The young woman's breath brushed against Throne's skin, light as a feather. It didn't stir much in him — just a faint tickle. His thoughts remained focused, sharp, methodical. He confirmed three things, each clear and precise.
First, Fia could vaguely sense the death power he consumed. Combined with the physical truth, her cooperation made perfect sense.
Second, the Deathbed Companion's embrace siphoned a sliver of his vitality. A negligible amount, barely worth noting.
Third, the act itself — this embrace — functioned as a ritual. For her, it was a test, a way to determine friend from foe.
When they parted, Throne studied her face. Satisfaction lingered there, but something else too. Something off.
He glanced at the two Tarnished who had watched the entire exchange. Their approving nods only deepened his unease.
"This is my gift in return," Fia said, her hands opening to reveal a sphere of light. At its center, a pattern shimmered — a symbol resembling the secret temple of a bedchamber.
The Blessing of the Baldachin. That was it? Throne didn't crush it. It had its uses, however small. He tucked it away, a tool for later.
"Are you satisfied now?" he asked.
"Yes."
She lowered her head, her movements strangely alluring. For her, this was enough. Only those unburdened by the fear of death could receive her embrace. It wasn't something to be faked.
"I look forward to meeting you again."
The thunder of hooves rolled through the air as she curtsied to Throne and waved to her companions, their arms heavy with supplies.
"Let's go," she said.
He watched them vanish into the woods, their figures swallowed by the trees. A scoff escaped him.
"Thank the stars Ranni's doll activates passively. Otherwise, I'd have some explaining to do."
He swore to himself, to the heavens, to anyone listening — this embrace was purely experimental. He'd unraveled the source of Fia's power. She siphoned vitality from heroes, stored it within herself, and transferred it to the dead when she lay with them. A bridge to the afterlife.
It sounded noble, selfless even, but there was no tangible gain. Like Melina, Fia was one of those who lived for a purpose, a mission.
"Lucky for me the Golden Order rejects death. If she embraced everyone she met, she'd level up far too quickly."
Throne shook off the thought. He erased the traces of their departure, every footprint, every stray breath. Then he looked up. He could feel it now — a presence, ancient and nearing. Not overwhelming, but old, deeply old.
According to Ranni, they were remnants of a major faction from the ancient era, crushed before the Golden conquest. A destroyed nation. They had gods once. Heroes. Laws. Grace. They represented another will, another order. And now, with the world in chaos, they crawled out of their graves, monsters and demons long buried by time.
Death was coming. Not the ordinary kind. This was a force from the ancient era, a power that had once shaped the world. Throne didn't care who had killed them or how they'd fallen. In The Lands Between, death was a thankless role. The Erdtree's first step to dominance had been to seal it away.
Even without the war of the gods, the Erdtree would have destroyed them. Their fate was written long ago.
"A Deathbird would be manageable," Throne mused. "But a Death Rite Bird? That's trouble. At least most of their kind are already gone."
Throne, as if he couldn't hear those thunderous hoofbeats, opened the box and pulled out the deathroot. Black light pulsed from it, and the moonlight dimmed as if blotted out by some unseen force. He looked up. There it was — a monstrous bird, its appearance horrifying, descending from the sky.
The creature was a grotesque fusion of nightmare and flesh. Its black wings were stunted, barely functional, while its spindly limbs stretched unnaturally long. The skull-like head resembled that of an infant, twisted and malformed, with a pair of razor-sharp beaks protruding from its face. Its mere presence was enough to etch itself into the darkest corners of one's mind, a living embodiment of terror.
Ugly, yes, but this ugliness was its weapon — a mental assault that could paralyze even the bravest soul.
Thud!
The force of its landing sent a gust of air rippling through the clearing, making Throne's cloak billow like a shadow caught in a storm. They stared at each other, predator and prey, though which was which remained unclear.
The Deathbird's skull-like head shot forward, lightning-fast, its beak aiming for flesh. Death was its lure, its gift. But the strike missed. Throne hadn't offered grace — he'd withdrawn his hand. The creature tilted its head, its hollow eye sockets fixed on him, confusion mingling with malice.
"Sorry," Throne said with a faint smile, his voice calm as he tossed the deathroot into the air. With a single slash of his sword, the cursed object split in two, crumbling to dust before it hit the ground.
Physical attacks shouldn't have mattered, but the Deathbird sensed something was wrong. Death itself was being devoured by this man.
The air seemed to freeze, the tension palpable. In a blink, the Deathbird struck again, its crowbar-like hooked club swinging with brutal force.
Clang! Throne's greatsword intercepted, the impact lifting him off the ground. The creature's beak darted forward, inches from his face.
Fast. Faster than thought. Yet Throne was already moving, retreating with precision as the Deathbird pursued, its wings spread wide. The hooked club and beak rained down like a storm, relentless and chaotic. There was no finesse here, only raw, savage violence.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dust swirled in the air, the ground scarred with afterimages. Throne moved like a dancer, weaving through the onslaught before halting abruptly. A greatsword wasn't just a weapon — it was a shield. He held it one-handed, its broad blade serving as a barrier before his chest.
The hooked club slammed into it with a deafening boom, rebounding slightly. Then the beak came again, sharp and unyielding.
"Peck my ass!"
Throne growled, his crystal-covered fist smashing into the beak with equal ferocity. The collision sent him skidding back several meters, while the Deathbird let out a shriek, cracks spiderwebbing across its skull-like head.
It shook itself, ready to charge, when two arcs of moonlight sliced through the air.
Dark Moon Cross Slash — a horizontal slash followed by a vertical chop, the light of the Dark Moon forming a glowing cross. Pure energy surged forward, roaring like a beast.
Boom! Boom! The explosions echoed, moonlight dissipating into the night.
The Deathbird barely managed to block with its hooked club, but the force knocked it off balance. It tumbled across the ground, feathers scattering like ash. Crack! A towering tree bent under the impact, its trunk groaning in protest.
When the creature looked up, Throne was already airborne, suspended a dozen meters above. He flipped mid-air, the Dark Moon Greatsword blazing with violet light. Gravity Magic amplified its weight, turning the blade into a devastating force.
Clang!! The strike hit the hooked club dead-center, driving it down into the Deathbird's shoulder.
The creature showed no pain, its beak snapping forward to strike at Throne, now within arm's reach.
Throne didn't dodge, simply extending his left hand to meet the beak, a blade of radiant light forming in his palm.
Pfft! The beam pierced the skull like molten iron through cheese, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The Deathbird screamed, a sound that echoed with the anguish of the damned. Even this harbinger of death feared holy incantations above all else.
Throne thrust his hand into the creature's core. The light blade dissolved, replaced by a glowing crest etched into his palm.
Haima — Explosion.
A high-level spell he'd mastered at Raya Lucaria Academy, born from Leon, head of the Haima Classroom. If the Cannon of Haima was a mortar, this was an armor-piercing shell.
Cyan light seeped through the cracks in the Deathbird's bones. Its body bloated, then burst with a deafening boom. Black feathers and bone fragments rained down, each piece wreathed in cyan and white spirit flames. The sky burned with eerie brilliance.
Throne landed lightly on the ground, his boots barely disturbing the ash.
This Deathbird was no dragon. It belonged to the lowest tier of messengers in the death system. Killing it was trivial. What struck him was the familiar aura it left behind — death older than deathroot itself. How ancient were these creatures? What secrets did they carry?
These weren't mere remnants of magic, nor the frequency shifts of Golden Order Incantations. They were primal, instinctual. Throne had sensed this energy a decade ago. Now, it confirmed what he already knew: it wasn't enough.
He straightened his back, feeling none of the familiar surge from the reincarnation of the present world. Emptiness gnawed at him, sharper than satisfaction ever could. He raised his right hand. No sacred seal, no catalyst — just a flickering spirit flame dancing in his palm.
"It's like the power of plundering dragons," he mused. "Both require a foundation before stacking power. Why? Do they each have a god behind them?"
He didn't linger on the thought. The hoofbeats had stopped. He turned his head. A group of Tarnished stood on the cliff's edge, their warhorses restless. Vyke and Tragoth led them, their gazes fixed on the scene below.
Spirit flames drifted across the sky, framing the figure of a man holding a greatsword. He looked eerie, mysterious. Vyke's breath caught. He recognized the spirit flames of death. His first thought: they'd encountered a powerful Tarnished, someone who'd dealt with the Deathbird before they arrived.
Then the man transformed. The spirit flames surged toward him, forming a vortex. In an instant, he was engulfed, not burned to ash but cloaked in flames. Throne stood there, a Death Knight wreathed in fire. He had devoured the main portion of the Deathbird's power. The rest he absorbed, filtering it through himself.
A terrifying pressure washed over the Tarnished. Their warhorses reared, throwing riders to the ground.
Vyke stiffly turned to Tragoth. "He's devouring death?"
How many years had it been? The mystery was solved. The Death Eater wasn't just alive — he was stronger than the legendary nameless swordsman. A burly figure, a fierce greatsword, and a violent aura. There was no mistaking him.
"We're lucky," Tragoth said with a bitter smile, his face grave. "To actually encounter the Death Eater."
The Death Eater had actually infiltrated the Tarnished, and judging by this power, he should be a high-ranking member. The air froze. Vyke leaped off his warhorse, launching himself off the cliff.
"Everyone, attack!" he shouted.
As a Tarnished hero with lofty ideals, he would never retreat, nor would he tolerate this.
His sudden movement sent shockwaves through the remaining group.
"Damn fool!" Eina sprinted after him.
Finger Maiden Tina reacted instantly, golden sigils flashing from her fingertips as she cast her incantation. Vyke's body erupted in radiant light.
Across the field, 'Great Horn' Tragoth drove his warhorse over the cliff with a brutal stab to its flank — the beast leaped into the void with a pained scream.
The other Tarnished hesitated. A ten-meter drop would shatter their bones. They wheeled their mounts toward the winding path instead. The demon's display of power hadn't broken their spirits — not with examples like Vyke charging ahead.
Throne watched the shield-bearing warrior close the distance. That reckless streak hadn't faded. A small mercy he'd diversified his skills — familiarity between them was a liability now. One signature move would expose him.
"Come on, then."
He gripped his sword with both hands, muscles coiling. The blade came down like a meteor strike.
The impact sent a shockwave ripping through the earth. Spirit fire roared along the fissure. Throne wasn't wasting his new power — might as well make it flashy. The explosion tore through the distance, a ring of force expanding outward.
Vyke's shield buckled. The hurricane-force winds lifted him off his feet. Spirit flames licked at his armor, their cold burn seeping through the metal.
The Finger Maiden's golden wards held — barely. As Vyke tumbled midair, Tragoth's voice boomed behind him.
"Vyke, down!"
The warhammer wielder came in low, crossbow already firing. The bolt whizzed past Vyke's visor. An absurd pairing of weapons.
Throne deflected the projectile with a flick of his wrist. His gaze lifted just as the armored behemoth came barreling down the slope — a goat in full plate, hammer raised.
The earth shattered on impact. Shockwaves ripped through the mist, scattering the haze. Trees trembled. Throne landed a dozen meters back, boots skidding through dirt.
No Starlight step — just raw draconic strength. The spear thrust through the settling dust made his jaw tighten. Performance was torture. Every withheld technique chafed. But what twisted human perception faster than —
His irises burned gold.
Of course, it was fear, and the most intuitive destructive power!
Thud!!