Within the walls of Stormveil Castle, Godrick listened to his subordinate's report, his rage boiling over until every one of his grafted limbs trembled in unison.
"A mere Tarnished? How does he dare such insolence? And what of the Tree Sentinel patrolling the wilds? Did he truly notice nothing?"
The Grafted Scion delivering the report hesitated before adding, "The Tree Sentinel has been slain. We discovered his remains not far from the Church of Elleh. I believe it was the result of that massive explosion yesterday."
Godrick fell silent, momentarily stunned. That was a Tree Sentinel—when had a figure capable of such a feat appeared in Limgrave? To kill a Sentinel so easily and tear the Gatefront ruins apart in the same breath...
What was the purpose? Was it an act of petty revenge, or a rehearsal for the coming assault?
Though he was incensed by the loss of so much military strength, the terror of his past defeat at the hands of the Blade of Miquella remained etched into his very soul. He would not even consider a proactive strike until he had acquired enough power through grafting. If that was the case, sending more forces out for a manhunt would be a pointless waste.
"Recall all soldiers currently hunting Tarnished. No one is to leave the castle grounds for the time being."
"But, my Lord," the Scion stammered, "what of the rebellions breaking out in all directions?"
Godrick glared at the creature, his voice dripping with venom. "Dost thou think me ignorant of the arts of war?"
"I... I would not dare."
"I should hope not. Ignore the minor rebellions. Once I have gathered sufficient strength, let alone those wretched Tarnished, we shall one day return to the Royal Capital—back to our true home at the foot of the Erdtree. Now, begone."
Having dismissed his subordinate, Godrick turned his massive, bloated body. With a gaze burning with an insatiable hunger for power, he stared greedily at the carcass of a wyvern.
"A dragon, a fellow descendant... Thy power is beyond doubt. It shall push me toward a higher realm. Once the ritual is prepared, thy strength shall be mine!"
The shrill cry of a hawk interrupted his focus. Godrick looked up at the Stormhawks circling above, feeling a sudden sense of unease. For the past few days, these once-tamed creatures had become restless and irritable, increasingly difficult to command.
Did this anomaly have something to do with that stranger? A pang of anxiety flickered in his chest, but he pushed it aside. He was here, and he wasn't going anywhere. Surely, no one would truly dare to storm the gates of Stormveil to seize his Great Rune.
High above the main gates of Stormveil, Margit, the Fell Omen, stood watching the circling hawks, his expression unreadable.
Even without the reports from the Gatefront, he could sense the atmosphere growing increasingly tense, as if a great crisis were brewing just beneath the surface.
Still, he remained confident. As long as he stood guard here, no one would lay a hand on Godrick's Great Rune.
Though he held little respect for the shardbearer who was so obsessed with grafting, Godrick was nonetheless a direct descendant of Golden Godwyn. Even if his blood had thinned until no trace of his ancestor remained, he still possessed a natural legitimacy. Margit and his Night's Cavalry would ensure that any "flames of ambition" were extinguished in their infancy.
Gawain came to a halt at a set of crumbling ruins. If his memory served him right, this was the Waypoint Ruins.
His journey thus far had been relatively smooth, save for a minor skirmish at the great bridge. A group of riders in Kaiden sellsword armor had tried to block him. He had hesitated to kill them, opting instead to use a Storm Art to knock them off balance before elbowing them off their horses and moving on.
A few poison-spewing Miranda sprouts blocked the path, but he made short work of them with his Pyromancy Flame. After a bit of searching, he finally located the entrance to the cellar. Lighting the way with a miracle, he stepped into the dark.
Within the cold, damp underground passage, the rhythmic booming of iron striking stone echoed, interspersed with beast-like growls. As he ventured deeper, the sounds grew clearer—the heavy thud of metal hitting the floor and the ragged, heavy breathing of a large creature.
Rounding the final corner, the scene matched his memory perfectly. A hulking figure wearing a rusted iron pumpkin helmet was wildly swinging a massive flail, smashing it into the ground in a frenzied rage. Stone chips flew everywhere, and every strike made the cellar floor tremble.
The Mad Pumpkin Head sensed the intruder and whipped its head around. Through the slits in its helmet, two points of crimson light locked onto Gawain. With a threatening roar, it suddenly accelerated, charging toward the entrance like an out-of-control bull.
Faced with a charge capable of shattering boulders, Gawain didn't flinch. He didn't even bother to dodge. He simply raised his hand and stepped aside at the precise moment of impact, playing the role of a matador toying with a bull.
CRASH!
The shockwave kicked up a cloud of dust, but the Pumpkin Head's momentum came to a violent halt as it slammed into the stone wall.
Disoriented and looking rather pathetic after being outmaneuvered so easily, the soldier let out a furious bellow. He swung his corded, muscular arms, flailing wildly with his weapon, but his strikes found only air.
"You can't even see the road, so stop trying to be funny," Gawain muttered. "Lie down."
Circling to the soldier's back, Gawain spotted a vital opening and went for a critical backstab. His frost-infused blade drove deep into the target, instantly freezing the internal organs into blocks of ice. While it wasn't a headshot like the one he'd dealt the Demi-human Chief, a blade through the heart yielded the same result.
With a final, weak moan, the massive body of the Pumpkin Head crashed to the floor and moved no more.
"Truly a hard-headed fellow. Even hitting the wall made that much noise," Gawain remarked. He brushed the dust off his armor and removed his helmet to compose himself. After all, he was about to meet the "Best Teacher" in the Lands Between.
He pushed open the heavy iron door at the back of the room. The chamber beyond was a stark contrast to the cold tunnel.
Warm candlelight filled every corner. Ancient tomes were neatly arranged on bookshelves, with the faint shimmer of magic—the color of glintstone—glimmering between the yellowed pages.
In the center of the room, a figure wearing a large glintstone glintstone crown and the robes of an Academy sorcerer was hunched over a desk. She was intently reading a scroll while fiddling with several small shards of glintstone, seemingly conducting an experiment.
Gawain walked in, his boot accidentally crushing a stray shard on the floor. The crisp crunch finally caused the woman known as Sellen, the Graven Witch, to stop her work.
"Oh... a Tarnished?"
Sellen's voice was calmer than he had expected. She didn't seem particularly hostile toward the intruder. After all, this wasn't her original body.
Her gaze swept over Gawain's exquisite armor, which was still flecked with iron filings from the Pumpkin Head. She quickly deduced that the man before her possessed significant strength.
"A rare guest indeed. No wonder I heard such a racket outside interrupting my research."
A blue light flared from the glintstone on her desk, seemingly triggered by an automated spell. She casually swatted it out with her hand before shrugging.
"Though, to be fair, conducting research in a place like this was never going to yield any breakthroughs. I am Sellen. As you can see, a banished sorcerer. So, what business brings you here?"
Gawain surveyed the room, his gaze lingering briefly on Sellen's bare feet. Right... so the rumor is true. Sorcerers from the Academy really don't wear shoes.
"Nothing much," Gawain replied. "I was just passing through these ruins and thought I'd see if there were any treasures. I didn't expect to find a sorcerer imprisoned down here. Since you are a sorcerer, would you be willing to teach me some basic Glintstone sorcery? I'm a bit lacking in that department. Limgrave has plenty of clerics, but sorcerers are in short supply."
Sellen seemed genuinely surprised. She hadn't expected someone to knock on her door and ask to be her apprentice. It wasn't a request she found repulsive, but would he still be so persistent if he knew the truth of her identity?
"Oh? You wish to learn Glintstone sorcery? Hm... you appear to have quite excellent potential. Have you truly never had the chance to study it before?"
"I've studied many magics before," Gawain said, "but they likely differ in system from the Glintstone sorcery you're familiar with."
The magics Gawain knew—native to the Dark Souls world—were channeled through the soul, unlike Glintstone sorcery, which utilized glintstone as a medium to transform the caster's own mana.
Sellen didn't know the specifics of his past studies, but she knew that even sharing secrets between different Academy factions was difficult, let alone teaching someone from scratch.
Of course, she wasn't unwilling to teach—provided he wasn't afraid of who she was.
"No matter. That is not a problem. But one does not simply become an apprentice," she warned. "I was cast out from the Academy of Raya Lucaria—I am a 'Graven Witch,' a heretic from whom all others flee in terror. Knowing this, do you still wish to study under me?"
Gawain pointed to his own eyes, which lacked the shimmer of Grace.
"Who in this world isn't a heretic? Are the Tarnished not also wretches who had their blessings stripped by Queen Marika and were exiled from the Lands Between? Even when guided back by Grace, we aren't accepted by the Shardbearers. From that perspective, we're all heretics here. What's the problem with one heretic being the student of another?"
Sellen let out a soft laugh, clearly impressed by his reasoning.
"Haha! Well said! In that case, I am willing to take you as my apprentice and teach you the art of Glintstone. But be warned: I am a strict teacher. I do not subscribe to gentle methods. Do not live to regret it."
Gawain nodded. He had encountered all sorts of mentors, so a strict one was nothing new. However, now was not the time to sit down and study magic. This cramped cellar was even less accommodating than Firelink Shrine; at least there, he could practice outside.
"It's a deal then, Master Sellen. But for now, I have urgent business to attend to. I'll need to take a leave of absence for a short while."
Sellen thought for a moment before asking, "I know a bit about the affairs of you Tarnished. Do you intend to seize the Great Rune of a demigod?"
"Something like that. Hopefully, by the next time we meet, we can start our lessons in a much more spacious classroom."
Gawain turned to leave. He had come here simply to meet the last true master of the Primeval Current. He would claim Stormveil first before settling down for academic exchange.
He was self-aware enough to know that the magics he practiced might be even more extreme than Sellen imagined. After all, using one's own soul as a weapon to attack enemies was a concept that might be a bit too "advanced" for the people of the Lands Between.
As she watched her new apprentice depart, Sellen suddenly recalled the disturbance she had sensed near her original body not long ago. She felt a faintly familiar aura emanating from him. Could it be the same person?
She didn't know if this change was for better or worse. Ordinarily, with the stars sealed, her fate as a Primeval Current sorcerer should be stagnant. What did the appearance of this man truly signify?
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