Tanith nodded silently. This Carian Knight seemed incredibly formidable. If she didn't grasp the upper limits of his strength, what if they suffered an unexpected defeat? Not only would they fail to devour him, but they would also invite a mountain of trouble.
"And the other half?"
"For myself. Only after going to Caelid did I realize there are many heroes in The Lands Between—like that Death Eater, the swordsman named 'Isshin,' the Flowing Swordsman, and this knight. I seek revenge, and this sword is not yet sharp enough."
Bernahl spoke quietly, his eyes revealing the vicissitudes of life and a deep sorrow.
"You should become one with Lord Rykard. Why seek a path of your own?"
"His path is too dangerous. If one cannot even maintain their sense of self, what is the point of revenge?"
Bernahl did not lash out at the poor suggestion, merely shaking his head again.
"Remind Rykard not to let greed blind him. This man... is not easy to eat."
Everyone knew this Chief Knight was not to be trifled with, but Tanith shook her head, a mix of worry and fanaticism flashing in her eyes. No one can stop Lord Rykard now!...
"I'm back."
Throne walked slowly back into the room, cracking his neck as he moved. When he opened the door, he saw that Melina was already asleep.
The young girl was slumped over the back of a chair; she raised her head somewhat dazed and asked, "Do the people of Volcano Manor never rest? Why did they call you away so late?"
"You, a spirit, have no right to talk about others!"
Throne was too tired to complain. This was a change he had caused, so he poured a glass of water to moisten his throat.
"They're stalling for time. They need to gather all the various characters near the volcano to throw me a grand 'welcome party.'"
"And you're just going to wait?"
"I want to see what he's actually up to. He probably wants to eat me and then shift the blame to someone else to avoid Ranni coming for revenge. He should still have that much rationality."
Throne shrugged.
Knowing the outcome now, he wanted to see how clever little Rykard would play it.
"Oh, right. There's a duel tomorrow morning."
"You???"
Melina's sleepiness vanished instantly. She couldn't understand what this man was doing; Volcano Manor didn't seem like an arena.
"Yeah, me and Bernahl. Don't worry. Although this Tarnished is powerful, he's still no match for me. I have to give Rykard some hope."
Throne set down his glass and said thoughtfully, "Besides, Bernahl knows the truth. Rather than being ganged up on by him and Rykard later, it's better to disable his right-hand man first."
Melina nodded, only half-understanding. It sounded like this battle was necessary, especially since the other party had initiated it. However, she remembered something else.
"Aren't you afraid of being exposed? I remember that mask isn't meant for combat against strong opponents."
The Illusory Mask was, after all, a mere trinket; it couldn't withstand the rigors of a battle between powerhouses.
"Silly."
Throne reached out and tapped Melina's head. He snapped on a helmet with a long, grey-white plume, restoring the dark moon armor to its complete form.
The helmet was similar to that of a Banished Knight; once worn, only the eye slits remained, and it looked as if he had a mane of shoulder-length white hair.
"I don't believe they can recognize me like this!"
In the early morning, the hot winds of Mt. Gelmir howled. A large crowd of soldiers stood solemnly on the open ground before the manor. This was not far from the mountain pass, where the Leyndell Army's main camp was located. They couldn't fight their way in, and the manor's forces couldn't fight their way out, creating a sort of equilibrium.
The Recusants moved like an unstoppable tide when deployed. Bernahl stood apart, helmet cradled in the crook of his arm, his face exposed—black hair matted with sweat, beard grown wild over months of neglect. Only his eyes remained steady, unshaken.
The approaching Recusants hesitated.
Henricus wiped blood from his lip.
"Picking a fight now? Have you gone mad?"
"Worried about our alliance crumbling?"
"Damn right I am. One dead hero and we'll have civil war on our hands."
Bernahl snorted.
"Pointless. He sees me as a whetstone. The outcome changes nothing."
His record spoke for itself—every Recusant beaten into submission, Henricus once buried face-first in mud. This merciless competence forged their strength. Lesser men would've fled from the tension crackling between them.
When others opened their mouths to protest, Bernahl silenced them with a raised gauntlet.
"Enough. He arrives."
Dawn light carved two approaching silhouettes.
The lead knight's armor swallowed all but his eyes, each step compressing the earth beneath his sabatons. No ordinary steel—this was a second skin forged for conquest. The sheer presence radiating from him made onlookers question whether even the Lunar Princess could match such raw dominance.
Bernahl's spine straightened. Spectators gasped.
Throne's mind raced elsewhere.
Choosing this battleground deliberately... bait for Leyndell's scouts.
A skirmish here would echo louder than felling any Fallingstar Beast.
Unless Morgott's men were blind and deaf, they'd come running. Then the blame for whatever corpse cooled on this field could be laid at Leyndell's feet. Clever—but small thinking. Wait until I paint the Altus Plateau with enough chaos to summon the entire Golden Host.
His focus snapped back as armor joints hissed.
The Tarnished before him demanded reassessment. Prepared as he was, seeing Bernahl coiled for battle revealed new depths. Among countless faded warriors, only two had ever brushed against kinghood—
Vyke, whom he'd led to ruin.
And this man.
Both could've claimed the throne. Both now stood against the Erdtree. Vyke's potential was still unfolding last we met... but this one? Has he plateaued?
Throne's fingers twitched. Bernahl should've decayed into despair—a washed-up instructor drilling recruits in some backwater. Yet sorrow wasn't surrender in those eyes. Disillusioned with Rykard's path, yes, but still hungry to witness if devouring led anywhere except madness. Had the serpent's degeneration sapped his will?
The answer came as Bernahl shifted stance, tectonic plates grinding beneath his feet.
Throne grinned. Crushing a demigod at their peak—that was the only sport worth playing.
He extended a hand sideways without looking.
"Melina. The sword."
No eye-rolls permitted in this sacred moment. She bowed, presenting the relic with both hands.
Bernahl's breath hitched.
"Destined Death?"
"You carry the Blasphemous Claw."
Throne tested the blade's weight.
"Call this even."
Steel whispered free.
The air screamed as blackened flames erupted along the edge, licking hungrily at reality itself. Bernahl's pupils contracted. No thief could wield this—its presence here meant something far worse than theft had occurred.
Bernahl's hand rose, his greatsword settling into a high guard.
"A shame," he muttered, his voice low and edged with regret. "So little Destined Death remains. Unreplaceable."
"Good eye," Throne acknowledged, his blade lifting in kind. The crowd scattered, stepping back as though the air itself had turned electric.
He shifted his weight forward, the soles of his boots pressing into the earth. His heartbeat quickened, blood surging through his veins. Sword against sword—this was a dance he hadn't felt in too long.
Opponents like Greyoll, like the Red Wave—they were powerful, yes. But raw strength alone left him hollow. The dry wind stirred specks of dust, blurring the figures before him—
"Here I come!"
The words reached his ears a fraction late. The dust parted like a curtain, pierced by the flash of steel. Sparks erupted as their blades met, scattering the haze. Clang!!! Their greatswords locked, trembling under the force.
Throne's strength prevailed, pressing his blade downward inch by inch. Then, resistance vanished. He crouched, momentum carrying him low.
Whoosh—Clang—
The air hissed as a blade carved through it, followed by the screech of metal on metal.
Throne's eyes caught the sword sweeping above his head, the sparks illuminating his vision. Destined Death scraped across Bernahl's armor, their gazes locking—
A storm erupted. Throne's side kick and Bernahl's rising foot gathered force, colliding in a clash of greaves.
The ground beneath them cracked, spiderwebs spreading outward before caving in. Boom!!! Dust mushroomed into the air, stones flung hundreds of meters. Armor clinked as debris rained down. The crowd stared, horrified, as if witnessing monsters unleashed.
Yes—this was it. Throne's heartbeat roared in his ears.
Too long had passed since he'd faced a warrior like this—someone whose skill matched his own, not just brute force. Throne retreated, then launched himself forward again.
No strange powers, no tricks—just his martial skill, pushed to its limit. Bloodhound's Step. He darted side to side, his body flickering in a Z-shaped blur. Yet, as he looked up, Bernahl mirrored him, shuffling with lightning speed.
Figures vanished, reappeared, collided! Clang! Clang! Clang! Even the heroes couldn't track their movements—only the sparks, flashing and dying in an instant.
The Recusants watched, riveted. The Gelmir Knights' eyes widened, unblinking. Such a battle was rare, almost mythical. Their leading knight clenched his teeth, resolve hardening.
None of it mattered to Throne. He was fully alive, utterly absorbed. Hoarfrost Stomp! His foot slammed into the ground, ice mist spreading in all directions. Bernahl's quick steps faltered, his body stiffening for a heartbeat.
Then, a deafening roar. Roar!! Greyoll's Roar—Throne unleashed the skill born of the Great Dragon.
As he prepared to pounce, another roar answered. "Fight!!!"
Bernahl's War Cry countered, his face flushing as blood surged to his head. He wrenched his legs free from the frost, raising his greatsword. Airflow spiraled around the blade.
Before he could strike, the black-red edge of Destined Death filled his vision. He didn't dodge. He endured.
The incoming Royal Greatsword stabbed into his breastplate. Soul-searing pain flared—pain that would've sent an ordinary man writhing. Yet Bernahl forced his blade down, muscles screaming. Storm Blade!
The ground shredded as a tornado erupted, thick as a tree trunk, roaring toward Throne.
"You can endure Destined Death?"
Throne clenched his teeth, arms crossed tight against his chest. The high-speed airflow screamed against his dark moon armor, pushing him back inch by inch. The screech of metal grinding against air tore through his skull. Without the heavy armor, the force would've shredded him to bloody ribbons.
His boots dug into the rock, carving trenches as he was shoved backward. A dozen meters. Finally, he swung his arms wide, ripping the storm apart. The wind died—but the blade was already there, cold and swift.
Throne tilted his head, catching sight of Bernahl. The sword still jutted from his chest, yet the man moved like a predator, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Throne leaned back, just enough.
Stamp—Upward Cut. The air hissed as the blade flashed upward, carving a streak of light from breastplate to sky. Throne's eyes burned gold. His palms slammed together, driving downward against his chest.
Slap! A boot pinned his chest, but Bernahl faltered. It was like kicking a mountain. Is he finally serious?
The weight vanished as the sword wrenched free. Throne twisted, instinct driving his waist into a horizontal slash—Moonlight Slash. Clang! The half-moon arc met resistance, the force shuddering up his arm, forcing him to lean forward, grounding himself.
They were never just swordsmen. Every part of them was a weapon, raw and destructive. Bang! Shoulders crashed. Cracks spiderwebbed across the dark moon armor and the Beast Champion Armor. It was only the start. Heads snapped up. Skulls collided. Knees smashed. Elbows drove forward.
Each strike thundered through the air, explosions of force that left the onlookers cold with sweat. Fast. Relentless. If any of those blows had landed on someone else, even a knight in full plate would've been flattened into scrap.
Only Melina stood unshaken. She knew Throne was savoring this.
The Tarnished was strong—devastatingly so. But he was also the perfect whetstone. Was Throne serious? Yes. This was his full strength, but it was only one facet of the power he wielded.
The bell-like thuds echoed for minutes, a brutal rhythm finally broken by the clash of their greatswords. Stumble. Stumble. Stumble.
Throne stepped back, shaking out his numb forearms. This was the first time he'd gone all out since devouring Greyoll, and he hadn't even managed to kill the Tarnished. He caught his breath.
Bernahl fared worse. While Throne's armor bore only cracks, Bernahl bled from his chest, his head throbbing with pain.
"As expected of the second strongest of Caria. You truly live up to your reputation."