Before his voice could even fade, a flash of sword light had already sliced him into five or six pieces. "My title, I will grant my title to—"
Similarly, before he could finish his sentence, a handsome head was already spinning through the air. The Earl gritted his teeth. Seeing this knight advance in silence, slaughtering those of noble blood as easily as if he were killing chickens, and witnessing him slay the final nobleman, Brant abruptly raised his exquisite cane, the tip of which was set with a dazzling Glintstone. Boom!
A Great Glintstone Shard exploded directly in the center of the hall, blasting the knight and the headless corpse before him into a mist of blood. "Foolish! I also once studied at the Raya Lucaria Academy!" The Earl's lips curled into a grin, and he turned to flee. He wasn't so naive as to think a single Great Glintstone Shard could finish off a Banished Knight, but as he turned, his steps suddenly halted. That crimson figure was completely blocking the path to the balcony. How... how could this be? His mouth twitched, and his heart felt as though it were being gripped tightly by a cold hand.
However, as a man of high status, he did not grovel or beg for mercy. He discarded his staff with a forced elegance and straightened his disheveled collar. "I know Lord Oleg. In truth, no matter how great the conflict, we can sit down and have a proper talk." Oleg was one of the most powerful knights under the Storm King back then. Now that he has accepted Morgott's invitation, he is considered part of the Erdtree's forces. Bang! The sudden loud noise startled the Earl, but a look of ecstasy immediately followed. The sword had been thrust into the ground.
The force was so great that a third of the blade was buried in the floor. The knight paused for a moment and then strode forward. "You are very rational. Savage slaughter cannot solve any problem. If you feel I have stolen your credit, I can immediately report to Lady Malenia and have her reward you." The Earl believed the conflict stemmed from this. It made sense. The man had gone through the trouble of slaying a dragon, only for the Earl to insist the dragon wasn't dead. Wasn't that a desecration of the other's honor?
For a profession like a knight, honor was more important than life itself; coming here to kill was only natural. "You don't understand at all." Throne stopped in front of the Earl and shook his head slightly. "Don't understand? Oh, you mean compensation. That is a given..." Before Brant could finish, his mouth froze. He saw the knight pull a Pale Dragon Tooth, over a meter long, from his ring. For a moment, he didn't know what the other intended to do. "I was just thinking about what method to use to kill you." Beneath his visor, Throne was laughing wildly.
He grabbed the Earl, hoisting him up like a chick, and strode toward a high-backed chair at the side of the hall. The process of walking toward death was the most terrifying. The Earl struggled frantically, kicking and hitting, not stopping even as his bones cracked and his skin tore. But it was all in vain; he was merely hoisted up by Throne and slammed face-down onto the seat. Bang! The sturdy high-backed chair nearly collapsed. The pain made him open his mouth, and then he saw a white light expanding in his vision. "No—"
Splat!
The dragon tooth was thrust directly into the Earl's mouth, piercing through the back of his head and pinning him to the back of the chair. His upturned eyes stared at the ornate ceiling, his entire body completely frozen. Done. Throne let go and looked at the piece of performance art he had created. A Shura possesses no reason, much less any interest in deals. After a moment, he turned his head. Alexander rolled in, his round body covered in cracks. He finally managed to stop and scratched his 'head' upon seeing Throne. "Big brother, there are too many of them."
The moment the words left his mouth, a dozen soldiers burst into the room. They froze, staring at the Earl slumped in his high-backed chair, a lifeless husk. Their lord—dead. Before they could process it, the knight moved. Twin swords ripped from the floor, hurled like spinning blades. The soldiers raised their shields too late. The force slammed them back, scattering them like leaves. Groaning, they watched the knight grab the Pot Person's hand and bolt for the balcony. "Kill him!" one of the knights roared.
Crossbow bolts sliced through the air as soldiers flooded the room. Throne, clutching Alexander, didn't hesitate. He leapt into the night sky. Alexander barely registered the fall before it stopped. He looked up. Throne had caught a hemp rope dangling from the balcony. A heartbeat later, they dropped. Five meters down. Alexander's head spun as he hit the ground. Throne rolled, absorbing the impact, and sprang to his feet. "Run!" No time for explanations.
They sprinted for the gate, one after the other. Luck was on their side. The soldiers who'd returned had stormed the castle, while those rounding up slaves were still en route. The few guards at the gate didn't stand a chance. Their necks snapped before they could react. Throne snatched a falling spear. Ahead, a knight galloped back, reins tight. The knight yanked his sword free, but Throne was faster. The spear flew. A wet thud. The knight was thrown from his horse, pinned to the barracks wall. Dead before he hit the ground.
Throne grabbed the reins of the panicked warhorse, swung into the saddle, and reached for Alexander. "Get up." Alexander blinked, then took the offered hand. Throne hauled him onto the horse. Alexander wasn't heavy—a "medium pot," after all. Throne turned the horse, glancing back at the chaos. Soldiers poured from the castle, arrows flying wild. Some scrambled for horses, only to trip over each other. Throne laughed, sharp and wild. He kicked the horse into a gallop, arrows whizzing past. Hundreds of soldiers stood helpless, watching them disappear into the night.
Dawn broke over The Lands Between, painting the Limgrave Highroad in pale light. The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed in the distance. Noble soldiers, frantic and enraged, stopped carriage after carriage, tearing through them in search of a Banished Knight and a Pot Person. Runes, their usual obsession, were forgotten. This was bigger than greed. Earl Brant, one of Limgrave's three great lords, had been slain—not on the battlefield, but on his own throne. It wasn't just an insult to honor; it struck at the very core of their existence. The Lands Between had its laws.
If Brant had fallen in combat, it would've been acceptable. But his death, seated in power, marked his knights as failures. Exile was their fate. The Kaiden Mercenaries seethed. Men from the harsh northern snowfields, they lived by their contracts. Their employer's death under their watch was unforgivable. Yet their frenzied search proved futile. They found only the exhausted warhorse, abandoned on the roadside. The targets were gone, vanished like shadows. Instead of answers, their desperation exposed secrets better left buried.
"Hey, you hear about that Banished Knight roaming Limgrave? Kills everything in his path. Fucking terrifying." "Three meters tall, they say. Punched straight through Fort Brant's wall. Took out the whole garrison with one swing." "Good riddance. Rumor is he killed the dragon years back—used its own tooth to nail Earl Brant to his throne. Those burned villages after? Dragon come crawling back, or was there always two?" "Shut your mouth before it gets you hanged." "What's to fear? Brant line's finished anyway. After what they did to the Valkyrie, they'll be lucky to keep their titles." "True enough. Why fear a house of sinners?"
The shacks lining the highroad buzzed with merchants' whispers. Too many soldiers had seen the carnage. No silencing that. And with the Brant family headless, who'd enforce a gag order?
In the corner, a black-haired youth in hunter's leathers nursed an ale. Blue eyes, delicate features. Nothing like the three-meter wall-smasher of legend. Just a cloth slung over his shoulder—nowhere to hide plate armor or a greatsword.
"Done." Throne smirked into his drink. First time in years he'd relied on pure martial skill. Not just for old times' sake—this kept his identity buried. Banished Knights were a dime a dozen across Limgrave's factions. Let the nobles waste their breath hunting ghosts.
Good cover for Sellen too. And hell, it felt right. Those noble knights? All shine, no steel. Against full plate, he'd usually pierce through with magic. Proving he could still carve them up blade-to-blade? That the Sword Ghost hadn't gone soft.
Summonwater next. Find the master. He tossed runes on the table and stood slow. No hurry. Knowledge armored him better than steel ever could.
Here in the Lands Between, where most couldn't read their own name, Throne's education made him a sage by default. Dabbled in every school. If not for his face, they'd mistake him for a scholar.
He grabbed the raw meat from the counter and stepped into the wilds. At a pond's edge, he skipped a stone across the surface. Bubbles erupted as something breached—a Pot Person draped in riverweed.
"Big brother!" Alexander's voice echoed inside his ceramic shell. Those jar-folk could hide better than assassins.
Throne nodded at his newest recruit. The pot had held his own last night—quick, decisive, relentless. Good temperament too.
"Told you to get some air. Why stay submerged?"
"Trial by water!" Alexander crossed his arms, the gesture absurdly heroic for a living vase. "A warrior tempers body and will without cease! Only thus may I become your equal!"
Iron-willed little bastard. Throne almost smiled.
Throne had a soft spot for this kind of earnest fool. He shook his head. "I'm no hero."
"You are!" Alexander's voice boomed across the marsh. "I've wandered far from my village, seen warriors who could split boulders with their fists—but strength alone doesn't make a hero. You drew steel against nobles for the sake of strangers. If that's not heroism, what is?"
Even Throne's calloused pride prickled under such fervent praise. In all his time traversing The Lands Between, this was his first admirer. "Enough. Get out of that muck." He tossed a cloth bundle onto the bank. "Eat."
The Pot Person didn't budge. Arms crossed, he bobbed in the water, eyeholes fixed on Throne with unsettling intensity.
"Not hungry?" Throne arched an eyebrow.
"I'm," the jar admitted, "stuck. A hand would be appreciated."
—
Moments later, Throne hauled the dripping Pot Person onto solid ground. He watched as Alexander plucked pondweed from his seams and shoveled raw meat into the jar's mouth. An odd creature indeed. No head, no face, limbs that regrew like saplings. All their vitals coiled inside that ceramic shell. Their path to power was brutally simple: consume the flesh of mighty beings, swell in size and strength. Rumors spoke of elder jars ten meters wide, capable of rending dragons barehanded.
No chewing sounds emerged—just the wet slide of meat dissolving. The cracks marring Alexander's body from their earlier scuffle sealed shut. Throne ran fingers over the now-smooth glaze. "Convenient. Saves on bandages."
"Minor wounds heal themselves. For grave damage, we need a Jar-Healer." Alexander's voice turned somber. "Few venture beyond our villages. So I grow stronger through trial alone."
Pot People were paradoxes—formidable yet fragile. A single puncture could spill their lifeblood. A careless blow might shatter them beyond recovery. The road to power was paved with peril.
"So you left home just to train?"
"Not only that." Alexander drew himself up. "A Warrior Jar either breaks or becomes a legend straddling heaven and earth. I'll return only when my name shakes the Lands Between."
"Bold." Throne smirked. "What's next, then?"
"Follow you." The jar's answer came swift as a sword thrust. "Learn from the heroes of this age."
Throne said nothing. He could snap Alexander like kindling, yet he barely registered among the true powers here. Still, he admired courage and conviction. An extra blade never hurt. He rose, took three paces, then glanced back at the jar standing proud as a monolith.
"Quit gawking. Move. And lower that voice—unless you fancy attracting every predator from here to Altus."
Alexander startled, then scrambled after him on mismatched limbs. His booming laughter rolled across the plains.
—
Traveling with a living, clanking landmark forced Throne off the roads. They cut through wild grasslands, scaled treacherous cliffs to loop toward Summonwater Village. No rush. If some fool provoked Sellen, they'd be a crimson smear across the sky long before he arrived. And now that she'd mastered that accursed Starlight Shuffle? Ambushing her up close was suicide.
So Throne climbed at a leisurely pace. From the high ridges, Summonwater's mist-cloaked huts came into view—and beyond, the scarred border where Caelid's rot bled into Limgrave's green.
The coastline curved inward, creating a narrow bottleneck where land met sea. Caelid's terrain rose steadily higher than Limgrave's, its jagged peaks forming an impassable wall. Even the slender connecting strip was barricaded by mountains. Throne exhaled through his teeth. The Haligtree Army's advance through such treacherous ground proved their Valkyrie commander's tactical brilliance—but their current predicament made him rub his temples.
The main road was sealed. No conventional approach remained. "There's supposed to be a mine shaft that bypasses the blockade," he muttered. "If I can find the damn thing."
The Lands Between sprawled endlessly, offering no convenient markers. A hidden cave entrance might as well be a needle in a continent. Throne dismissed the thought for now. Behind him, firelight flickered. Alexander wobbled precariously over the flames, his ceramic legs shuddering. "B-big brother," the living jar stammered, "is this... really necessary?"
Throne circled the trembling pot, hands clasped behind his back like a disapproving scholar. "Of course it's useful. You Pot People have an unstable lower body and are easily swept off your feet. Only by standing firm can you slay your enemies." He paused, adopting Sellen's most imperious lecturing tone. "As I said before, my teaching is very strict. If you're afraid of hardship, you can give up."