Moonveil hummed with quiet satisfaction, its resonance carrying an unspoken lesson:
Truth is irrelevant. What matters is the logic I'm about to impart.
The torchlight flickered, casting erratic shadows across the silent station. Bodies sprawled from the doorway inward, the massive forms of two Trolls impossible to miss. The slaughter stretched to the far end, where soldiers who'd attempted to scale the fence hung suspended, pinned mid-air. "No one's going to step forward and stop me?"
Throne stood motionless at the center of the Rivers of Blood, his blade glistening with fresh blood. His gaze locked onto the two-story building. The station's garrison lay annihilated, yet no experts had emerged. Not that it would've mattered. He was just a Tarnished upholding justice, nothing to do with any Primeval Sorcerer. He glanced to the left.
The Tarnished across the main road froze under his stare, then hastily retreated south. They weren't fleeing out of fear—they were leaving to uncover the truth. Holding the moral high ground and killing within the bounds of law meant no one could challenge him. As their gazes shifted away, Throne frowned and scanned the horizon.
The moon hung bright, the forest rustled softly, everything seemed normal. Yet Throne couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. That gaze—it had to be the same one from the forest. It wasn't someone from Godrick's Army; they'd have fled or reinforced by now. Who was it?
Throne's irritation simmered. His faked death had been flawless, airtight. This lingering scrutiny gnawed at him. Hiding in the shadows, showing just enough to taunt—if I catch you, I'll rip your head off. With a cold snort, he sheathed his blade and strode into the small building. A warehouse, stocked with food and supplies.
His boots creaked against the floorboards, the air thick with the scent of mildew. A hidden place, rarely entered except by soldiers moving supplies, guards stationed outside. Throne's heartbeat quickened. Sellen's face—intelligent, beautiful—flashed before his eyes.
Even after ten years, his teacher might still be waiting here, though the odds were slim. "I just hope she didn't hear about my death and rush out for revenge." He swallowed hard. Choosing to slip away during the clash of demigods had been selfish. His 'suicide' was his own doing—who could Sellen even seek vengeance against?
He'd left a backup plan. In the letter he'd given Alexander when they parted, one request stood out: Sellen must not act impulsively. She must wait. If she couldn't, she could go to Caria. What consequences that might trigger, he couldn't guess. "I trust Alexander to deliver the message.
I just hope Teacher stays calm this time." Throne's bitter smile faded. Explaining his resurrection was impossible; if the Erdtree's people found out, they'd hunt him relentlessly, perhaps even neglecting the reforging of the Elden Ring.
He took a deep breath, tapping the floorboards with his scabbard. Thud. Thud. He moved toward the inner room, pausing at last. The floor beneath was hollow. He stepped back, studying the marks carefully, and his heart sank. Someone had tampered with it.
Throne wedged his sword between the grain sacks and pried them open. His blade struck metal—a handle. He pressed his ear to the floorboards. Ragged, labored breathing echoed from below. Not his teacher. His expression hardened. He slipped from the warehouse back to the corpse-strewn clearing.
Torchlight carved shadows across his face, shifting between grim determination and cold calculation. He snatched a burning brand and hurled it through the warehouse window.
The explosion came instantly.
Flames licked up the walls like the battle had spilled fire by accident. They slithered through windows, devouring grain, transforming the building into a roaring pyre within seconds.
Throne stepped back. Watched. Waited.
The beams groaned, cracked, then—
The two-story structure collapsed in a shower of sparks and splintered timber. A massive hand burst from the wreckage, followed by a hulking figure wreathed in fire. Pumpkin-shaped helmet. Spiked flail. A wordless howl as flames seared its flesh.
Throne's pulse steadied. No ambush. No mastermind. Just a Pumpkin Head Soldier—strong as a high-ranking knight, but still one of Godrick's mindless brutes. His fists clenched. "So Godrick's hand is in this after all."
No ordinary Tarnished could've breached this place. They'd have been pulp before ever seeing what lay inside. Anyone who killed the Pumpkin Head would've been hunting Sellen. The trail would lead straight to them. "I was going to Liurnia after finding Teacher. Godrick... you're digging your own grave."
His grip tightened on the hilt. The enemy had prepared. Good thing he'd prepared an excuse first.
The Pumpkin Head lunged from the inferno, crashing down before him. Fire had blackened its muscles, sent it into a frenzy. These things were rarer than knights in Godrick's army. Whatever twisted bloodline birthed them, they were perfect killing machines—just no brains to speak of.
"You—" The Pumpkin Head's guttural growl cut off as its helmet swiveled, taking in the slaughtered soldiers littering the ground.
Woken from underground slumber by fire. Woken to dead comrades. Nothing left to discuss.
"Die!!"
The flail whipped through the air, splitting the earth where Throne had stood. He rolled, palm slapping dirt as he sprang up, blade flashing toward the creature's throat.
Thunk.
A meaty forearm blocked the strike. No armor—just thick hide. The sword punched through muscle. The soldier roared, clenched its fist to trap the blade, and slammed its helmet forward.
Throne jerked back, twisted his wrist to wrench the sword free, flipped backward twice to put distance between them.
He landed just as the blood-soaked brute charged, flail whirling.
Crash. Crash. Crash.
No technique. Just raw, overwhelming force. Throne danced back, irritation prickling his nerves. He hated these monstrous types.
Worse—someone watched from the shadows. No magic. No reducing this thing to pulpy chunks. If anything defined Throne, it was his swordplay, his fusion of blade and sorcery. 'Lucky I don't need to go all out against this freak.'
Cold eyes tracked the berserker's advance.
Even restricted to martial arts alone, he wielded the strength of a top-tier knight. This Pumpkin Head raged with berserk fury, but a mindless brute couldn't best him. Bloodhound's Step. The swordsman's form flickered, ghostlike, his movement technique unnervingly precise. The Pumpkin Head thrashed wildly, relying on instinct alone to bombard the space around it.
After a dozen frenzied swings, its movements slowed, its breath heaving like an overworked ox. Throne didn't rush. He played the part of a cat toying with its prey, gathering energy into his blade with each pause. Storm Thrust. The pale sword carved luminous trails through the dark night.
The Pumpkin Head Soldier wasn't entirely brainless. It crossed its arms to shield its vitals, but its thick muscles were no match for the slicing sword energy. Deep gashes opened on its arms, ribs, and thighs, blood pouring onto the ground. "Not bad," someone murmured. "Using footwork to outmaneuver that Pumpkin Head. Is that the Storm Sword Technique? Didn't expect anyone to have learned from a Banished Knight."
"That idiot's about spent. Time for the counterattack," another voice whispered. The Tarnished observers exchanged hushed words. No sooner had they spoken than the swordsman surged forward, charging head-on.
The Pumpkin Head's flail swung sluggishly now, striking only air behind the swordsman. That hesitation was fatal.
The blade plunged deep into the Pumpkin Head's chest. With both hands, the swordsman wrenched the sword sideways, tearing open half of the creature's chest cavity. Blood gushed freely. As the Pumpkin Head crumpled to its knees, the watching Tarnished erupted into applause.
"Fine swordsmanship," one remarked. "And that blade—it's enchanted." Before they could finish, a long spear slammed into the ground before them. Throne raised his blade, casting them a sidelong glance. "Get lost. All of you." The sword flashed. A head tumbled to the ground, blood arcing high. The Tarnished shrank back, fear tightening their throats, and scattered like leaves in a storm.
"Time to go, time to go," they muttered, retreating hastily.
Throne spat on the ground, irritation sharp in his gaze. "Damn fools, providing commentary while I'm killing someone." He didn't spare a glance for the headless corpse slumped forward. His eyes lifted to the warehouse ahead, now mostly reduced to ash. A few charred beams still smoldered, the floorboards entirely gone. A once-solid structure now lay in ruins.
Not that Throne cared about the destruction. His gaze fixed on the gaping hole at the center of the wreckage. Pitch black and impossible to see into, it resembled a basement entrance.
Expressionless, he stepped into the smoking remains, descending the scorching stone stairs. Below lay a basement spanning hundreds of square meters. The walls and floor were paved with bluestone, clearly renovated with care. Directly ahead stood an iron door. Throne approached but didn't touch it. His eyes scanned the surroundings, catching faint glimmers of magic.
A magical alarm seal. This wasn't Sellen's work. Its purpose was simple: open the door, and the setter would be alerted. It was subtle, meticulously placed. If Throne hadn't been a seasoned sorcerer, he'd never have noticed it.
"An alliance between Godrick and Raya Lucaria Academy," he muttered. "But there's a big shot behind the scenes pulling strings." The conclusion came swiftly. With her Thopss Barrier, Sellen could outmatch several sorcery professors. For them to come here would be suicide. So, who was it? Morgott? Or Maliketh?
Throne certainly knew he had implicated Sellen, and many things had changed, but that was no reason for him to retreat. Taking a deep breath, he dug his fingers into the bottom of the iron door and destroyed the alarm seal without hesitation. Teacher, I'm here!
Click, click, click... The gears were churned by brute force, and the seal was destroyed directly. An invisible force transmitted into the distance; as a high-level magical seal, it perhaps even possessed a function to capture a snapshot of the scene. But Throne wasn't afraid. He was just a Tarnished upholding justice, and he hadn't come here to find any witch, merely out of curiosity.
A gust of musty air filled his nose. Throne instantly judged that this place had been abandoned for several years. Once he saw the interior clearly, he let out a long sigh of relief. Inside was a small room, cleaner than if a dog had licked it. Clearly, someone had already searched it, but this was good news for Throne.
There was no big shot waiting silently, nor were there any traces of battle; this place was merely bait. He reached out to stroke the blue bricks of the wall, as if he could see a witch here, deep in thought, often too lazy to even eat, occasionally clutching her chin, waiting in solitude for a man's return. Sorry, I'm late. Throne sighed, but he couldn't blame himself for this.
He had now confirmed that Sellen was safe and sound; otherwise, there would definitely be traces of a battle left behind. "Where did Teacher go? And when did she leave?" He didn't know, but he had some clues. For instance, Godrick was definitely involved, though prying the mouth of this demigod open wouldn't be easy.
"I originally intended to pass through Liurnia, but now it seems I'll have to settle old and new scores together." Throne snorted, his long-suspended heart finally settling. It was good that Sellen was fine; with her abilities, there really wasn't much in The Lands Between that could trap her, so there was no need to rush around looking for her.
It was just a pity he couldn't begin his journey with her. After taking such a long detour, Throne finally confirmed Sellen's whereabouts on the fifth day after waking up. Clearly, people like Vyke were just passersby. He turned around, ready to continue his journey, but his gaze inadvertently swept over the rock wall, and his feet stopped subconsciously. Hm?
The blue bricks on the wall had circular pits of varying sizes, arranged very irregularly. It looked like a piece of performance art created by some bored sorcerer, but Throne knew Sellen wouldn't be bored, nor would she smash a stone cave for fun.
He leaned in to look, not knowing what kind of message it was meant to convey, but his heart stirred, and he took an amulet from his spirit-calling ring. This was Sellen's parting gift, the Graven-School Talisman. Back in Sellia, he had even used this to trick a group of Primeval Sorcerers, and he had kept it in his ring ever since.
But these circular pits of various sizes reminded him of the shape of the amulet, so he compared them one by one. "Too big, too small, why is there an oval one? Huh, this one fits perfectly." Throne's hand stopped. He indeed found that a certain circular pit in the center was an exact match. After a moment of thought, he simply pushed the amulet into it.
It was indeed a perfect fit, and the moment the amulet was inserted, he felt a surge of energy radiating from the center of the pit, spreading in all directions. The wall vanished like a bubble, and the magical scene made Throne's eyes widen.