!" The knight spurred his mount harder.
Guilt alone would've sent him fleeing. But Stormveil's new "butchering block"? That stench couldn't be scrubbed away. Not with this many witnesses baying for blood. Every stride made his complicity clearer.
Owen's knuckles whitened on his reins. He'd make his stand here—buy time for his men to burn the evidence—when the outpost came into view. No sentries. Just dark stains creeping beneath the gates. Someone had already slaughtered the garrison. These bastards planned this. The realization hit like a crossbow bolt.
The outpost wasn't safe. This wasn't a leak—it was a massacre. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, including a knight and a Pumpkin Head Soldier. Someone had planned this, striking both ends simultaneously. The question wasn't how. It was who. Roundtable Hold. Were they making their move against His Highness?
Only the Tarnished's inner circle had the resources for this kind of strike. Their target? His Highness's great rune. Owen clung to a sliver of hope as he approached the outpost. A flash of silver cut through the air. He ducked low on his horse, feeling the rush of wind above his head. Behind him, two screams echoed.
He turned. His jaw clenched. Two cavalrymen—fully armored in chainmail—lay skewered on a single spear. Who could do that? His gaze snapped up. A swordsman vaulted over the wooden fence, his movements fluid, almost flickering. A variant of Bloodhound's Step? The figure darted forward with terrifying speed.
Throne moved like lightning. His blade erupted in a storm of wind, clashing with a greatsword wrapped in its own gale. The clash echoed like thunder. The force scattered the storm, knocking a nearby noble knight from his horse. Their eyes met. Thorne's stare was savage; the knight's flicker of hope vanished. This wasn't strength. This was raw power.
No Tarnished from Limgrave could fight like this. Owen knew the local experts by name. This warrior was an outsider. And there was only one place he could have come from: Roundtable Hold in Leyndell. Owen gritted his teeth, pushed his opponent back with a burst of force, and spurred his horse northward. He didn't look back.
Thorne slid back several meters, steadying himself. He didn't chase. He didn't need to. The plan was already in motion. These men had to live. They'd carry the news back to Godrick—that Roundtable Hold was coming for him. Let them scheme against shadows. Thorne stepped forward, pinning the noble knight underfoot as the man tried to rise.
His blade hovered above the knight's trembling eye. The knight's hand froze, inches from his sword. Thorne glanced at the Castle Morne crest on the man's surcoat, then turned to the approaching Tarnished. His gaze was cold, indifferent.
The blood-soaked swordsman radiated menace. The Tarnished stopped in unison, their courage faltering. Vyke's lips pressed into a tight line. A thousand questions burned in his chest, but none found their way to his tongue. "Stop chasing," Thorne said, his voice low. "Let these stragglers return to Stormveil." He kicked the knight's sword aside, grabbed him by the collar, and tossed him toward the Tarnished.
"Pry his mouth open. Build the evidence chain quickly." "Yes!" The Tarnished snapped into action. They stripped the knight to his undergarments, binding him tightly. When they looked up again, Thorne was gone. His blade sheathed, he vanished into the darkness. The Tarnished exchanged uneasy glances. Who had exposed the conspiracy?
Everyone knew Vyke. He'd played his part well. But this nameless swordsman—he felt like the real mastermind. Vyke stood there, dazed and confused. He'd acted on orders, but with so many eyes on him, he couldn't admit it. Still, the young man kept his composure. He had to.
Now was not the time to distinguish credit, so he reached out and shouted: "Lord Isshin, in that outpost..." Throne, who had already reached the edge of the torchlight, stopped and turned back. "You are the hero who exposed this conspiracy. Finish the rest of the work; our fellow countrymen are still waiting for answers."
Under the gaze of everyone, he gave all the credit to the other party with a single sentence, spread his palm, and clenched it into a fist. "Don't worry about the outpost; there—"
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In the outpost, the corpses had been cleared away, leaving only bloodstains on the ground, and cheers were carried by the night wind. "Long live 'The Dauntless' Vyke!" "Salute to the hero who exposed the despicable conspiracy!"
Who knows how many people were patting Vyke on the shoulder, saying they had long known he would make a name for himself, leaving the confused young man grinning foolishly there. The cheers were certainly sincere. The interrogation of the prisoner had yielded results: Godrick was indeed secretly capturing Tarnished.
As for what he was capturing them for, the poor knight didn't know, but the Tarnished weren't stupid; combined with Godrick's abilities, they could infer it. In this way, Vyke's contribution was confirmed, and its significance was quite substantial. If he hadn't used himself as bait to expose the conspiracy, who knows how many Tarnished would have fallen victim? This indirectly saved many lives.
As a low-level Tarnished who did not fear power and dared to sacrifice, this must—and indeed had to—be a hero. The so-called hero was not a level of strength in Throne's sense, but something linked to prestige. While related to power, it wasn't entirely about strength, not to mention that this person was generous and distributed all the equipment of Godrick's lackeys to everyone.
In short, Vyke became famous, and who knows how many people were jealous to the point of turning red, thinking to themselves why they hadn't encountered such a thing. As for Throne's origins, they were hidden beneath the hero's radiance. He had said himself that he was only an executor, so that was certainly not a problem. After all, who would complain about having too much fame?
Ordinary Tarnished would explore a cave and be dying to brag that there was a dragon inside. Not to mention that for low-level Tarnished, fame was far more important than strength. As long as one was noticed by those above and became a candidate, assigned a finger maiden, wouldn't becoming stronger just be a matter of crushing runes? "The Dauntless?
I have to thank this kid for taking the blame for me, and this matter can be put to good use." Throne sat across the main road, detached from this lively scene. It wasn't that he was pretending to be aloof; fame was just poison to him. Oh right, through this burst of cheering, Throne remembered another thing.
Powerful Tarnished would all have nicknames, just like in the Water Margin, representing the unanimous affirmation of the heroes, equivalent to being elected by a group of people. Then, today's events would spread throughout The Lands Between through the mouths of Tarnished wandering everywhere.
That's right, Tarnished also knew how to brand themselves, making people feel they were very reliable and very badass. But as for me, forget it. The latter half of the night was a bit chilly, so Throne simply lit a campfire. If his past were spread, a long string of titles would be inevitable.
Death Eater. Honorary Carian Knight. Demigod's Favorite. Academy Destroyer. Cleanrot Knight's Ally. Savior of Caelid. Throne smirked, fingers tapping against his thigh. "Empty titles. Useless as tarnished gold."
Fame had its uses—but not like this.
His mind sharpened the moment he decided to deal with Godrick. The gears turned, plotting against that oblivious, grafting fool. Limgrave would burn soon enough. Godrick's pride was thicker than his grafted limbs—he'd never submit to an investigation. Not that it mattered. The demigod had dug his own grave.
A smarter man would've covered his tracks. Godrick could hack off every stolen arm he'd stitched to himself and it wouldn't change a damn thing. The truth was simple: the Tarnished—no, the Roundtable Hold—needed a first blood. The weakest demigod made the easiest target. Guilt didn't factor in. That great rune on his rotting flesh? That was the prize.
"Why's he lasted this long?" Throne snorted. "Godrick isn't weak. Just hard to find. The madness hasn't consumed everything yet. War still decides who keeps the runes—not some heroic duel between champions."
In reality, no boss would be stupid enough to stay in the deepest part, waiting for you to kill all the minions and generals before coming out to duel.