Believers eat, drink, and piss like anyone else—they just don't use runes here. Scars are their currency. Push your body too far? Take out a loan. Pay it back later with double the Grace. Nanton Bank would weep at the innovation.
Torches lined the narrow streets, their flames unyielding under the dome's false starlight. A single carriage could barely squeeze through. Red robes swarmed the lanes, rapier hilts glinting at their hips.
Those blades weren't for fighting. The lakeside spectacle proved that. Ceremonial props, like everything else here. The faithful moved like clockwork—no chatter, no hesitation. Preserve the flesh. Recite the dogma. When the day comes, bleed at the water's edge.
Whips cracked. Blades stabbed. Hands thudded to the ground. The more mutilated they became, the brighter their eyes burned. Hungry. Desperate. Even limbless, they craved greater pain. Ordinary suffering no longer scratched the itch. Masochists. Whole damn world's insane.
Throne's stomach turned. His face stayed stone.
Time was short. If anyone stumbled in from the Consecrated Snowfield, they'd find the entrance guards butchered. Not that security mattered. The Mohgwyn Dynasty had never known invaders. Strays who wandered in? They'd lose their minds before reaching the first torch.
He moved through the settlement, past believers and Bloody Fingers, past the stolen ones—humans, Misbegotten, even dragons—chained to pillars, their veins opened. Screams echoed off the cavern walls.
Throne knew madness. This wasn't art. The gods of The Lands Between had their quirks, and the losers among them clung to existence through rituals only the desperate could fathom.
At a crossroads, a Blood Priest ranted to the crowd. Throne edged closer. No interest in self-harm. He just listened. The words came fast, feverish.
"Sounds like Mohg's trying to birth a god."
Sellen frowned.
"Theology's not my forte. If he wants to please a deity, why not flay himself? All this pageantry reeks of vanity."
"Prayer's not sorcery. No logic here. Just metaphysics drenched in blood."
Throne kept listening. Strip away the Blood Noble's pomp, and the doctrine was simple: wounds and what spilled from them. Blood flows out through wounds, and could a wound be seen as punching a hole in a wall? Let the Formless Mother slither through. She's the blood. She's the gap.
Sellen tilted her head. Demigods didn't act without purpose. Wounds as doctrine—there had to be a reason.
At this moment, the Blood Priest wearing a pointed hat had finished reciting the long-winded scriptures. He waved his hand, and immediately, believers pushed over a large cart and pulled back the canvas, revealing iron railings and a large group of trembling people. Inside, dozens of people were crowded together, men and women, old and young.
After seeing the terrifying scene around the cart, they huddled together. Sounds of begging for mercy, angry cursing, and sobbing rang out, but the blood believers felt no pity; instead, they found it hard to understand. Escaping that world of pain to come to this Promised Land, they should feel happy. What is there to cry about? Truly foolish.
It doesn't matter; the ignorant will become blood pets, while those with potential will become brothers and sisters. Under the 'kind' command of the Blood Priest, the believers swarmed up and dragged the people out, and Throne frowned deeply. He was not a messenger of justice, but he had discovered a problem: these poor souls were newcomers, and they didn't look like they were here voluntarily.
Even if there were Tarnished among them, their strength hadn't reached the level where they would be caught while infiltrating. In that case—the Mohgwyn Dynasty had other entrances and exits. Intelligence comes from observation. After spending several hours observing this area, Throne indeed discovered some clues. The focus of the Mohgwyn Dynasty lies in the word 'Dynasty'.
Mohg is also not a Primeval Sorcerer who can spend centuries researching in some remote corner. He is ambitious and has always viewed himself as the new king. As a king, he should have his own subordinates, his own subjects, and his own faith. Judging from what Throne saw now, he was doing an excellent job. This evil blood cult has already formed a meticulous system.
After a thousand years of quiet development, it has also accumulated a large amount of armed forces, but these things do not fall from the sky. Taking advantage of the collapse of the Golden Order, this guy is abducting people everywhere. Those who can be manipulated are brainwashed into believers, while those with strong wills are used as livestock for bloodletting. So the question arises: how do the hunting parties go out, and how do these people get in? Relying solely on that one-way entrance in the Consecrated Snowfield, they wouldn't be able to catch a single hair.
At the very least, this new batch of goods didn't have a trace of the snowy mountains on them.
"Interesting, to actually be running such a huge business right under the nose of the Erdtree without being discovered."
Throne curled his lips, revealing a bloodthirsty smile just like the blood believers; he had clearly blended in perfectly.
Since the blood believers never chatted, he had no way to inquire among the onlookers, so he just watched quietly. Judging from their attire, they should be from the south of The Lands Between. The fallen leaves under the prisoner cart are withered and yellow, so the temperature clearly isn't low. Wait, the mud on the hooves of the warhorses pulling the cart is dark red. Could it be Caelid?
Combined with the hundreds of Bloody Fingers at the Battle of Sellia, he suddenly understood. The Mohgwyn Dynasty had an exit in Caelid, but by the time the Tarnished returned thousands of years later, this exit had long since been abandoned. This intelligence is very important. Throne had been thinking about how to escape after killing Mohg.
He looked up at this fake starry sky; at the very least, it wasn't something a demigod could break through. Looking into the distance, there wasn't even a shadow of the Siofra River area, nor was it something the Aspects of the Crucible: Wings could cross. Having an exit is fine. Once I slaughter you, I'll just run away, saving time.
Just as Throne was thinking about his next step, he furrowed his brows slightly, seeing a somewhat familiar shadow among the crowd being dragged out of the prisoner cart. A slender body, a red hood with gold trim, and that beautiful, delicate face.
"Huh, why is it her?"
Sellen was watching the commotion with her arms crossed. After hearing Throne's voice, she also turned to look and saw a flash of red. That was a golden-haired girl wearing a crimson cloak. Beneath her hood, her face looked around in terror, gripping her companion's hand tightly and refusing to let go. A Tarnished, but very weak. Sellen immediately drew a conclusion and asked in a low voice, "What, do you have an acquaintance in there?"
"Uh, I don't know how to answer this question. Let's assume so."
Throne opened his mouth, speaking with some difficulty. If he hadn't mistaken her, this was Roderika, known as 'Little Red Riding Hood.' She belonged to a minor character with a slightly stronger presence.
In the original world line, she should have been met by the Tarnished, then gone to the Roundtable Hold, and then learned from the blacksmith Hewg to become a rare Spirit Tuner. He couldn't remember the ending, but she seemed to be quite good at getting along with people. Her own strength was very weak, and her status was not high; she was just an ordinary Tarnished, adventuring in The Lands Between with a few companions. Such teams of Tarnished were numerous and very ordinary; with Throne's status, he would never have come into contact with them.
"Speaking of which, this Roderika must be cursed. Godrick was killed by me thousands of years early, yet you guys still managed to get caught by Mohg. No, that seems even more unlucky; these blood believers aren't like Godrick, who would give you a quick death." Throne sighed. Human destiny is truly stubborn; it could force its way back onto the original track, and even make things worse.
"Since she is your acquaintance, let's start the battle. In a while, your friend will be subjected to endless torture." Sellen said indifferently, lowering her hands and gathering magic power.
"They're not exactly friends, and there's no rush. Let's just wait and see for now."
Sellen glanced at Throne and relaxed her tensed muscles. Since he didn't care, she was even less concerned.
Under their gaze, a group of people who had just been abducted were all dragged off the cart. The Blood Priest stepped forward and spread his arms.
"Welcome, my future brothers and sisters."
His words were warm, but no one spoke. Everyone, from the Tarnished to the commoners, looked at him with terror, a look the priest had long grown accustomed to. Fear was also a form of pain. With just a little guidance, they would become obsessed with the feeling. Even the strong-willed didn't matter; in the kingdom of God, there was no escape.
"Please, everyone, go ahead. Choose your brothers and take them home to be cared for with devotion."
Without further ado, the surrounding followers immediately stepped forward. No one spoke; they silently and orderly pulled people away, one by one, like an assembly line in a slaughterhouse. Roderika watched a blood follower approach. His crimson robe revealed scrawny arms covered in scars. He walked with a limp, and looking down, his feet actually lacked toes. His face was calm, without a trace of a lewd or wicked smile.
He was merely smiling, though his mouth revealed he had very few teeth left. This was actually more frightening. At the very least, Roderika felt her teeth chattering, and she couldn't help but grab the burly man in front of her.
"Danilo, I... I..."
This was a tall Tarnished wearing battered armor. Blood still flowed from his exposed wounds, which never seemed to scab over. He remained silent, shifting half a step like a rock to shield the girl behind him. The toeless blood follower stopped, and the priest looked over, saying compassionately, "Do not resist the Supreme Grace. Those who oppose will meet death, and death is meaningless."
The Mohgwyn Dynasty was clearly not one for negotiation. The Tarnished stood quietly, scanning the surroundings where hundreds of followers had drawn their slender Rapiers. The heavy killing intent made their muscles tremble.
"Roderika, live on for us, even if it's just for one more second."
The Tarnished let out a roar to the sky, venting all his fear and attachment. He grabbed the girl's hand, used all his strength to throw her out, and then stepped forward, slamming a fist hard into the toeless follower's face.
"I, Danilo, am no coward!"
Bang! Like a final burst of life, this punch exploded the follower's head. Red and white splattered everywhere, yet none of the others showed any fear. To this group of masochists, such a scene was child's play.
The burly man's outburst spurred several other Tarnished to stand up and charge the followers with their fists, but most people just watched blankly. Staying alive meant hope; perhaps this place wasn't as bad as they imagined.
"The elimination rate is a bit high this time, and the Tarnished are still so resistant."
The Blood Priest wasn't surprised. The Dynasty wanted brothers and sisters who would willingly accept the grace and looked down on wicked paths like mind control. Besides, he wasn't worried. No matter how strong the prey was, their blood had been mostly drained before they arrived. Besides, who could escape from this Dynasty? The sound of blades entering flesh was continuous.
The burly man's strength faded, and dozens of Rapiers pierced his body. The followers pulled their swords out and thrust them back in with fanaticism, swarming him like a colony of ants. The Blood Priest didn't even bother to look. Instead, he was more interested in the escaping Tarnished girl. Since she wanted to flee, she didn't want to die. If she didn't die, she would eventually become a new sister.
"Bring her back. I want her alive..."
"I'll go."
Before he could finish, the priest heard a cold voice from beside him. He turned and saw a gaunt-faced Bloody Finger. Since they belonged to different systems, he didn't recognize the man. However, the incredibly thick scent of blood proved that this person had received a profound grace—there was no telling how many people he had killed. He hesitated for a moment. Normally, a Bloody Finger wouldn't meddle in others' business, but he still bowed slightly.
"Then I shall leave it to you."
Throne glanced at him and turned away without a word. In the blink of an eye, he vanished into the faint blood mist.
Bang. Roderika pushed past the followers on the street and sprinted forward with her head down. To her relief, none of the followers on the street came to catch her, as if they were unwilling to change their course for an unexpected situation. But as she ran, she realized this situation was even more terrifying. It meant she had nowhere to run! Her feet felt increasingly heavy, as if filled with lead. She had to turn into a narrow alley, clutching her knees and gasping for breath. She touched her abdomen; the wound left by the Bloody Finger was still bleeding. With the intense running, her consciousness was becoming blurred.
Looking up at the starry dome, blood loss accompanied by waves of despair surged into her heart. I have to get out. For Danilo and the others, I have to get out. The girl gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand up, planning to find a place to hide first. But after taking just two steps, the blood in her body seemed to freeze. A Sanguine Knight emerged inch by inch from the darkness.
The iron stench of blood clogged Roderika's throat. The knight loomed before her—not a man but a landslide of flesh and steel advancing inch by inevitable inch. Her legs buckled. Knees hit stone. No escape. But capture meant worse than death. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, clinging to the last sparks of awareness.
Gauntleted fingers reached. She lunged sideways, skull aimed at the wall. A split second before impact—crushing weight on her shoulder. Her stomach dropped through the floor. Over. Done. Emerald irises shivered as another hand stretched toward her face, promising only agony. Then—
Impossible.
The fist flashed past her cheek and clenched empty air. A wet pop. Crimson mist birthed a human silhouette mid-splatter.
"Trust, my lord priest," Throne's skeletal grin split the darkness, "is the barest courtesy."
His fingers tightened like closing valves. The Blood Priest's eyeballs swelled. A wet gurgle leaked from his collapsing windpipe.
Too late now. The fool had noticed. Fatal error—coming alone.
"I'm no common thief skulking through Mohgwyn's gutters."
The priest wheezed, spasming.
"Wh-what...do you..."
Vertebrae cracked like dry kindling. Throne watched the light leave his eyes before answering.
"Gravediggers don't explain themselves to corpses."
He opened his fist. The body crumpled. Then paused. Gold-stitched crimson fabric. That ridiculous conical hat. Might be useful. Roderika gaped at the two murderers-turned-traitors, brain scrambling to reconcile the carnage.
Her breath hitched as Throne's bones writhed beneath his skin. Muscles slithered. Features liquified and reset into the dead priest's likeness.
"You're stealing his face?"
The new voice spun Roderika toward the alley's throat. A woman emerged—all dangerous curves and sharper eyes.
"A Bloody Finger wouldn't linger here," Throne adjusted the stolen robes, "nor play rescuer."
He smirked at his reflection in a puddle of gore.
"But priests? Expected to herd the faithful. Nobody blinks if one drags along stray lambs."
The woman crossed her arms.
"Can you even recite the Formless Mother's catechisms?"
"I'll improvise something blasphemous."
Boot soles scraped stone as he kicked the corpse into the spirit-calling ring's maw. Then those hollow eyes locked onto Roderika. He tilted his head—a perfect mimicry of zealous concern. Voice dripping false honey, "Do you wish to breathe tomorrow?"
Her head bobbed without permission. The pair were already vanishing into shadow.
"Keep up or die."
In a cramped dark room, a dim oil lamp illuminated a square table slick with something that wasn't water.