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Glory to my bum ass proofreader: Solare.
2 chapters in a week? A miracle is upon us, me thinks.
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The party thinned as the night wore on, laughter mellowed to weary chuckles, and the torches sank into a softer glow that turned Castle Morne into a lantern set upon the sea. Melina had avoided him with surgical precision.
Every time he drifted within three paces, she found a soldier to ask about supply lines, or an elderly cook to praise for the stew, or a patch of air to glare at with great importance, and there was always a new glass of wine in her hand that she absolutely needed to finish somewhere else.
Millicent shot him sympathetic looks that said good luck, you earned this one, while he took the hint and let the distance breathe, giving her space to burn through the heat in her chest until only embers remained.
When the last tune died and the last bowl scraped empty, the courtyard softened into snores and quiet, the survivors either sprawled upon benches with cloaks over their shoulders or shuffling away toward whatever corner of the keep felt most like shelter.
John followed the whisper of the sea along the walkway of the outer ramparts, the night air cool and salted, the surf below folding against the cliffs in slow, steady breaths like the castle's own sleeping lungs.
He found her there at the edge, perched on the worn stone with her back to a crenel, the bottle of wine resting by her thigh. A small, tipsy pout bent her lips, her blush warm and bright upon her face, her single eye hazy with the sort of stubborn heat that clung long after anger had finished doing its work. She stared out at the moonlit ocean as if it had offended her and needed to apologize personally.
"Ah…" Marika murmured in his head, a smile tucked into the sound, "'Tis as though I gaze upon a mirror of my youth. Prideful, wounded, and beautiful besides. Truly, mine daughter."
'So you were like this too?' he thought, amused.
"Worse." she replied primly, which only made him grin.
He eased himself down beside Melina, careful with his side, leaving a polite inch. She did not look at him. She took a long pull from the bottle and grumbled without moving her gaze, "Go away."
He smiled and scooted closer by half an inch. She scooted away exactly the same amount.
His smirk widened before he scooted again. She responded like a cat moving precisely out of petting range, docile in motion and petty in spirit.
They continued this ridiculous dance along the stone like two magnets testing each other's pull, and by the time he realized what they were doing the pair of them had migrated nearly to the opposite corner of the ramparts where the ocean opened up vast and quiet beneath them and the wind came clean from the west.
Melina stared at him for a long breath that said she knew exactly what had just happened and refused to acknowledge it on principle.
Then she huffed, cheeks puffed softly, and allowed him to reach, his hand gentle at her upper arm as he drew her the rest of the way. Her head settled upon his shoulder with the wary heaviness of truce, not surrender, and she made certain to announce, without looking up, "I am still mad at you."
He chuckled low, a warmth that ran through his chest rather than his throat, and turned his head so his breath brushed her hair. "I know."
He slid a little closer and gathered her with more certainty, his arm tucking her against him as he lowered his mouth to her shoulder. The kiss he pressed there was soft and careful. She gasped without meaning to, the sound catching like a chime in her throat, and when his lips lifted she did not move away.
"I'm sorry," he said, the apology quiet as the tide. "I did not mean to upset you."
She pushed out her lower lip and looked away with great ceremony, as though the sea had just won a very petty contest. She did not argue with the apology, nor did she grant him absolution. She simply held her silence like a small shield and let the wine warm her fingers where they held the neck of the bottle.
He dipped his head again and let his mouth find that same place on her shoulder, a little higher this time, the kiss lingering, then lifting, then returning in a patient ascent. Each touch was gentler than the last, and each drew from her a smaller, softer sound that she tried very hard to swallow and failed.
He followed the line of her neck with unhurried reverence, pressing a kiss just beneath the curve of her jaw, and the tiny whimper that answered him trembled through his palm where it rested at her waist.
When he reached her cheek he paused, his hand rising to cradle it, his thumb stroking once as if assuring her he would not take more than she offered. She turned toward him with the inevitability of the tide, her eye hazed and earnest, and he brought her in.
The kiss was deep and steady, he bit her lower lip and demanded entrance, which she granted surprisingly readily. She gasped into it and clutched his shoulders too hard at first, then softened as the warmth took her, her lashes lowering, her breath feathering against his mouth as she melted into him entirely.
When at last he pulled away, a thin strand of drool held between them for a heartbeat before breaking apart. Melina panted where she sat, her breath small and sincere, her eye searching his with a glazed wonder that made his chest ache. Her fingers had twisted in the fabric of his tunic, and she did not yet remember to let go.
A few moments later, sense returned to her like a splash of cold water. She blinked fast, realized what she had done, realized what she had allowed, realized too that she had liked it very much, and the realization colored her already warm cheeks into an outright bloom. She shuffled away in one tiny, useless scoot and stared hard at the sea, as if the horizon had personally offended her sense of propriety.
"G-go away," she stammered, valiantly attempting dignity through the wine and the heat. "I'm s-still mad at y-you."
John's laugh came quiet and fond. "Okay," he said, and scooted over with her anyway, turning his body toward the horizon as if the two of them had been admiring it properly for hours, then slipped an arm around her and drew her against his chest in a calm, certain embrace. "Okay."
She huffed again for form's sake and settled into him with a sigh, the bottle of wine resting in her lap, the night laying its cool hand upon their faces while the sea continued to wave below.
"A mirror indeed…" Marika murmured, pleased, the memory of her younger shadow flickering across her voice. "Be gentle. She burns quick when wounded, yet she rests warm when held."
'I know,' he thought, and he did, because he could feel her relax one small inch at a time, until the anger was only a bruise and the world could keep turning.
John turned back towards the sea, letting the gentle ocean wind blow into his face. The breeze was cool, brushing through John's hair, carrying the scent of salt and faint embers from the courtyard. They sat there for a long while, neither speaking, simply watching the horizon paint itself silver.
Melina hiccuped once, the sound small and sharp in the quiet. John turned his head just in time to see her raise the wine bottle again, tipping it toward her lips.
He chuckled and gently took it from her hands before she could drink more. She let out a little whine that felt like half protest, half plea, and reached for it again.
"Hey," he said softly, shaking his head, "I think you've had enough for tonight."
Her lips twisted into a pout, the kind of expression that could have felled lesser men. She buried her face against his side and mumbled something muffled that sounded suspiciously like "mean."
John laughed quietly, unable to help himself.
"Pfft… Haha~ Sorry, sorry…" He murmured, patting her shoulder.
That only made her turn a deeper shade of pink. She drew back just far enough to give him a weak punch to the ribs. Thankfully, it was the uninjured side.
He snorted, leaning slightly away in mock defense. "Ow. Vicious."
Melina huffed and crossed her arms, staring stubbornly back at the ocean. The silence returned, but it was lighter now, the kind that hummed comfortably between two people who no longer needed words.
After a while, she spoke up in a soft voice, almost lost to the wind.
John blinked and tilted his head. "Sorry, what was that?"
She shifted, still looking the other way. "I said… Play something for me."
He blinked again, not quite sure he'd heard right. "...Play something?"
Her pout deepened, and she turned her head just enough that he could see the faint flush on her cheeks. "You said you could play music, didn't you? Then show me."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "I'd love to, really. But unless you see a musical instrument hiding in my pants somewhere, I'm a little under-equipped right now."
Melina's lips pursed, her expression the perfect picture of a disappointed cat. She looked so adorably indignant that his chest actually ached from the effort of not laughing.
'Saints above, she's going to kill me with that face one day.' He thought, trying not to melt at the sight.
Marika's voice drifted lazily into the back of his mind. "Oh, for Grace's sake… If thou wilt insist upon moping, I might as well teach thee Hardlight Golden Order projection magic. Then thou can make the instrument thyself."
He turned his head slightly, muttering aloud, "Can you even do that?"
"Of course I can. The difficulty depends entirely on whether thou art still an imbecile," she replied dryly. "Thou hast already done a simpler form, remember the Hardlight rune at the Bestial Sanctum, when thou convinced the Black Blade Kindred of thy intent? This will be similar, merely more... three-dimensional."
John frowned slightly. "Yeah, somehow I doubt it's that easy."
Melina blinked up at him, her expression soft with tipsy curiosity. "What's Mommy saying?" she asked, voice small and slurred at the edges, the words carrying a guileless warmth that made him stop mid-breath.
For a heartbeat, everything in his mind went still as Marika's presence faltered. His patron Goddess, ever proud, ever composed, seemed to freeze in place. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled faintly around the edges, gentler than he had ever heard it.
"…She- …She calls me that still?"
Her tone wavered, like someone touching a memory too fragile to hold. In the golden haze of his inner sight, John could see her press a hand to her chest, her proud composure flickering into something almost human. "I have not heard her speak so since she was but a little flame, newly born of mine grace…"
John's chest tightened; even through the veil, he could feel the faint ache in Marika's words.
Melina blinked again, oblivious to the storm she'd stirred, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. "Well?" she murmured, half-pouting. "What did Mommy say?"
Marika's voice came back softer still, breaking into his thoughts like sunlight through stained glass. "Tell her… tell her that I am proud of her…"
John smiled faintly and brushed a strand of hair from Melina's face. "She says she's proud of you."
Melina hummed contently, the sound barely audible. "Mn… Good~…" she mumbled before leaning further into him, her warmth a quiet, living echo of the bond that still tied goddess and daughter together.
For a while, neither spoke. Melina rested against him, the faintest smile tugging at her lips, still clutching for the bottle like a child refusing to part with a toy. Marika remained uncharacteristically quiet, her golden light dimmed to a gentle glow somewhere in the corner of his mind.
Then she softly exhaled. It was not a sigh of irritation or command, but of something far more fragile.
"Let us… continue, mine Champion," she said at last, her tone steady again though the warmth in it lingered. "I would not have her think her 'Mommy' cannot deliver on so simple a wish."
John felt a faint tug in his chest, half amusement, half sympathy. He gave Melina's shoulder a light squeeze. "Alright," he said softly. "Seems your mom's ready to show off a little."
Melina giggled drowsily, unaware of the faint shimmer in the air beside them as Marika's presence swelled with quiet purpose once more.
John glanced upward toward the night sky, flicking a hand out. "...Right," he muttered, rubbing his temple with his other hand. "Okay, let's give this a shot.
Marika smirked faintly from where she hovered just out of sight. "Very well, mine Champion. Reach inward, draw from thy inner wellspring of Faith. Shape it with intent. Picture not the weapon, but the purpose. Its sound, its resonance, its emotion."
John exhaled slowly and let his eyes fall half-lidded. His palm began to glow with the soft gold of Grace, threads of light weaving upward like veins through glass. The air shimmered, energy taking vague shape under his focus: strings, a hollow body, the curve of wood-
Then it sputtered; the glowing shape warped like hot metal, imploded with a pop, and burst into harmless motes of gold that flickered out on the wind.
John blinked, flexing his hand. "Okay. So that's a no."
He tried again. And again. Each attempt produced something that looked almost right before collapsing in on itself, one with the neck bent sideways, one with all six strings tangled like spaghetti, one that appeared perfect until he strummed it and it detonated like a soap bubble.
Melina watched each failure with progressively redder cheeks and a wobblier grin. When the fifth construct shattered in his hands, she finally burst into a small fit of giggles, hiccuping through them.
John sighed dramatically. "Glad you're enjoying the show."
She tried to smother her laugh with one hand, then, still giggling, raised her free palm. A faint golden glow formed there, softer than his, more controlled despite her tipsiness. She mimicked his earlier gesture almost perfectly, then traced a delicate circle in the air.
The light shimmered, condensed, and coalesced into a small, glowing instrument. It wasn't perfect; the strings flickered faintly, and its edges blurred like smoke, but it held.
John stared incredulously as Melina's single eye blinked up at him, her face still flushed but bright with tipsy pride. She giggled again, swaying slightly as she admired her handiwork.
He looked from the Hardlight guitar in her hands back to her beaming face and let out a long, disbelieving sigh.
"You didn't even hear the explanation." He said flatly.
Melina giggled again, the sound airy and sweet. "Maaaybe I was listening with my heart?"
He stared a second longer, then laughed. It was soft, helpless and warm at the same time.
'She really is your daughter…' He thought toward Marika, amusement bleeding through.
Marika's voice came back, wry and fond. "Aye. Incorrigible, brilliant, and endlessly defiant. Truly mine blood."
John shook his head, smiling as Melina began to pluck at the golden strings, the faint sound of soft and imperfect music rising into the night above the sea.
He reached forward carefully, fingers brushing against Melina's as he took the glowing guitar from her. "Mind if I…?" he asked softly.
She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, and gave a slow, sleepy nod.
The instrument was warm in his hands, pulsing faintly with her residual magic. Closing his eyes, he let his own Grace flow through his palms. Threads of gold started winding around the translucent frame, shaping, refining, correcting. The air shimmered faintly as the warped edges straightened, the glow mellowing into a solid, honeyed hue.
When he opened his eyes again, he was holding a proper acoustic guitar, one nearly identical to the old one from his world. The familiar weight of it in his lap pulled a quiet smile from him.
Melina leaned closer, her single visible eye wide in awe, watching his every movement as he strummed a few experimental notes. The sound was imperfect at first, a tinny, uneven one. But with each adjustment, each twist of the spectral tuning pegs, the melody began to settle into place.
He plucked the strings again, and this time the music flowed smooth and soft, blending with the whisper of the sea breeze.
After a few moments of quiet testing, he began to play properly. It was a simple tune, a slow, wordless melody that carried a sense of gentle nostalgia. He hummed along under his breath, his voice low and warm.
Melina sighed and nuzzled into his side, her earlier irritation melted away entirely. Her body relaxed, her head slipping onto his thigh as she listened. Within minutes, her breathing slowed. It became deep, even, and peaceful.
John smiled faintly, his hands stilling on the strings. He let the final note fade into the night air before allowing the golden light of the guitar to flicker and disperse into shimmering motes that drifted away on the wind.
He looked down at the sleeping girl draped over his lap and sighed softly, resting his palm against her head. "Guess it worked," he murmured, running his fingers gently through her hair.
A quiet hum escaped her lips, a soft, content sound as she pressed closer to his chest.
John leaned back against the cool stone of the rampart, eyes turning toward the moonlit sea below. The gentle rhythm of the waves was almost hypnotic, but his mind refused to rest.
His slowly smile faded.
"...Marika," he said quietly. "I killed people."
The words slipped from him like a confession, raw and heavy. He let out a slow breath, staring down at his hands. For just an instant, he could almost see them red, slick with the blood of those he had struck down.
"Some who were deserving…" he whispered, his tone slightly detached.
The Night's Cavalry. Commander O'Neil. Dragons. The dozens if not hundreds of inhuman monsters that stood in his way.
His throat tightened. "And some who weren't."
The memory flashed behind his eyes, soldiers choking on their own blood after he had stabbed them in the back. The glow of frenzied fire reflected in the eyes of people who hadn't chosen that fate. The look on the faces of the child who had been too far gone to save.
Marika appeared beside him then, her form coalescing from the faint shimmer of gold. She sat gracefully on the edge of the rampart, legs crossed, the moonlight glinting against her pale hair.
"Yes," she said softly. "You have."
Her gaze lowered to his hands, then to Melina sleeping peacefully against him. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between pity and pride.
"There is blood on thine hands, mine Champion," she murmured. "It cannot be cleansed. No matter how much thou tries. I would know."
Her voice carried no judgment, only weary understanding, the kind that came from centuries of the same burden.
He stared down at his hands again. The phantom stain of crimson lingered just long enough to make his chest ache before fading once more.
"...Does it get better?" he asked quietly. "Easier?"
Marika's golden eyes met his, they held a tiredness that seemed like it was ages old. "...You grow numb to it, eventually."
The honesty in her tone was cold comfort. He didn't know whether to feel reassured or horrified.
He looked away, fingers tightening gently on Melina's shoulder, grounding himself in her quiet breathing.
Marika was silent for a long moment before she spoke again, her voice soft but deliberate. "And what dost thou plan to do now, mine Champion?"
John stared out over the dark horizon, where the sea met the sky, a boundary as endless as his task ahead.
"I'll…" he began, his voice low but steady. "I'll become Elden Lord. So I can make a world where things like this… aren't necessary anymore."
The goddess beside him smiled faintly, something wistful and sad flickering in her eyes. "A noble dream," she said quietly. "One I once shared."
"..."
"...Mayhaps thou willst be more successful in it than I."
…
The soft, golden shimmer of Grace lit up the broken boards of the abandoned shack, pushing back the dimness of dusk. From the swirling light stepped John, Melina, and Millicent, the three travelers blinking as their eyes adjusted to the fading sun outside.
Millicent stretched with a long, satisfied sigh, her joints popping after the brief teleport. "Ahh, that never gets any less weird," she muttered, rolling her shoulders before turning to John. "So, where to next?"
John stepped past her and out into the open air, the breeze from the cliffs carrying the faint scent of the sea behind them. His gaze rose toward the looming shape on the far hill, dark stone walls rising against the crimson-streaked sky.
He smiled faintly. "That is Stormveil Castle. Seat of the Demigod Godrick."
Millicent followed his gaze, whistling low. "Looks… cheerful."
"Yeah…" John replied dryly. "Like a haunted ruin full of limbs. Which, funnily enough, isn't that far off."
Her grin turned sly. "So what's the plan, boss?"
John's smirk matched hers. "We walk in through the front door…" He cracked his knuckles. "Give them an offer they can't refuse. Then find Godrick, and I kill his ass."
Millicent laughed, shaking her head. "Straightforward. I like it."
But as the laughter faded, she noticed something off. Melina hadn't said a word.
The maroon-haired maiden stood a few steps behind them, hands folded neatly, her expression strangely distant. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, her single visible eye not meeting anyone's gaze.
Millicent tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "You've been acting weird since this morning," she said, walking over and poking Melina's cheek.
Melina jolted, flinching as though caught doing something wrong. "Wh-what is it?"
Millicent raised a brow. "I could ask you that. What's got you so distracted? You've been spacing out all day."
Melina stiffened, that faint blush deepening. She looked away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It's… nothing."
"Hmm…" Millicent hummed suspiciously. Her gaze slid toward John.
He was looking anywhere but at them. His jaw was tight, the tips of his ears visibly red.
Her eyes narrowed. "Okay," she said flatly. "What the hell happened last night after I fell asleep?"
Melina sighed softly, her flush deepening further. It wasn't exactly last night, she thought. But what did happen afterward was still enough to make her want to sink into the ground.
[Flashback]
The early morning light filtered softly through the castle's stone windows. Melina stepped out of the bath chamber, her hair damp and loose, the faint scent of lavender soap lingering around her. She looked… content. Peaceful even, the quiet after a long, chaotic few days.
That peace lasted about five seconds.
John rounded the corner with an awkward expression plastered on his face, holding out a folded piece of parchment like it was cursed. "Uh. Hey," he said quickly. "Your, uh… mother wanted me to give you this. Said it was important."
Melina blinked, taking it without thinking. "My mother?"
"Yeah. She… insisted." He scratched the back of his neck, clearly mortified.
She frowned slightly but opened the paper. Her eyes scanned the contents once, then twice.
Her face went crimson.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. She just stared at the parchment. Then at him. Then at the parchment again.
"…You're kidding," she whispered.
John looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. "I really wish I was."
Written, in John's messy handwriting, were instructions for a female contraceptive incantation.
[Flashback End]
The two of them now stood on opposite sides of the shack's broken wall, both avoiding eye contact. The awkward air between them was thick enough to cut with a blade.
Millicent glanced between them, brow furrowing. "Okay, seriously, what-?"
"Don't ask." John and Melina said in unison, their voices overlapping perfectly.
Millicent raised both hands in surrender. "…Right. I won't ask."
From somewhere deep in John's mind, Marika's laughter shimmered like the ringing of a golden bell.
"Truly, mine Champion," she teased, "thou art embarrassed? Didst thou think such measures did not exist? I would not allow thee near my daughter without protection. She is far too young for children."
'The fact that she's at least a millennium older than me aside,' John thought bitterly, 'this is still not something a guy wants to hand his partner from her mom.'
Marika chuckled, the sound rich and amused. "Wouldst thou have preferred if I gave thee thy version of the spell instead?"
'Yes.' John answered without hesitation.
"Too bad," she purred. "I only know the one."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, summoning Torrent with a flash of blue light. The spectral steed snorted, shaking its mane as Melina climbed up behind him, her face still faintly red.
Millicent materialized her own spectral horse beside them, grinning. "You two look awfully tense today."
"Nothing," John said quickly. "It's nothing."
He spurred Torrent gently, leading them toward the looming gates of Stormveil.
Behind his eyes, Marika's laughter rang again, bright and merciless.
"Ah, young love," she mused. "Even gods find it endlessly entertaining."
They followed the winding trail upward, Torrent and Millicent's spectral steed treading carefully on the rocky slope. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below echoed faintly, carried on the sea wind. Ahead, through the thinning trees, the jagged silhouette of Stormveil Castle rose against the horizon.
When they finally reached the crest of the hill, a small encampment came into view at the mouth of a tunnel leading toward the castle's front gate. The soldiers stationed there were armed and weary, their torches flickering in the wind.
John dismounted Torrent and gestured for the others to follow. "Alright," he whispered, crouching low near the ridge. "We're gonna sneak past these guys, get through that gate tunnel, and close it behind us. That should give us some breathing room."
Melina blinked in mild disbelief. "You mean to tell me you're not planning to just walk up and fight through them all?"
He smirked. "Tempting, but by the time we cut through them, one of those bastards would run off to ring the alarm. And frankly, I don't feel like dealing with the entire castle's guard tonight. I just want to find Godrick, kill his ass, and move on. With maybe one or two detours."
All three women gave him matching stares of mild shock.
"What?" he hissed indignantly. "I can be smart and strategic when I want to!"
Millicent stifled a snort. "Sure you can, big guy."
Melina covered her mouth, a tiny giggle escaping. Even Marika's laughter shimmered in the back of his mind, warm and smug.
"Unbelievable," John muttered, shaking his head as he motioned them forward. "Come on, before someone hears us having fun."
They crept through the shadows, weaving between tents and crates as the guards chatted idly around their campfires. The sea wind muffled their footsteps as they made their way toward the tunnel gate.
John raised a hand, signaling them to stop. At the far end, beside the heavy iron portcullis, stood a single guard manning a mounted ballista. A warning horn hung from his hip, likely the only way this encampment could signal the rest of the castle remotely.
…Hey, no one ever said Godrick was very smart.
John exhaled slowly. "That's our guy."
He moved in, silent as mist. The man never saw him coming. In one smooth motion, John slipped behind him, locking his arm around the soldier's neck and dragging him backward into the shadows of the tunnel.
The guard's struggles weakened fast, the chokehold cutting off any sound before he finally went limp.
Behind him, Melina and Millicent rushed to the lever by the tunnel entrance. With a low clank and grinding screech, the heavy gate began to descend, sealing them inside with a final thud.
Millicent let out a long breath and promptly pulled a rope and cloth from… somewhere. "Don't ask," she said as she expertly tied the guard's wrists and gagged him.
John raised a brow. "Remind me to never question your preparedness."
She grinned. "Good instinct."
With that, the three of them turned deeper into the tunnel, their footsteps echoing faintly against the damp stone. Near the midpoint, a familiar glow caught John's eye, a small, flickering Site of Grace nestled near the wall.
He touched it, the light flaring briefly as it registered his presence. "There. If things go south, we've got a fallback."
They continued onward until the tunnel opened up to the castle's outer path. It was a long, narrow naturally formed bridge flanked by sheer cliffs that dropped straight into the roaring sea below.
The wind howled through the stone corridor, carrying with it the faint, ominous hum of sorcery.
John stopped just short of the threshold, glancing at the others. "Before we go any further," he said calmly, "you should know what's waiting for us."
Millicent tilted her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He pointed toward the far end of the path. "Margit."
Melina's brow furrowed. "Margit?"
"A spectral projection of Morgott," he explained. "A Demigod who actually knows what he's doing and is actually worthy of the title of Demigod. He sent Margit here to protect his idiot relative, since he doesn't trust him to keep his Great Rune safe."
Melina's breath caught slightly. Even Marika, faint and silent in the background, seemed to still at that name. When John glanced at her in his mind's eye, he saw something unfamiliar on her face,guilt.
"Stay back when the fight starts. This one's mine."
Melina frowned immediately. "You can't be serious."
Millicent rested a hand on her hips. "Yeah, no way you're hogging all the fun."
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. "If it looks bad, then you can jump in. But I need this one. I need to prove to myself I'm ready to face them on equal footing, the Demigods."
Neither could refute that. After a long pause, Melina relented with a sigh. "...Very well. But you won't go in unblessed."
She raised a hand, golden light spiraling around her fingertips as she whispered the words of Golden Vow. The blessing washed over him in radiant warmth, settling in his chest like a heartbeat of light.
"Thanks," he said softly.
He took a deep breath, uncorked his Flask of Wondrous Physick, and downed it in one go. Then he brought a flaming fist to his chest as he whispered a familiar incantation. "Flame, Grant Me Strength."
The crimson aura burst around him like wildfire.
"Alright," he murmured, his voice steady. "Let's do this."
He stepped onto the narrow bridge, the stone beneath him creaking faintly with each stride. The air felt heavier with every step, the sky darkening above as storm clouds gathered unnaturally fast.
Then, a deep, echoing voice boomed from the towers above.
"FOUL TARNISHED…"
A golden sigil blazed to life atop one of Stormveil's high towers, the air warping around it. From its light emerged a towering figure, cloaked in tattered robes, hunched and skeletal, his long tail curling like a serpent. His face was gaunt with cracked and gnarled horns.
Margit, the Fell Omen.
"IN SEARCH… OF THE ELDEN RING…" Margit's head turned, golden eyes locking onto John as he stepped to the edge of the battlement. His grip tightened on his cane-spear, the air trembling with power. "EMBOLDENED… BY THE FLAME OF AMBITION!"
With a roar, Margit leapt from the tower, soaring through the air like a comet of light and wrath. He crashed into the ground before John, stone cracking beneath his feet, dust exploding outward in a wave.
John raised his arm to block his eyes from the grit and debris, lowering it only once the haze cleared.
A small, cocky smirk crept onto his face. "Aura farming little shit…" he muttered under his breath.
Margit's voice came low and grim. "Someone must extinguish thy flame…" He raised his cane high, golden energy sparking from its tip. "Let it be Margit, the Fell!"
John's grin widened. His heart pounded, not from fear, but exhilaration. He'd been waiting for this. Preparing for this.
And he knew exactly how to start it.
He reached into his inventory, pulling free the handle of the Ultra Greatsword, its hefty weight making him tense slightly He looked up at the Demigod's projection and shouted:
"ORPHAN WITH MOMMY ISSUES SAYS WHAT?!"
Margit blinked, thrown completely off-guard. "W-What-?"
The colossal blade whistled through the air before slamming directly into his face with a clang loud enough to shake the cliffs. A spray of spectral blood followed as the weapon landed on the ground behind him.
Margit froze for a moment with his head back, blood dripping down his nose. Then, he slowly straightened himself to look down on Johnathan again, his golden eyes narrowing in fury. "...Y-You… F-Filthy… no-name Tarnished!"
John's grin turned sharp and feral as he drew his Zweihander, the weight of it perfect in his grasp. Behind him, he could hear Millicent's uncontrollable laughter echoing faintly, followed by Marika's exasperated, half-amused sigh.
"Heh…" John muttered, spinning his blade once before settling into his stance. "Ragebait successful."
--------------------------------
Author's Note:
My honest reaction to the CSM ending:
https://x.com/misoonoa/status/2036475138309341467?s=20
In any case, I'll upload the Moon Knight this weekend along with the upload of the next chapter of SG.
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Next Chapter Title: Ragebaiting Margit Any % Speedrun.
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