"Wait."
Throne turned, anticipation flickering in his gaze, only to be met with a cold light that swelled in his vision. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the hilt of a blue greatsword. The blade pulsed faintly, its glow reminiscent of the Dark Moon itself.
"Are you not asking for a reward? Take this sword," Ranni said, her voice steady, her eyes deliberately avoiding the knight at the door.
"I am here, waiting for your return."
The Dark Moon Greatsword—a weapon traditionally bestowed upon the consorts of Caria's Queens. But what of the Dark Moon Ring? Why skip the proper ceremony? Throne's lips curled into a faint smirk, as if he understood the gravity of the blade in his grasp. He hoisted it onto his shoulder with ease, waving a hand dismissively.
"Alright, I'll be back soon."
......
Midsummer gripped The Lands Between in a sweltering embrace. Thankfully, the Erdtree's vast canopy blunted the sun's harsh glare, making the heat bearable. The rhythmic clatter of hooves shattered the silence. Throne, now clad in a gray travel robe, rode his Spirit Steed, galloping across northern Limgrave. To one side stretched the endless sea, to the other rose jagged mountains.
The sea roared with crashing waves; the mountains stood cloaked in dense forests. The landscape was alive, vibrant. This region had become a showcase of sorts for The Lands Between. Most of it had fallen under the control of the Tarnished, save for a handful of nobles who had shifted allegiances. Every day, Tarnished from distant lands arrived here, drawn by opportunity.
Compared to the hollow promises of the Greater Will, tangible rewards were far more enticing. For ten years, they had endured nothing but scorn, never imagining they might one day rise to prominence.
The Tarnished owed their gratitude to the 'Nameless Hero.' The great runes were beyond reach, but the legacy he left behind had enriched them all. With peace restored to Liurnia and the Cuckoo checkpoints dismantled along the Eastern Road, commerce flourished even more than it had after The Shattering.
Dementia spread, yes, but before it could claim most, humanity clung stubbornly to order.
Whoa—
Throne tugged the reins, bringing his warhorse to a halt. Stormveil lay behind him now. Glancing back, he saw the fortress bustling with activity, though Godrick's banners had been torn down, trampled into the mud by the passing crowds.
Another sign of the Golden Order's unraveling, intensifying the friction between the old nobility and the Tarnished. No wonder the Two Fingers had no time for Caria. The Erdtree was a sinking ship, its hull riddled with leaks. They had too many fires to extinguish.
'Either eradicate Caria entirely, or don't act at all. Whether it's the Two Fingers or Morgott, they can't afford another failure.'
Throne chuckled. If the Golden Order lost even its façade of strength, who would believe the Golden nobility wouldn't turn rogue? Once you reached a certain status, even demigods found themselves entangled in politics.
These intangible struggles weren't just about raw power. Had Throne not met Ranni, he might have chosen the solitary path of the Tarnished.
Flicking his robe, he dismounted, stretching his stiff back.
"Sigh, if only I could teleport between Sites of Grace like the Tarnished. I've already lit the bonfire in Caelid, yet here I am, trudging there step by step. My body's about to give out."
As he spoke, Torrent nudged his hand gently, as if to say it had done its best to make the ride smooth. Throne, who had crossed Liurnia in a single breath, stroked the Spirit Steed's head and laughed.
"I'm not blaming you."
Running on foot had its own rewards—the scenery unfolded differently, revealing the strange souls who populated these lands. He'd seen them all: the merchants who never raised a blade, just trudging between outposts to scrape together runes, their combat skills sharper than any hero's yet their spirits dull as rusted iron.
Not warriors. Not even proper cowards. Just living set pieces waiting for some protagonist to cut them down and feel powerful.
"And yet—" He guided his horse into the dappled shade of the woods, dismounting with a creak of leather.
"—their pathetic existence makes this world breathe."
The illusionary mask clung to his face, etching decades of hardship onto features that knew none. Combined with the greatsword's hilt jutting over his shoulder, the disguise was flawless. No old comrades would hail him. No dramatic reunions waited in the shadows.
A perfect deception.
And suddenly, terribly lonely.
Melina's absence gnawed at him. Ranni's clever fingers had no doubt threaded some trap into their accord—summon the spirit too often without cause, and he'd return to a tongue-lashing sharp enough to flay skin.
"At least you're simple."
He scratched Torrent's bony forehead. The spectral mount responded by slathering his cheek with a tongue like wet parchment. Dependable creature. Never complained. Never betrayed.
"Enough."
He wiped his face on his sleeve, eyeing the Tarnished encampment beyond the trees.
"You've baptized me in horse spit."
......
Liurnia had been fruitful. Strength. Ambition. Even something resembling love—the trifecta warmed him like good brandy.
Strength first. Few kills, but each one weighted with significance. Even Matthews had been hero-grade, his death cracking the bottleneck in Throne's magic. High-tier sorceries now—Comet Azur's blue fury, Meteorite's crushing descent—tools that could gut armies.
Godrick's Great Rune pulsed in his veins, remaking his flesh. The Crystal Armor's glintstone plates winked under his cloak, the Crucible's tail coiled at his spine. Melee no longer meant certain death.
Then there were Ranni's gifts. Moonveil reforged to a keener edge. The Dark Moon Greatsword resting against his back—indestructible, singing with lunar energy, hungry to carve the night into ribbons.
"Closer," he murmured, slapping his thigh. "Every step makes me harder to break."
Godrick was the measuring stick. Not the pinnacle, but the threshold where pretenders fell away. Above him waited legends. Below, corpses.
Numbers meant nothing. Leyndell could flood the roads with Tree Sentinels and still lose. Power was the foundation, but purpose—that was the compass.
A month ago, his goals had been simple: survive, kill those who sought his head. Now?
Now there were stars in his eyes and a witch's fingers laced through his. Topple the Erdtree. Remake the world. Liurnia was just the first footfall on that path.
Timing mattered. Place mattered. Most of all, strength mattered—the kind that turned mad dreams into inevitabilities instead of drunken boasts.
Throne exhaled, watching his breath fog in the evening air.
Ten years ago, he'd have been laughed out of every tavern for speaking such ambitions aloud.
Tonight, the wind carried the sound of crumbling golden bark.
As for romance, Throne couldn't help but reveal a gentle smile. After some maneuvering, the distance between him and Ranni was almost zero. If it weren't for the Lunar Princess being so thin-skinned, perhaps they would have gone further. The greatsword on his back was enough to prove everything.
Even Melina had blossomed. He'd finally completed the initial psychological groundwork.
Sigh, but how are she and Ranni going to get along? His smile froze. Throne instantly felt a headache. Thinking of Sellen, who was nowhere to be found, he took a deep breath.
"I must not cause any more trouble this time, or I'll die a miserable death." Throne muttered to himself, taking the opportunity to reflect on his own charm.
In fact, he had noticed that the Night Maiden Annelina was quite interested in him. She had suggested they go to Nokron together, but he was too afraid to provoke her and had left ahead of time. He had too many debts to worry about, but they were deadly.
"I'd better finish things quickly. Only after that tree is burned will I have the energy to deal with these troublesome matters."
Throne's mind was still very clear. He knew what the most important thing was right now. He continued to stare at the camp not far away, where cheers from the Tarnished could be heard. Presumably, there was some good news. He thought for a while, then put a horse blanket on Torrent to hide its horns, causing the latter to shake its head in dissatisfaction, making a purring sound.
"Bear with it. Let's go see what this group of Tarnished is up to."
Purr—
"Alright, alright, I know you can turn into spirit form, but if so many people see me riding you and then the horse disappears, it will inevitably arouse suspicion."
Throne seemed to understand what Torrent was saying. He fed it a few Rowa Fruits, and the gluttonous Spirit Steed immediately stopped complaining.
As a transmigrator, Throne placed great importance on the Tarnished, these unstable factors; in the original history of The Lands Between, they were the protagonists of this era.
The camp was not large, and under the effect of the Illusion Mask, Throne now appeared as a tall, weathered, and burly man; he looked like someone who could fight well, so no one was bored enough to come and provoke him.
Killing ordinary Tarnished no longer yielded much reward, and Throne did not want to resort to bloodshed without reason. Looking around, he discovered that the origins of the Tarnished in the camp were quite diverse. There were barbarians, clergy, and sorcerers, all wearing various equipment, clearly hailing from different regions of The Lands Between.
Ahead, a few people were proclaiming some sort of decree, and he recognized the person in the center.
"Old Knight" Istvan? Throne reined in his horse and stopped on the outskirts, listening carefully, and finally understood what the Tarnished were doing. They were dividing up territory. Along with Godrick's army, the various nobles of Limgrave had also met their end.
With the Two Fingers nodding in approval and Morgott tacitly consenting, the original feudal system had collapsed. The nobles' populations, castles, and assets were being brought out to be divided up; in truth, this was the greatest change brought about by Throne, the butterfly.
The Tarnished, who were previously unable to make it to the main stage, finally had official status. The Roundtable Hold, which originally functioned like an adventurers' guild, finally possessed substantive power and a wise leader.
Istvan picked up a piece of parchment and read aloud: "Following discussion by the Roundtable Hold and a passed vote, we bestow upon 'Earth-Shattering Steel Axe' Blackguard the title of Guardian of Chelona Village!"
Clap, clap...
Enthusiastic applause erupted all around. A burly, bald man carrying a large axe and wearing leather armor stepped forward immediately. He was hulking but seemed a bit shy, constantly rubbing his bald head.
Throne asked around casually and learned that Blackguard had always been active over in the snowy mountains and was also a Tarnished hero, though previously he only had a cooperative relationship with the Roundtable Hold.
A name he hadn't heard before, but he looked quite powerful.
Throne stared at the burly bald man, then watched other Tarnished go up to receive their rewards, and couldn't help but sneer. If not for the changes in Limgrave, such a powerful Tarnished might have died silently during some exploration, but things were different now; it felt quite like having the heroes of the world in the palm of one's hand.
"A Guardian is just a noble by another title, isn't it? There are many powerful individuals among the Tarnished; is there enough land to go around?" He continued to chat intermittently with the Tarnished nearby. Perhaps because they saw Throne looked formidable and wanted to befriend him, these Tarnished were quite forthcoming.
"Brother, you don't understand. Strength is only one aspect; what's important is completing the various tasks of the Roundtable Hold."
A thin man waved his hand and lowered his voice: "For people like us, becoming a Guardian is an extravagant hope, but we can obtain the qualification to enter the city. Stormveil is not only safe but also very prosperous."
Oh? So they are using Stormveil as a stronghold.
That makes sense; the few people at the Roundtable Hold couldn't possibly occupy such a massive fortress, so it's better to divide it up, while also binding these fools to their war chariot step by step.
"It's not just that; there's also a chance to enter the ranks of the Roundtable Hold, or even become a Roundtable Tarnished. There are twelve seats in total, and every one of them is a true big shot."
A burly man carrying a pumpkin hammer chimed in. Twelve Roundtable Knights; what kind of stitched-together monster is this? Throne was speechless and asked: "Are they the highest authority governing Limgrave?"
"Yeah, one vote each; a proposal passes with a majority. See that? Even a Tarnished as powerful as Blackguard has to obediently listen, probably because he also wants to occupy a seat."
The assassin-like thin man continued, his face filled with something called 'desire.' "Since there are rewards, there must be obligations, right? What happens if someone takes the benefits but doesn't do the work?"
The assassin glanced at Throne as if looking at a fool and made a throat-slitting gesture: "The Round Table Assassin will take your life; even heroes cannot escape their hunt."
There's an enforcement agency too? Throne thought for a moment. He had dealt with the Round Table Assassin before; that group wasn't much individually, but together they were terrifying.
Absolutely obedient, perfectly coordinated, cold-blooded and cruel—they could be called the trump card in Sir Gideon Ofnir's hand. Together with a few heroes, they could even kill demigods. After all, in The Lands Between, the advantage of a righteous gang-up is massive.
Unless one is an overpowered powerhouse or immune to physical damage, anyone would find it a headache to have a pile of debuffs stacked on them.
Just as Throne was lost in thought, the topic had completely veered off track. The Tarnished were talking over one another, all looking toward the future.
"Don't look at it as just ruling Limgrave now; the Elden Lord will inevitably emerge from here. When that time comes, even if we can't be king, we can at least get a share of the credit, right?"
"That's right. I've been back in The Lands Between for seven or eight years and had forgotten what I was fighting for. Now, I finally have something to look forward to. The Roundtable Knights eat the meat, and we can at least have a sip of the soup."
"Huh, didn't you say you wanted to be the Elden Lord?"
"Can you take drunken bragging seriously? There is only one seat for the King, and you have to compete with those terrifying demigods. How is that any different from suicide?"
"Hahaha, actually, I'm the same. Thanks to Sir Gideon Ofnir, even a low-born fellow like me has a chance to get rich."
Hearing the noisy voices in his ears, Throne actually calmed down. The Tarnished were not idiots who didn't know the height of the sky and the depth of the earth; they were fundamentally different from things like Ashes. If The Lands Between were in decline, everyone might still have some extravagant hopes, at most competing with each other.
But now, the demigods were getting more fierce one after another. Rushing to challenge them, one would probably be hacked into pieces by thousands of minions before even seeing the demigod themselves. Isn't that just throwing one's life away? Therefore, the bait of being the Elden Lord had no appeal at all.
The Tarnished were not hot-headed youths; why would they flock to their deaths for something so illusory? So, they changed to something else to stimulate the fighting spirit of the Tarnished?
Throne frowned and subconsciously pinched his chin.
This could be considered an open conspiracy; it was laid out on the surface, but others couldn't learn it anyway. 'Turning the final gain of one Tarnished into the common dream of all Tarnished—it has a bit of the implication that when one person attains enlightenment, their chickens and dogs ascend to heaven. And others can't learn it; the interests under their subordinates have long been divided up.'
Turning individual interests into collective interests—this is a quite brilliant strategy. Weren't the Tarnished just unable to submit to one another and lacking a central figure? The world bustles for profit; let profit be the king. The world of adults is just this cold and ruthless.
On the chessboard of The Lands Between, there is never such a good thing where you can place your pieces without letting others make their moves. One after another, the actors take the stage. Throne had already swallowed the fat piece of meat that was Godrick, and the Roundtable Hold could only drink the soup.
But they drank it quite cleverly, sharing this bowl of soup with others and providing a ladder for advancement. The torches flickered. Throne looked around and saw excited Tarnished everywhere, each face shining with something called 'ambition.'
Ten years after coming to The Lands Between, there was finally a goal to strive for. How many people become the Elden Lord to save the common people? Isn't it all for supreme power, as well as that incomparably beautiful goddess in the legends? A series of maneuvers had tainted the originally sacred mission with the filthiest things in the world.
Throne was not nervous; he just stroked his horse's head, calm and composed. Sir Gideon Ofnir, he really does have some tricks up his sleeve.
That night, Throne, who had just returned to Limgrave, saw a new scene once again. This scene, filled with desire, was quite peculiar, yet it failed to make him feel the slightest bit of tension.
This is what makes it interesting. If it were all just a bunch of mindless NPCs standing there waiting for him to eliminate them, then The Lands Between would be far too boring.