Throne did not speak, simply watching the Tarnished, who was like an ant on a hot pan. "Everything is as I expected!"
The leaves rustled. The newly minted hero was somewhat restless, while the nameless swordsman was thinking calmly. The actions of Godrick and the Roundtable Hold had not exceeded Throne's expectations. One side was making a desperate counterattack, while the other was luring the snake out of its hole.
Godrick still had not given up his obsession with becoming the Elden Lord, and the Roundtable Hold was exploiting this obsession, hoping to use the fellow countryman's head for their own ends. Both sides were acting for their own respective causes, not caring about paying a certain price.
Perhaps in this game of chess, only the middle and lower-class Tarnished, represented by Vyke, were the unluckiest; they had been forced to become targets and bait. "Behind the name of justice, how many dirty deeds are there?" Throne sighed. He had no intention of judging the moral values of the Roundtable Hold and Godrick; besides, he had seen plenty of similar things.
Contending for the throne was never accomplished by mere lip service, but paved with countless corpses. For a king, this was the only value of the weak. It was cruel, but also very realistic. Throne glanced at the sweating Vyke, thinking to himself that only this person was truly considering the Tarnished. "Can we escape to Caelid?" Vyke swallowed hard.
He didn't understand that much, only repeating the words of the Roundtable representative:
"No. Fort Haight has already sent troops to occupy Summonwater Village. Lord Istvan says it's very difficult to fight through, and since Summonwater Village is right on the Limgrave main road, it would only take a few days for the Stormveil army to pin us in the center."
"Also, heading south is extremely difficult; Castle Morne has blocked the Bridge of Sacrifice and is hunting down the Tarnished in the Weeping Peninsula." Oh, blocking both ends, huh? It seems Godrick hadn't wasted his time over the past few days; he was busy contacting the nobles everywhere. Throne stroked his chin, thinking that The Lands Between truly only had scumbags, not fools.
Godrick daring to step forward meant he had accurately grasped the current conflicts. Those nobles had long been enraged by the Tarnished who were killing and burning on their lands, but they just hadn't had the guts to jump out and oppose them; otherwise, they wouldn't even be able to leave their castles.
Now that there was a fool jumping out to be the big brother, everyone would naturally follow him with glee. If he won, that was good—they would be the role models for the nobility of The Lands Between. If he lost, or if the Two Fingers intervened, it didn't matter; Godrick would take the blame, and they might even be able to completely shake off his already crumbling rule.
Either way, they didn't lose. These nobles were indeed smart people; if they won, they could ask for benefits, and if they lost, they didn't even have to fulfill the final duties of a subject. "Sigh, it's a pity we were too stupid; the previous troop movements didn't even raise an alarm!" Vyke clearly hadn't realized all that and was wallowing in self-pity. "Did it really not raise an alarm?
I don't think so." Throne spread his hands. "What do you mean by that? Could it be that the Roundtable Hold did this on purpose!?" Of course it was on purpose. I don't believe that Sir Gideon Ofnir didn't see anything. Without you as bait, how could they trick Godrick out of his tortoise shell? Knowing that the Roundtable Hold had an old schemer, Throne sneered in his heart.
But that wasn't important; he also needed these Tarnished as bait, just without being such a scumbag about it. "Thinking about all this now is useless. You should be thinking about how to survive. However, I have another question: has that maiden of yours arrived?" "She has. I'll be meeting her in a moment."
Vyke rubbed his temples. Eina's constant surveillance left him no room to breathe. Throne, privy to the details, couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. Protagonist's luck—women flocked to him like moths to a flame. At least Vyke wasn't one of those insufferable types who prattled on about kindness. Small mercies.
"Good," Throne said. "It means the Roundtable Hold hasn't abandoned you yet."
Vyke blinked. "What?"
"Never mind. It's not important." Throne shifted gears, his tone sharp. "We have no choice but to fight. If we scatter and run, they'll hunt us down one by one. Like prey. Together, we stand a chance."
The cold certainty in his voice lit a fire in Vyke's chest. "You're right! No matter what's brewing behind the scenes, we have to fight!"
"Shouting won't get us anywhere. First, you need to tell everyone the truth. Trust me—no Tarnished is a fool."
Throne's calm was almost unnerving. A glance at the map confirmed it: Limgrave was boxed in on three sides, with the sea to the north. No room to maneuver. The Tarnished had been reckless, too. Hiding wasn't an option. They knew the land, sure, but could they outwit the locals?
"This has to come from you," Throne pressed. "You started this. Your words carry weight."
Vyke hesitated. "Do you think they'll really fight a demigod?"
"It's not about willingness. They have to. Even if they surrender, do you think Godrick will spare them?"
True. The accusation of Grafting had started it all, and Godrick hadn't bothered to explain himself. Throne's words grew darker, cutting through the past like a blade.
"'Grafting' is a sin, but only for the losers. If he wins, it becomes a blessing. Godrick's been guilty since The Shattering. When the Valkyrie was here, he was a sinner. Now that the Haligtree Army's gone, who'll hold him accountable?"
The harsh reality sank into Vyke's bones. The more he played the hero, the more he saw his own naivety. Justice? Righteousness? They were illusions in a world where everyone schemed against each other.
"Got it," Vyke said. "I'll gather the squad leaders, brief them, and spread the word. We'll rally at Mistwood. What then?"
Throne sighed inwardly. Why was he the one strategizing? But he bit back the frustration. The Tarnished were useful, after all.
"Dig in and wait. The Roundtable Hold will counterattack eventually. Hold the line, and we'll find a way."
"Dig in? But we're better at hit-and-run tactics."
"Small squads won't cut it now. A well-equipped legion's hunting us—locals leading the charge. Few against many? It's suicide. And too much freedom breeds fear. Fear leads to unrealistic expectations."
Vyke frowned. Why did Throne always assume the worst of people? He couldn't argue, though. If the team scattered, who knew what some might do?
Fighting to the death with a regular army was so stupid; once the tide turned, it'd be better to hide in a cave or catacomb and cling to survival in desperation.
"So you're saying we need to cut off our retreat?"
"No. We're stripping away their naivety. Letting others take the front while staying safe? That's human nature."
Throne's grin split his face, teeth gleaming white. "Either we live together, or we die together. This is the only way to ignite the will to resist." Vyke hesitated, then nodded. Reason screamed this was the only path forward. "Then where do we make our stand?"
Throne's right hand shot up, finger slicing through the forest toward the southeast. "Fort Haight." Vyke's mouth twitched. He nearly asked how the Tarnished could possibly take one of Limgrave's top three fortresses, but the words died on his lips. His eyes widened. Wait.
The bulk of Fort Haight's garrison had marched to Summonwater Village. The defenses were bare. "Brilliant. Strike while they're unprepared—you're a genius." "Hardly. Just a bit of experience." Throne nodded, as if confirming Vyke had the makings of a future king.
"Go talk to Istvan. Suggest a diversionary force attacks Summonwater Village while a commando unit infiltrates the fortress. Once inside, bloom from the center. Hold the fort to the death, and send an elite unit to harass outside the walls. Trust me, Godrick's more desperate than we are."
"Yes. I'll find Lord Istvan at once." No need to think—just follow the plan. Vyke felt the weight lifting, the gloom clearing. He turned to leave, steps quick with excitement, then paused. "Lord Isshin, why not come with me?" "No." "But this is your—" Throne's sharp gaze cut him off, unyielding.
"I've told you before. Don't pry into my affairs. Don't overthink it. It's just… too much trouble." Trouble? Commanding thousands of Tarnished, becoming a legend—that's trouble? Vyke swallowed hard.
He thought of Throne's habits, the strangeness of it all, but found no cracks in the facade. He bowed low. "I'm uneasy, but I'll follow your orders." "Go." Throne waved him off, already shifting the credit. Soon, 'The Dauntless' would be known as 'The Wise.'
Vyke wouldn't reveal the truth. As his figure vanished into the forest, azure particles shimmered behind Throne. A girl in a cloak materialized, her spirit-form movement nearly undetectable. The mystique shattered when she held out a croissant. "Here."
Throne took the bread and the Flask of Crimson Tears, sipping the red potion before biting into the pastry. "Melina, your ability's perfect for running away." Her eyes widened, a mix of dullness and faint irritation. "Using a supreme power for shopping—unbelievable."
"Hah. Abilities aren't about strength. They're about usefulness." Throne laughed. Melina's power wasn't inferior to any demigod's. Written as spirit-form, read as subspace movement. If he could wield it, he'd be the deadliest assassin in The Lands Between. "You heard everything. Thoughts?"
Melina stayed silent for a long moment. "Despicable. Effective. It makes me wonder what's going on in that head of yours." "Flattery. So, still think I can't kill Godrick?"
"You're still outmatched, but—" She paused, a faint smile curling her lips. "I'm curious to see what happens next."
Boom—
The storm howled, lightning cracked, and the brief, blinding light revealed a city of towering stone. Stormveil Castle, the fortress of winds, loomed as massive and unshakable as ever. Its walls bore the scars of the Haligtree Army's siege a decade ago—cratered and jagged, yet still defiant. Godrick's royal banner whipped violently in the gale, while sentries clad in full armor marched in disciplined lines.
Ballistae gleamed coldly, their spear-thick bolts ready to pierce through iron and flesh. On the towers, catapults stood loaded with fire pots, their fuel enough to reduce invaders to ash. This fortress remained unbreakable, a bulwark beyond the reach of the Tarnished, who lacked both unity and the machinery of war.
Even if they breached the walls, they'd face a storm of arrows, the crushing charge of golems, trolls, and knights. Anyone with a shred of military sense knew the outcome. Stormveil was no longer the fortress of ten years ago. It had evolved.
Among the knights and soldiers stood sorcerers, their glintstone crowns catching the dim light. The word "impregnable" might as well have been carved into the stone itself. Beyond the walls, a flat plaza stretched, its silence broken by the creak of gallows. Dried corpses swung gently in the wind, their once-gorgeous attire now tattered. These were nobles, their ambitions hanged alongside them.
A hunched figure stood before the gallows, staring up at the macabre display. His cloak was richly adorned, but his posture was twisted, his gray hair thin and brittle. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale—a man worn by time and indulgence.
The corpses swayed, a foul liquid dripping onto his cloak. He didn't flinch. Instead, he laughed—a hoarse, grating sound. "Fools. Standing with the Tarnished? Who did you think would protect you?" Those who'd opposed the war now dangled lifeless, their allegiances silenced.
This was Godrick's power—Lord of Limgrave. Where shared interests aligned, his authority was no mere symbol. "Your Highness is right," said a Banished Knight, stepping forward. His helmet was tucked under his arm, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It was Commander Owen, a man who'd once crossed paths with Throne. "The Tarnished have overstepped. These ten years have proven their arrogance."
"The fools above don't understand," Godrick sneered. "How could such filth ever claim the title of Elden Lord? To think they'd make us sacrifices—it's an insult." Owen nodded. "The Tarnished are scattered, leaderless. They'll never rule. But the longer this drags on, the weaker we become."
Godrick turned, his massive frame casting a shadow over Owen. He brushed aside a strand of greasy hair, his voice flat. "You speak of the dementia?" "Yes," Owen replied, his jaw tight. "It's spreading. Two soldiers fell to it just yesterday. I dealt with them myself."
"Today it's soldiers. Tomorrow, knights. Soon, this fortress will be filled with madmen. The Tarnished will march in, and we'll be trampled beneath their boots." The first sign of dementia was withdrawal—silence, then madness.
Without subordinates, a dignified demigod would become a commander with no troops, and those towering walls would crumble to dust. "Fate is cruel," Godrick muttered, his gaze distant. "Why must noble blood become stepping stones for the lowly?" He knew the truth—without Stormveil, the Tarnished would devour him whole.
Would Malenia and the others escape unscathed? Not a chance. The Tarnished thrived on momentum—each battle forged them stronger. With Runes, they could surpass a demigod in weeks. Godrick loathed them, yet prized them all the same. Why else would he hunt them so relentlessly?
"It's not too late. We can still refuse. Together, we can wipe out these parasites." The knight bowed, silent agreement etched into his posture. Leyndell's stance made it clear—the Greater Will hadn't forsaken the demigods entirely.
They still had the strength to claim the Elden Throne. The gods cared little for who emerged victorious. "The divide between us runs too deep. If only one noble soul could rally us, force the Tarnished to retreat…" Crack. Godrick's boot shattered the floor. He lifted his head, voice booming. "That soul is mine!"