Dragging Leyndell into this was his only path to the Haligtree. His leather boots creaked against the worn floorboards as he climbed the staircase.
"Henricus," Throne asked abruptly, "why did you join the Recusants?"
The Recusant didn't turn. He'd known for a while now that this so-called Chief Knight was cut from the same cloth. They shared something, a dark thread that bound them.
"Power. Freedom. Revenge against the liars in high places. Whatever they cherish, we'll tear it down."
Henricus' voice dripped with venom, thick and biting.
Throne wasn't here to preach love or peace. No saint walked this path. Everyone at this point had blood on their hands, ghosts in their wake.
"Are all your companions dead?"
"Yes. We fought for the guidance of Grace. Turned out it was all a lie. The Tarnished can never become Elden Lord."
"Bernahl said that?"
"No. We saw it with our own eyes."
Henricus didn't elaborate. He pushed open the great door, and light flooded in, banishing the manor's gloom.
The spire at the top of Volcano Manor offered no grand vista. Cliffs hemmed the manor in, a prison of stone. Henricus gestured across the chasm.
"Lady Tanith wants you to eliminate the target over there."
Throne looked up, saw nothing at first. Then memory stirred. That place. His interest sparked. He'd suffered against that thing before, and it was strong—perfect for proving his allegiance.
"Need to prepare?" Henricus asked, his tone dismissive. They were all Tarnished, after all, just with different fates.
"No. Tell the attendants not to clear lunch yet. I'll be back shortly."
Before Henricus could reply, Throne put two fingers to his lips and whistled. The Glintstone Dragon, reluctant but obedient, took flight. By the time Henricus registered the movement, Throne was already gone.
The dragon climbed higher, and Throne saw it: a platform across from the manor, a massive pit at its center. Inside lay a monster, pitch-black, its body like stone. Long, narrow pincers protruded from its mouth, resembling a grotesque beetle.
A Fallingstar Beast. Throne's jaw tightened. This thing had plummeted from the sky, a weapon of celestial destruction. The terrain was treacherous—any approach would invite a brutal strike.
The Star Beast sensed the dragon's presence and scrambled to its feet, pincers splitting wide in warning.
"Adula, you go first," Throne murmured, patting the dragon's head. He leaped from its back.
Hostility hit him like a wall. A beam of purple light tore through the air, alien and sharp. Not Gravity Magic.
The light struck a cyan barrier, fracturing into a dozen smaller beams before dissipating into shimmering particles. Throne descended against the fading energy, his right arm raised. Glintstone crystals encased his fist.
He struck. The impact echoed, muffled but deep. The Star Beast's massive head sank into the ground, its front hooves stomping down in response. Stones flew. Purple light surged.
Throne felt his body float. He crossed his arms, bracing as the beast's tail whipped toward him. The blow sent him skidding backward, his boots carving tracks in the earth. He frowned at the scratch on his vambrace.
"Trying to ruin my armor again?"
The Fallingstar Beast gave no reply—only a furious charge, hooves pounding earth, crystalline pincers flashing like cleavers. Throne stood his ground. A sweep of his ring summoned it: three feet of tempered steel, its tip crowned with a crimson gem that caught the dying light. He raised the blade level, bracing for impact.
When the azure glow gathered at the sword's edge, it wasn't just light—it was a river. A torrent. A screaming comet of condensed night that tore through the air and hammered the beast backwards. Smoke coiled from its obsidian hide where the heat had scorched deep.
Sword of Night and Flame.
Legendary weapons don't earn their names by being subtle. The blade's edge still shimmered with residual energy as the beast staggered upright, shaking its massive head—only to find the knight vanished. Its pincers twitched in hesitation before it jerked its gaze skyward.
Throne fell like a meteor, his sword already wreathed in fire. The downswing wasn't a cut but an eruption. Flames engulfed the beast, the hill, the very air—everything became kindling.
The creature didn't bother smothering the burns. Instinct drove its hooves down in a seismic stomp. Boom. Gravity inverted. Stones and embers lifted in a fiery veil above its head, a desperate shield.
Throne pierced through the fire-mist like an arrow. He felt the twist of unnatural gravity—and laughed. You think that's new to me? His armor weighed more than an anvil now, rooting him to the earth as the beast reared up, towering. Let it stand like a man. Let it face the falling star.
CRACK. The impact split boulders. The hill trembled.
Missed strike? No matter. Throne saw the beast's hooves rise again and moved—a blink-step forward, palm slapping dirt for balance. His eyes flashed gold as the sword hissed low, aiming for tendons. A snap of shattering crystal. The beast toppled, tail lashing wildly, crushing rock to powder in its thrashing.
"Hey. What are you doing?"
The knight didn't answer. He gathered starlight in his free hand and drove the blade home through flailing limbs, straight into the creature's core. Zero range. Maximum output. The azure beam lit its insides like a lantern before obliterating them entirely.
Sword of Night and Flame. Full discharge.
"Skilled."
The word drifted from the opposite cliff, where a robed figure watched, fingers steepled. His beard was regal, his face square—but his eyes burned with hunger.
"Precision like a surgeon. No wasted motion."
Rykard rarely praised outsiders. Volcano Manor had warriors who could slay Fallingstar Beasts, but none so... economical. That monster should have taken a company of knights hours to whittle down. Yet here it lay, smoking.
"You think it's the sword?"
A voice answered from the shadows where sunlight didn't reach, its cadence odd, laced with archaic turns.
"A blade's only as sharp as the hand that holds it. Give him a rock. He'd still crack its skull open."
Rykard grinned.
"Exactly."
The Fallingstar Beast writhed, its chest gaping wide, claws scrabbling against the earth as it tried to rise. The knight released his straight sword, leaped with fluid grace, and purple light coiled around him like a living thing.
"See? He doesn't need the Sword of Night and Flame at all."
The knight—Throne—landed like a meteor, his boot slamming into the beast's spine with the force of a thousand pounds. The impact drove the creature's lower body upward, seesawing grotesquely. Powerful, yes, but brute strength alone wasn't enough. Swish—
He drew the Dark Moon Greatsword, twisted his torso, and swung it behind him in a whip-like arc. The blade's light burned thick and blinding.
Standing at the edge of the gaping wound in the beast's chest, Throne brought the greatsword down with a crisp crack. The lower half of the Fallingstar Beast split cleanly in two.
"Don't move."
The creature wasn't dead yet, thrashing wildly, but Throne planted his boot firmly on its head. He shifted the greatsword to a reverse grip and drove it down with brutal force. Hard against hard.
The sound of shattering glass echoed as the beast's struggles weakened, then ceased entirely. Its body stiffened, lifeless.
"He reminds me of Radahn. Crisp, clean, dominant. Even when there are tricks to exploit, he prefers to kill his opponents head-on."
Rykard's voice dripped with admiration—and greed. What a knight!
Perhaps the strongest beneath the demigods. The figure in the shadows spoke sparingly, tone indifferent.
"He's yours. We want her."
"Each gets what they need. How pleasant."
Rykard's lips curled into a smile that almost looked honest. Almost. But his expression froze as the knight's gaze snapped toward him, those red pupils locking onto his.
Being discovered was expected. What came next wasn't. Throne crouched low, his body glowing with purple light as Gravity Magic reduced his mass. Then—
Run-up. Sprint. Jump. His figure arced through the air, tracing a parabola that spanned over a hundred meters.
He tapped the Glintstone Dragon's head mid-flight, leaped again to the manor roof, and sprinted once more. The third jump landed him perfectly on the opposite cliff. The Recusants watching tilted their heads, dumbfounded, as Throne soared over them and landed heavily on the northern cliff.
Throne touched down silently, crouched low with a straight sword in one hand and the greatsword in the other. He paused for two seconds, then rose slowly. The weight of his armor, paired with the legendary weapons, radiated oppressive power.
"Good afternoon, Lord Rykard."
His greeting was flat, his gaze flicking toward the shadows.
A moment ago, he'd felt two pairs of eyes assessing him. Now, only one remained. Rykard blinked, caught off guard by the knight's audacity. Jumping over like that was rude—but undeniably direct. As a demigod, he maintained his composure, nodding slightly.
"Knight, you are powerful. How was the Fallingstar Beast's strength?"
"Mere gravel. Not even half of me."
Throne's reply was matter-of-fact, his expression unchanging. Rykard stared, then laughed.
"Hahaha, very arrogant. But young man, don't be too impetuous."
"If not impetuous, can you call it being young?"
Throne didn't mince words. He sheathed the Sword of Night and Flame and pulled an exquisite envelope from his chest.
"This is a personal letter from Lady Ranni. Please take a look."
Aggressive, dominant, proactive—Throne didn't hesitate. His timing was impeccable. Knowing Rykard meant him harm, he disrupted the demigod's pace. Want to plan slowly? That depends on whether I give you the chance. Rykard's expression twisted briefly, his agitation barely concealed.
The plan shattered the moment it began. Throne's dominance against a demigod was unexpected—as if he were the true apex predator. Attack now? No. The others are watching. And if he flees, I can't guarantee I'll stop him.
His hands flexed, claws scraping against his palms. The last shreds of restraint held him rigid.
Throne's gaze never wavered, muscles coiled like a spring. Fight me. Tear off that mask. Then I'll have every excuse to rally Gelmir's forces and burn you out of existence. You've fed on flesh for years—don't pretend otherwise. Clarity was his weapon. He knew Rykard's hunger. Rykard didn't know he'd been seen.
This encounter confirmed it: the serpent hadn't fully consumed him yet. He's still new to feeding it. Not completely lost. Clone or not didn't matter. Only his next move did.
Three heartbeats of silence.
Rykard snatched the envelope, lips curling.
"Ranni's handwriting. How many years has it been?"
"Her Ladyship misses you."
Throne let his shoulders drop, tension bleeding away. Greed and patience don't mix. Yet here you are, holding back. Perfect control. A cold satisfaction settled in his chest. I'd prefer a mindless beast. At least then I wouldn't have to think.
The envelope remained unopened. Rykard's smile didn't flicker.
"I miss her too. Leyndell… ah, Leyndell."
His voice frayed at the edges. A shake of his head.
"No matter. Ancient history."
Then, louder, rallying: "With Caria and Gelmir united, we're unstoppable!"
Just as quickly, he pivoted.
"But the details require thought. Tanith will send word."
"You're unwell."
The demigod's patience thinned.
"I suffered a serious injury in that battle a dozen years ago and haven't fully recovered yet. You should go back and wait for news."
Dismissal hung in the air, but Throne didn't move.