When it came to cooking and cleaning the room, only Rya could compare to her; she was truly the most considerate maid. No, that's not right. Why am I proud of such trivial things! Melina shook her head, just as Sellen walked over.
Unfazed by the heat, she tore off a piece of meat and chewed on it, before giving her assessment after a long pause, "The skill is mediocre, not even half as good as my apprentice."
Melina, who had just reminded herself that she wasn't a maid, was stunned. She instantly gritted her teeth and retorted aggressively, "What did you say? Even a land squirt wouldn't eat the things Throne makes. How does that compare to me?"
Sellen was particularly skilled at dancing in a minefield. With an expressionless face, she said, "I am stating the truth; I have no intention of insulting you."
"That statement itself is an insult. You must have a problem with your sense of taste!"
"Everyone's taste is naturally different."
"It's not a difference; you have a problem!"
Melina emphasized again, turning to look at Throne.
"You tell me yourself, how could your cooking be better than mine? The last time I ate the porridge you made, I vomited for an entire day."
Hey, hey, hey, no personal attacks allowed. Besides, when did I ever make you vomit? Does dark cuisine come with magical attacks that can even hurt spirit bodies? Before Throne could even explain, Sellen shook her head, "To think you would vomit from the delicacies he makes; it seems you are quite ill."
I—I am quite ill? Is there no justice in this world? No laws? Melina was dumbfounded, feeling that either she or Sellen must be crazy.
Seeing the other woman's elegant and calm expression, she lapsed back into a daze, muttering to herself, Could it be that I really have a problem?
"It's almost burnt. Hurry up and eat so we can get to work. Why is there so much fuss over a meal?"
Throne clapped his hands again. If this continued, Melina would go crazy sooner or later; he had to divert her attention.
Distracted by him, Melina quickly shifted her target of hatred. She used her dagger to cut the roasted rabbit in half, threw the hindquarters to Throne, and then squinted to observe his movements. Seeing Throne eating with relish, she finally let go of her grudge, confirming that it was the eccentric Sellen who had the problem.
Sellen did not eat, but she didn't say much either, merely shaking her head slightly as she watched Throne gobbling down the food, thinking that her apprentice's taste was truly strange.
"Are we heading to the Mohgwyn Dynasty next?" She declined the rabbit leg Throne offered and knelt beside him.
"Yeah, we'll leave once we've eaten. First, we cross the snowfield, then we find that portal."
Throne ate heartily. This roasted rabbit was truly fragrant—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and delicious. Just for this, he couldn't let Sellen gaslight Melina.
"Are you sure those Bloody Fingers haven't left?"
Melina was happy and twisted the rabbit head off for him.
"The Consecrated Snowfield is so lively, and Mohg isn't stupid. He must have discovered a fatal problem."
"What problem?"
Throne chewed up the bones, swallowed them, and looked up with a joyful smile.
"His dad is back!"
The Golden City, Leyndell. Thick smoke rose from this noble, artistic city, making the light of the Erdtree hazy. This was even considered a crime; raising smoke to obscure the golden light was enough to be exiled to the borders or demoted to slavery.
But today, no one was pursuing such things. The Church of the Two Fingers had even closed its doors, as an unbelievable evil was occurring to the people of Leyndell, who always held their heads high and were always arrogant. Boom, boom, boom—iron boots and hooves trampled through the empty streets, the sound of armor clashing continuous. The windows and doors on both sides were tightly shut.
Countless armies marched through, splitting into dozens of groups that scattered into the narrow streets. Unlike many years ago, this time the walls of Leyndell were intact, and there was no coalition army blockading the inside and outside, but the raised butcher's blade was real.
Knights arrived at the gates of the mansions, took out parchment scrolls filled with names to check, then waved their hands, kicked open the doors to seize people. Soon, screams and cries could be faintly heard. Of course, not everyone was so compliant. Battles broke out at some fortress-like mansions.
Knights and soldiers wearing similar armor clashed, flames burned, and crimson blood flowed down the stairs, only to be trampled by iron boots, forming bloody footprints. Weapons collided, and Golden Order Incantations shattered sculptures and destroyed fountains.
However, the resistance was futile; soon, Night's Cavalry or Tree Sentinels charged in, using overwhelming force to slaughter anyone who dared to resist, leaving rivers of blood. Thick smoke mixed with sparks drifted upward, and the air began to fill with a heavy scent of blood.
Beneath the Erdtree, in front of the throne, Godfrey sat crouched on the ground, one hand supporting his head, breathing in the foul, bloody air and listening to the wails and screams. His white braids moved with the wind. There was no pain or pity in the King's eyes; instead, he was filled with pleasure from the stimulation of this slaughterhouse, issuing orders as he watched.
"There is an expert in the Third District. Hmm, they actually scattered half a century-squad. Dionia, you go there; I'll give you five minutes to resolve it."
"What about the Tree Sentinels? Have them ambush the area near the temple. People will likely go to find the Two Fingers, so just kill them all, lest I waste my breath."
"What do the Finger Readers say? If any opposition from the Two Fingers is relayed, kill them too. I will go and apologize personally afterward."
Amidst his cold words, a squad of armored troops would inevitably head out, and the resistance would be quickly extinguished. Facts proved that even if the nobles hid mercenaries or even Hero-class powerhouses, in the face of absolute power, all preparations were futile.
The expeditionary army had not yet returned from the snowy mountains; this was the best opportunity. And as for killing nobles, Godfrey had no psychological burden; he was even a bit bored because they were too weak to pique his interest.
"Is this all the preparation they have? It's truly laughable—they aren't even worth me making a move, yet you wasted countless hours on these swine."
Godfrey looked to his side, where his son Morgott was gazing at the city of blood and fire. Morgott gripped the railing, even squeezing cracks into it. The royal capital, which he had tried every means to maintain in balance, was now plunged into blood and fire; it was a great irony.
"Father, isn't this loss a bit too great? Should we bring it under control?"
He saw that everyone, from dukes to counts, including the Council of Six Houses, who were on the list, was being slaughtered or arrested—usually slaughtered.
"Foolish. Since we have decided to act, do not harbor any pity."
Godfrey snorted impatiently and clenched his iron fist—"When the pig is fattened, it is naturally time to bleed it and eat the meat!"
Godfrey was not ignorant of political maneuvering, but to him, one must first possess the qualifications to make him use his brain, and clearly, these nobles did not qualify. The whispers after banquets, the schemes in dark rooms, the hidden daggers in elegant speech—all these things were too troublesome for Godfrey, even nauseating.
When power was sufficient to crush all resistance, why should he waste time? When time was pressing, why should he use hypocrisy to form alliances? The incident at The Shaded Castle was enough for them to die a hundred times over. So, there was no forgiveness, no hesitation—let them die. The slaughter was reaching its climax. The more steady Morgott withdrew his gaze.
He was not naive enough to harbor pity for these nobles who were secretly conspiring to rebel, but the number of people dying was simply too high. Soldiers with red eyes rushed into houses to rape and plunder. The wails and cries drilled into his ears, making his past persistence a joke. The corpse of that huge Ancient Dragon looked like it was mocking this slaughter from every angle.
"Father, we cannot afford to lose too much strength. There will be trouble when the army returns."
"You are wrong. Only by severing the chains of resistance will they obey obediently. Do you see this group of city guards?"
Godfrey pointed to those soldiers who were killing until their eyes were bloodshot—the city guards who were known for being weak.
"As soldiers, they are usually the servants and slaves of the nobles, but what about now?"
Morgott did not speak. The city guards were actually just free labor for the nobles of the royal capital and were never allowed to leave the city to fight. His repeated attempts at reform had been met with lip service, and these frenzied soldiers looked extremely foreign to him. They were venting, raising their butcher's blades toward the high-and-mighty masters, each one of them incredibly brave.
"Art and a life of leisure can only make them degenerate. Only blood can give them rebirth. After experiencing a few more victories, we will have gained a massive elite force."
"But are you not afraid of being consumed by this slaughter?"
"Consumed? I welcome anyone to challenge me. Absolute power brings terror, and terror brings order. Right now, I have no time to play political schemes with them."
Morgott was left speechless. Indeed, Godfrey's strength was sufficient to suppress all discontent and hatred, but what if one day someone even more powerful than him appeared?
"The cries and hatred of the weak are meaningless. To gather the remaining strength of the Golden Order and clean up this mess, one must use thunderous methods," Godfrey said bluntly, waving his thick mantle.
"And you, who have suffered defeat after defeat, are not fit to tell me how to do things!"
Morgott glared, the veins on his already hideous face bulging, but in the end, he chose not to be a rebellious son. Godfrey was right; after the defeat at the Mountaintops, continuing with a soft approach would only be a waste of time. Hadn't the Church of the Two Fingers already chosen to remain silent by default?
In the past, the Two Fingers would have certainly approved of Morgott slowly dismantling and dividing opposition. But now, a decisive and ruthless king was needed to sweep away the chronic illness through slaughter. This was also a form of wisdom—a wisdom acknowledged even by the Beast Regent, Serosh.
"But you still cannot become King!"
The passage into the Erdtree was right behind them, but the Erdtree rejected everyone. Whether it was Godfrey or any other hero, whether they possessed a great rune or not, the throne would remain vacant.
"Hahaha! That is why you are still far from ready. A King does not need the recognition of others, for strength is the only reason to become King!"
The towering King laughed wildly against the backdrop of the bloody storm, his deafening voice leaving everyone speechless. As long as one possessed power, they could become King first and settle the formalities later. Once everything was razed to the ground, why worry about not being able to break through the Erdtree's thorns? Morgott remained silent. He saw rivers of blood in the noble estates.
Duke Berwyn of the Council of Six Houses stumbled into the street, dragged by unseen hands. A knight stepped forward, greatsword gleaming. The blade fell. Berwyn's head rolled, his luxurious silk robes drenched in crimson.
Nearby, the high-born son of an Earl cowered in a dark alley, only to be skewered by a hail of spears, his body turned into a grotesque sieve. Red-eyed soldiers roamed, sacks of loot slung over their shoulders, smashing priceless artworks too cumbersome to carry.
Morgott closed his eyes. Destruction was necessary for creation. The Golden Order's deep-rooted corruption demanded a bloody purge. The thought stirred something in him—a flicker of exhilaration. You slandered me, plotted against me, hindered me at every turn while I fought to salvage this crumbling world. You even dared to use The Shaded Castle incident to fuel your rebellion. Very well—do you remember the bite of steel? Do you recall that the Golden Order was forged in slaughter and conquest? Strength crowns the Elden Lord, not your votes or recognition.
"It seems you finally understand," Godfrey said, a smile playing on his lips. "Only the victor sets the rules. If we fail, even the Golden Order will vanish. Why fret over the hatred of survivors?"
His gaze drifted to the distant plume of smoke, where a knight with a round shield clashed fiercely with Dionia, their struggle locked in deadly equilibrium.
Godfrey watched for a moment, his expression shifting to one of mild interest.
"That lad Christopher. Still as stubborn as ever."
Morgott followed his gaze and recognized Ancient Dragon Knight Kristoff. The man led a small faction in the Royal Capital, commanding a band of Dragon-hunting Knights. They were formidable yet apolitical, their sole oath to protect Leyndell.
"Their loyalty is to the city. Seeing your blade fall so mercilessly, he couldn't stand idle," Morgott observed.
"Foolish," Godfrey spat, hefting his colossal axe onto his shoulder.
"I've spared the hundreds of thousands of civilians. When the true enemy arrives, they'll learn what a butcher's blade truly is."
He turned, his voice sharp.
"I'll go over there. I'll be back soon."
Before the words faded, Godfrey crouched and leaped. The platform beneath him shattered as he launched like a cannonball toward the battlefield kilometers away. The force of his departure sent a gale tearing through the air, scattering stones and forcing Morgott to shield his face. Watching that silhouette vanish into the distance, Morgott felt a surge of emotion. The Elden Ring was shattered, order in chaos.
Only this kind of power could restore it. As he pondered, the image of that Carian Knight flashed in his mind. Once the chaos is quelled, what will you wield against such might?
Throne glanced up at the Erdtree in the distance. It wasn't telepathy that connected him to Morgott's thoughts. Moments ago, while crossing the snowfield, he'd encountered scouts from the Leyndell army, proof that they still lingered in the Consecrated Snowfield.
Logically, they should have reached the Altus Plateau by now. Waiting for the dust to settle? Godfrey knows how to weigh a person's value. Throne smirked, a self-deprecating twist to his lips. Nobles were expendable to that King, but soldiers—soldiers were precious. He wouldn't risk a single unnecessary loss.
"Why have you stopped again?"
Melina approached, her eyes scanning the barren landscape for threats.
"I'm looking at the Erdtree," Throne replied.
"That tree's always been there. What's there to see?"
"You're wrong," Throne said, his voice low. "Right now, beneath the Erdtree, rivers of blood are likely flowing. Godfrey wouldn't bother with deception or feasts. He'd uproot every last opponent."
Though they'd met only once, Throne understood Godfrey well. In him, he sensed a dominance even more overwhelming than Radahn's. The man was ruthless, a believer in the stark truth: stand with me and thrive, oppose me and perish. Only the Beast Regent's restraint had delayed the bloodshed this long.
"Godfrey… has finally returned?"
Melina's voice turned grave, the weight of his name pressing down like a storm cloud.
"Who else could command an army to freeze in this icy hell?"
Throne's tone was casual, but his smile soured.
"And his return… means that debt will fall on us."
If Throne hadn't rewritten the history of The Lands Between, Godfrey, ever suspicious, would have stayed buried in the past. Throne loathed the corrupt nobles, but rationally, their incompetence had been a boon, dragging Morgott down. Yet, that's what made it interesting. Throne inhaled deeply, his pulse quickening, blood surging through his veins.
Without him, The Lands Between would have rotted into oblivion over centuries, with only a handful of demigods clinging to fading hope. But now, with the Erdtree blazing and the lands flourishing, it was the perfect stage for kings and heroes to clash.
"Godfrey needs time to secure Leyndell fully. We must move quickly."
The wind and snow erased their tracks. By afternoon, Yelough Anix came into view. Throne had been here not long ago, but the thriving mountain town was now ruins. The tavern's drunken patrons were gone, their raucous laughter buried beneath snow. Even the craters from their fierce battle had vanished under winter's shroud.
Time consumed everything, yet Throne felt no sorrow. As a human wrecking ball, he'd seen too many ruins to mourn.
"Huh, that Astel's gone."
Throne scanned the surroundings; the dark, otherworldly aura was absent. He glanced at Sellen's disappointed expression.
"Teacher, we're not here to hunt for experiments."
"It's nothing. I was just curious about a fallen star."
Sellen set aside her regret, her nose wrinkling slightly.
"Mmm, that aura is… desirable. I'd love to peel it open, dissect it, study every inch of its body."
Finding a sanity-draining monster desirable? She's got a touch of the yandere in her.
"Stay alert. Leyndell's scouts are everywhere now. Melina, take the lead. Use your nose—see if you can catch the stench of blood."
"I'm not a bloodhound…" Melina muttered, but she obeyed, sniffing the air as they moved northwest into a frozen forest. Suddenly, she raised her hand.
The scent of blood was faint, but Throne caught it. He crouched, brushing away the snow to reveal frozen droplets beneath. Whoever did this was skilled—only someone of considerable strength would have noticed.
"The Bloody Fingers are still here. These are remnants from their interrogations."
"Disciple, how did you figure that out?" Sellen asked without shame; in terms of strategy, she was far behind Ranni.
"Simple."
Throne straightened, his gaze fixed on the howling cliffs ahead.
"If Godfrey returns, he'll kill that rebellious son sooner or later!"