Godrick's face had twisted into something monstrous, but authority still clung to him like a second skin. The Banished Knight commander and every soldier in the square bowed their heads. The rush of it burned through him—dignity restored, the humiliation Malenia had carved into him scabbed over at last.
"Move out." His voice scraped like rusted armor. "Spread word of our counterattack. Justice will be delivered by my hand."
The commander's reply was a blade-sharp salute. "At your command."
They strode into Stormveil's palace. The great hall bristled with armored knights, their steel catching the torchlight. Between them, dozens of nobles stood in silk and velvet. Every major house in Limgrave had sent someone—either the lord themselves or their heir.
Godrick hadn't blundered this time. If he'd declared war on the Tarnished outright, not a single noble would've risked their neck. Grafting wasn't the only thing to fear. But he'd played it right—subtle, strategic. Let them think they had a choice.
The nobles' hidden calculations didn't escape him. Yet the sight of them gathered here, just like when he'd first fled Leyndell, sent satisfaction coiling through his gut. Back then, his power had crumbled to dust. Not this time. Thank you, Tarnished. You've made this possible.
"Your Grace." The nobles rose as one, voices layered in false deference.
Godrick didn't bother with theatrics. A flat "You've worked hard" was all they got. He pressed his hands down, a silent order to sit, then nodded to the knight standing rigid across the hall. "Darian. Begin."
The man was a Godrick Knight, but his armor gleamed gold, his frame towering over the others. One of Stormveil's Wings, equal in reputation to Owen—but where Owen was brute force, Darian was strategy carved into flesh. A Leyndell veteran. Unshakably loyal.
He lifted a long rod and yanked the curtain aside, revealing a sprawling map of Limgrave. "Eyes here." The rod tapped Summonwater Village. His voice was ice. "House Haight holds the village. The path to Caelid is sealed."
Murmurs rippled through the nobles. Limgrave was a trap—easy to enter, a bitch to leave. With Stormveil at one end and Summonwater at the other, the Tarnished had nowhere to run but into the sea.
A voice cut through the murmurs. "Can the village hold? Desperate rats fight hardest."
Darian turned. Blond hair, sharp features—Kenneth Haight. The heir. No wonder he was sweating. His family was taking the brunt of this.
"It'll hold." Darian's tone left no room for doubt. "The terrain favors defense. Once battle starts, I lead the cavalry east. Two days, and we reinforce them."
Kenneth's jaw tightened. "And if the Tarnished ambush you on the road?"
"Thirteen outposts. We don't stop. We don't slow."
"Lord Kenneth, do you have any other questions?" The youth shook his head. His real fear wasn't the Tarnished—it was Godrick leaving House Haight to bleed. But even the Grafted Lord wasn't that stupid. Let the Tarnished escape to Caelid? Let them grow stronger and return for vengeance? Suicide.
Darian's rod tapped the map again. "Then I'll continue."
The knight's gauntlet struck the map like a judge's gavel. "Our deployment coils like the serpent of Mount Chang." Iron-shod fingers traced positions. "Summonwater Village forms the head. Stormveil the tail. The Weeping Peninsula—" his nail dug into the map's center, "—the crushing heart."
Silence held the war room until his rod cracked against oak. "Strike the head and the tail strikes you. Crush the tail and the fangs find your throat. Attack the center—" metal screeched as he dragged the rod in a circle, "—and the serpent devours you whole."
No applause came. Only the creak of armor as men leaned forward.
Godrick's yellowed teeth showed beneath his beard. "An iron wall. The Tarnished will choke on it."
Clapping erupted—nervous at first, then swelling. Godrick's nostrils flared at the scent of renewed confidence. When was the last time hands had struck together for him? Not praise. Not since the grafting.
Darian's sword-hand twitched. "And if they refuse battle?"
The applause died mid-clap.
"They excel at skirmishes," a baron muttered. Shadows deepened under his eyes. "My son's patrol vanished near Mistwood. No bodies. Just... bloodsmears on bark."
Darian's dagger pricked the map. "Then we burn their nests. Hold your castles—my suppression squads hunt the rest." Parchment tore as the blade carved westward. "Let them run. They'll tire before my hounds do."
Godrick's grafted fingers drummed his axe-haft. "Numbers."
"Precisely." Darian swept a goblet aside, sending wine bleeding across troop markers. "One Tarnished fights like ten men. Ten Tarnished? A fair match. But a hundred?" His fist crushed the stained parchment. "Formations win wars. And formations require—"
"—discipline," finished a scarred veteran. His empty sleeve flapped. "Which those godless rats lack."
This time the applause came sharp as sword-rings. Godrick rose, letting it wash over him. His shadow swallowed the map whole.
Silence fell at his raised palm.
"We are the Golden Order." His whisper carried further than any shout. "Not by choice. By birthright." The axe-head caught torchlight, painting stripes across upturned faces. "Your ancestors took these lands with steel. Will you lose them to gutter-scum who've never held a proper title?"
A baron spat. "My huntsman found Lady Tanith's head in a badger's den. Teeth marks—"
"Enough!" Godrick's roar shook dust from rafters. "Every corpse they leave unburied is a challenge. Every stolen heirloom—a slap." His grafted arm unfurled, tendons creaking. "They think us weak? Let them come!"
Steel shrieked as fifty blades cleared scabbards.
The veteran's sword-tip trembled toward Stormveil's towers. "For the Golden Order!"
"For our birthright!"
Godrick's laughter boomed beneath war cries. His axe split the table, cleaving the map in twain.
Just as Godrick and the nobles of Limgrave were shouting for blood, the Mistwood's damp gloom swallowed all echoes of their rage. No gilded halls here—just moss-caked stones and the stink of wet dog fur. Torchlight licked at rusted helms as Tarnished sharpened blades against whetstones. Somewhere in the dark, a woman hummed off-key through broken teeth.
Being dragged up in the middle of the night, sounds of dissatisfied grumbling rose one after another, and everyone was whispering to each other. "What happened?" "I don't know. Who has the authority to assemble all the Tarnished around Mistwood?" "I heard it was the call of 'The Dauntless' Vyke. We have to give him and Roundtable Hold some face.
Let's wait and see; I heard the captains have already gone to the meeting."
... The voices were noisy, like countless flies buzzing. Throne mingled on the outside of the crowd and exchanged a glance with Melina behind him, his eyes filled with a bit of approval. Vyke, this guy, had good talent. He even knew to gather the various captains for a meeting first.
Because there were too many natural enemies, most Tarnished at the current stage operated in small squads; lone wolves were actually very rare. Having lived and died together, they had a minimum level of trust in each other. As long as they didn't object, things would be much simpler. "It's been a while. Melina, why don't you go and listen to see how their discussion is going?"
The young girl stood there blankly and ignored him. To ask her to be a snoop—this man really knew how to come up with ideas. Seeing Melina's dazed appearance, Throne could only shrug. He looked around and began to count the people out of sheer boredom. There were about three or four hundred Tarnished around Mistwood.
Their armor and weapons were all sorts of things, with no sense of military strictness or solemnity, so he couldn't help but shake his head slightly. It wouldn't work to let these fools go head-to-head; they were more inclined to be adventurers. But the Tarnished also had an advantage: everyone was a ruthless person who licked blood from the blade.
Their martial arts and magic were all tempered through countless trials, and their combat experience far exceeded that of ordinary soldiers. If it were squad against squad, they would clearly have the upper hand. But once the numbers increased, under multi-layered strikes from greatshields, spears, arrows, and magic, collapse would happen in an instant.
In reality, no golem would be foolish enough to wait for you to perform a critical hit. You would probably be shot into a hedgehog by the archers behind before you even had a chance to attack its heels. "Their battlefield should be in the forest, on the cliffs, using stronger martial arts to constantly bleed the enemy, highlighting the advantage of individual strength."
Throne could be considered to know himself and his enemy. For example, he himself was a powerful 'Tarnished'—at the very least, no one in Limgrave was stronger than him—but this level of strength was far from enough to be unparalleled on the battlefield. He was better at assassination and sneak attacks. Frontal assault against a military formation? I'm not a moron.
He recalled the battle he had seen ten years ago. Just the knight charge led by Finlay had been something no Tarnished could withstand. "They have finished talking." At this moment, Melina reminded him. Throne looked up and saw dozens of Tarnished stepping onto a wooden platform, which was originally a place for selling demi-human slaves.
Vyke and Istvan walked in front, each with a very serious expression. A sense of killing intent immediately silenced the whispering voices, and the Tarnished began to become anxious and at a loss. Several Tarnished captains remained below the platform. Amidst confused gazes, they slipped into the crowd, called their companions, and left silently.
Throne took a look; the number wasn't large, just over twenty people. 'Choosing to escape, huh?' He wasn't surprised. After all, the Tarnished had no military discipline or anything to constrain them; whether to fight or flee was entirely up to personal will. Vyke and Istvan on the platform exchanged a glance. The latter made a gesture of invitation, and the youth did not decline.
He took two steps forward. The weight of every eye upon him made his hands tremble—he shoved them behind his back. "Tarnished." Vyke's voice cut through the murmurs, low and grave. "Bad news." His jaw tightened to keep the words steady.
"Godrick the Grafted—Lord of Stormveil, tyrant of Limgrave—raises his butcher's blade against us." A sharp inhale rippled through the crowd. No surprise there. The signs had been clear for weeks. War wasn't coming. It was here.
Even the dullest among them had known since Vyke tore open the Grafting conspiracy.
"Some call me the spark that lit this fire." The thick-browed youth slammed a fist against his breastplate. The clang rang out like a challenge. "I'd do it ten thousand times over. I'd shout it louder each time."
His gaze burned. "I won't stand by while our kin are mutilated—limbs hacked off to feed those wretched, forsaken demigods." No one spoke. The sidelong glances of blame withered. This wasn't just Vyke's fight. It was survival. "War was inevitable. My voice just struck the match. Could've been any of you."
Godrick's blade was always destined to rise. One truth remained—
"The demigods shattered these lands. The throne sits empty. They were cast aside, and we—"
Vyke stretched onto his toes, arms raised in reverence toward the fractured sky. "We are the Tarnished. Called back by the Greater Will."
A sacred charge pulsed in his words. "If those wretched lords dare defy our purpose, we'll bury them in the dirt they cling to!"
"Hunt Godrick! Take his Great Rune!" The cry erupted from the platform. Steel shrieked as blades tore free—Eina first, then a dozen more, then a hundred. "Fight! Fight!"
Swords, spears, halberds stabbed at the sky. The roar shook leaves from the trees. These Tarnished wore their pride like armor. Godrick's grafting was atrocity enough. Now he sought vengeance? Limgrave belonged to them. Every noble, every knight—just walking bags of Runes waiting to be claimed.
Vyke trembled, not with fear but fire. This—this was the roar of a hero's wake. Unstoppable.
"Well said." Istvan's grizzled frame appeared beside him. Approval gleamed in the old knight's eyes. He'd bet right on this one. A born leader.
Now for the bait. Istvan's turn. "Leyndell knows. Hold until reinforcements come, and Roundtable Hold will open its coffers." His grin showed teeth. "More heroes will rise. More Finger Maidens will walk among you. Just like Dauntless Vyke here."
"Lady Tina." The name hushed the crowd.
She ascended the steps, lithe as a shadow. Vyke's hopeful stare met her hooded gaze. Slowly, she shrugged off her trench coat.
White robes. Gold thread tracing collar and cuffs. The golden circlet nested in her hood. A Finger Maiden's vestments.
The square held its breath.
She curtsied. The hood slipped just enough—quiet beauty, grace like a blade's edge. Then the dam broke. Cheers tore through the air, louder than steel, hotter than blood. "LONG LIVE!"
Maidens meant more than speeches. They meant power.
Most Tarnished had saved up quite a few Runes but had no way to spend them—let alone chase that oldest of legends.
The quiet, intellectual Finger Maiden seemed destined to walk beside the Tarnished. More than guides or crutches, they carried secrets—ancient knowledge, techniques, positions. "Her? Seriously?" Amidst the fervor, Throne alone kept his composure.
He'd recognized her immediately. The waitress from the Academy town. Back when he and Sellen fled the Academy, she'd been their lifeline. "Looks like Tina got her wish after all. Hmph. Can't get too close now—she's not that waitress anymore."
Relief mingled with caution, but seeing an old face still warmed him. "You know her?" Melina's ears were sharp. "No. Just envying Vyke. He gets an elegant Finger Maiden. Me? A block of wood." "True, you don't have one. But I can handle all her duties. No need for envy."
Melina tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her face impassive. How could she dodge the question so effortlessly? Zero self-awareness. Throne sighed. "Are Finger Maidens only assigned by the Fingers?" "Obviously. What else would there be?" "What about female Tarnished? And why no male Finger Maidens?"
"When will we men be able to stand up!" Melina opened her mouth, caught off guard by Throne's sudden, thorny question.