(A horn blared.)
Rumble—rumble—rumble!
The repeated tremors coming from Stormveil Castle made the Tarnished turn his gaze toward the far end of the bridge. The rotten iron gate was rising—slowly, heavily—like a beast forcing its jaws open.
Shield-bearing soldiers poured out first, their steps unnervingly synchronized as they marched onto the bridge. On the ramparts above, several massive ballistae pivoted in unison, their sights settling on him as if the castle itself had decided he was today's problem.
"…"
For a moment, he genuinely didn't know what to say.
The noise from the fight had been loud, sure—especially when he'd called upon Lansseax's power. A thunderstorm born from an ancient dragon's lightning could easily echo across all of Limgrave, and that wouldn't even be surprising. After all, it was true dragon power, and not the kind you could fake with parlor tricks.
He'd seen it in past cycles. He knew what it sounded like.
But this?
This was ridiculous.
A single glance gave him nothing but a sea of bodies—heads packed tight, black upon black, stretching down the bridge like a tide. A rough estimate put them at around a thousand.
Vanguard troops with shields. Behind them, armored halberdiers and spearmen. Mixed in were several towering Omen soldiers—horns hacked off, bodies built like siege engines. There were also those grafted nobles who moved like they had too many arms and not enough shame. And of course, they'd even dragged out the heavy ballistae.
The bridge itself trembled under the weight of their marching.
This scale…
They'd emptied Stormveil's entire pantry of manpower, hadn't they?
What was this—an assault on a fortress?
And yet, among all of it, there was no sign of Godrick the Grafted.
Letting his men die for him while he hid inside the castle walls, cozy and untouched.
Truly fitting for the weakest demigod.
Boom!
While the Tarnished was still processing the sheer absurdity, the ballistae fired first. Several enormous flaming bolts screamed through the air, fast and brutal, their force easily rivaling the anti-materiel weapons he half-remembered from some distant life.
If it were anyone else, they would've been shredded on the spot.
But they'd picked the wrong target.
Clang—clang!
Sparks burst across his shield.
That was all.
He didn't even take a single step back.
And yet his expression turned grim—not because of the arrows, but because of what he heard next.
Footsteps weren't coming only from the front.
They were coming from behind, too—down the tunnel he'd passed through. Beneath the stomp of boots, he could even make out the faint sound of blades meeting flesh.
"Tch. What a headache."
Black Knife Tiche was strong, but she was an assassin first and foremost. In a straight fight, her advantage would shrink—especially if she also had to protect Roderika and Sorceress Sellen.
A miscalculation.
A huge miscalculation.
He hadn't expected things to twist like this. It was as if the cycle itself was changing, slowly but surely, nudging the world off the tracks until even the familiar parts stopped behaving.
Without hesitation, he pulled out the Spirit Calling Bell and gave it a light shake.
Clink—clink.
With that crisp, chiming sound, a slime-like form rose from pale mist, wobbling once before it began to reshape. In moments, it had taken on his silhouette, standing at his side with a small, formal bow.
"Master."
"Do me a favor," the Tarnished said, eyes still on the marching army. "Hold the front line for a bit."
"Understood."
The Mimic Tear nodded, drew Malenia's Hand, and surged forward—moving like a butterfly drifting into a storm.
Then the dance turned into slaughter.
Each slash claimed a life. Soldiers fell in rows, shields and courage breaking under a blade that didn't pause to admire its work.
Clink—clink.
The Tarnished rang the bell again, and more figures emerged from the mist.
"Cleanrot Knight Finlay. Ogha. Aurelia." His voice was calm, practiced. "Go support Tiche. And remember—leave no survivors."
Finlay and Ogha answered as one. "As you command."
Aurelia hovered a little uncertainly, her voice soft but determined. "M-Master… I'll do my best!"
Then the three spirits rushed into the tunnel like a sudden tide, disappearing into the darkness where the fighting had started.
Watching them go, the Tarnished turned back toward the chaos ahead—and a smile tugged at his mouth despite himself.
To him, these weren't soldiers.
They were walking runes.
He'd originally planned to slip straight into the castle and find Godrick without wasting time on the rabble. But if they insisted on delivering themselves to him in neat, convenient numbers…
Who was he to refuse?
He took a step forward—
And a sharp notification chimed inside his head.
A ping that only meant one thing.
Someone had mentioned him in the group chat.
"…Seriously? Now?"
He complained, but his body moved on habit, opening the chat anyway.
It wasn't like the front line was going anywhere. The Mimic Tear—no, the Mimic Lady today—was holding the field, and this army wasn't getting past her in one piece.
Otto Apocalypse: "@Tarnished, I've collected the books you requested. Shall I send them to you now?"
Chika Fujiwara: "Huh? Books? Is Mr. Tarnished studying modern knowledge?"
Gilgamesh: "Oh? So the newcomer thirsts for knowledge as well. Excellent. This king is pleased."
Gilgamesh understood better than most what knowledge could do. Since getting a stack of books from Chika Fujiwara, he'd been experimenting with merging magecraft and technology—and the results were, frankly, delightful.
He'd even built a mana-based explosive modeled after the shop's "big one," except without any contamination. He'd also modified the Dingir seal, turning it from single-shot to rapid-fire, with a rate of fire comparable to a heavy cannon.
A tiny, tiny increase in his odds against the Primordial Mother, Tiamat.
Still pitifully small, of course—but in his line of work, you celebrated even crumbs.
Northern Northern Northern: "Knowledge changes fate. (Agree.jpg)"
Chika Fujiwara: "Wah! Northern actually typed! So cute!"
Eternal Seventeen: "That's a perfect summary, Northern. But what about Mr. Tarnished? @Tarnished"
Tarnished: "Sorry. I'm in the middle of a small war. We can talk later."
The kind where I'm the one doing the surrounding.
Chika Fujiwara: "A war?! Mr. Tarnished, do you need help?!"
To be fair, she did want to help.
Mostly, though, she wanted to watch the livestream. Class was painfully boring, and the Tarnished didn't show up in chat very often—like he wasn't that interested in socializing.
Tarnished: "No need. I'll finish this quickly."
He closed the chat with a flick of his thumb and refocused on the battlefield.
"Get ready," he called toward the Mimic Tear, who was still cutting a path through the enemy ranks. "We're using Dragon Communion."
The Mimic Tear immediately disengaged, nodded once, then sprang back—stepping on the head of a freshly fallen grafted noble as a launch point. In a single bound, she landed at his side.
In the army, a metal-clad commander—one of the walking suits of armor—seemed to realize something was wrong. His voice rang out in panic as he barked an order.
"Full retreat! Fall back into the castle and hold defensive positions!"
He didn't know what the enemy was about to do.
But he knew enough to run.
Unfortunately for him…
It was already too late.
"Incantation—Dragonice."
A blood-red sigil flared behind the Tarnished and the Mimic Tear, spinning into existence like an opening wound in the air.
Then—
Both figures vanished from where they stood.
And two enormous shadows spread across the battlefield, blotting out the light as they rose into the sky.