Throne covered his face. Once this Pot Person got fired up, he was incredibly stubborn and wouldn't stop even if asked. Several farmers were chatting and laughing at the village entrance. Seeing the three approach, they picked up their hoes and surrounded them. "Strangers, what are you doing here?"
Their bronze-colored skin and bulging muscles made them look quite fierce, but Throne, who was usually calm, elegantly performed a hand-over-chest salute. "We would like to stay in the village tonight. Naturally, we will pay in Runes." "Runes are useless to us." The farmer interrupted suddenly, eyeing Throne with suspicion. "You came from the outside, didn't you?" "Yes.
We intended to attend the Radahn Festival, but since it was canceled this year due to the war, we just decided to..." "Hahaha! Someone as scrawny as you is going to attend the Radahn Festival?" "Is that not allowed?" Throne smiled. At his level, there was no need to get angry with a bunch of roughnecks. In The Lands Between, standing just over 1.7 meters tall was indeed seen as weak.
He looked like a boy who hadn't grown up yet, which was visually deceptive. "Of course you can. The General has said that one cannot judge strength by appearance." The farmer was not a brainless person; he pointed to several logs nearby. "The rule of Cheka Village is that if you move those logs ten meters away, room and board are free. Of course, this Pot Person is excluded." "Why?"
Alexander, who had been eager to try, was stunned for a moment. "Hmph. We haven't been farming so long that we've gone stupid. Who doesn't know that you Pot Persons have immense strength?" "Alright, let me handle it." Throne raised a hand to stop Alexander and walked over to the logs. Each one was as thick as a waist and likely weighed over a hundred jin.
Perhaps because of Radahn, Caelid valued the beauty of strength, and everyone was built like a bodybuilder. "Do they need to be moved in one piece?" "Whatever you like, whatever you like. Even Gravity Magic is fine." They were quite sharp-witted. They valued strength but weren't rigid; it felt like meeting a kindred spirit. Throne grinned and gripped his sword hilt.
Swish— A blade of light swept through the middle of the five logs. The cuts were incredibly smooth, and the lingering airflow caused the severed wood to bounce up three inches. The swordsman twisted his wrist, and star-frost slapped them horizontally. The severed logs traced an arc in the air and landed steadily ten meters away.
Throne then drew Moonveil and slammed it heavily onto the remaining halves of the logs. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. With a few sounds of wood colliding, the five logs were joined together again, fitting perfectly. Aside from the sword marks, it was as if they had been moved as a whole. In an instant, two flashes of sword light. Clang.
Throne flourished his blade and steadily sheathed it at his waist. "Uh..." The farmers watched, dumbfounded. It was god-like, completely exceeding the limits of their imagination. This was not mere brute force; the exquisite swordsmanship was a feast for the eyes. "Room and board are free; you said so yourselves."
Throne, hand on his sword hilt, walked over slowly, his small figure suddenly appearing tall. Those men snapped out of their daze, their wrinkled faces immediately crinkling into smiles. "Please, come in! Please, come in!" "Garros, go tell the village chief that a very skilled swordsman has arrived!"
The speed of their change in attitude left even Throne stunned, but he immediately understood that under Radahn's rule, the one with the biggest fist was the boss, and highly skilled warriors had become a sort of idol. Just like in a certain world where people would become enthusiastic upon seeing young ladies in short skirts, in Caelid, they worshipped tough men with extraordinary skills.
The Nights Cavalry had battered Throne, but his strength dwarfed ordinary men. Crossing Caelid from south to north wouldn't cost him a single Rune. The village chief was a disabled veteran, settled here by General Radahn after retirement.
At first, the chief eyed him with suspicion and demanded an arm-wrestling match. Throne slammed him into the dirt. The free room and board instantly upgraded to a bonfire feast—Caelid's hospitality in full force.
Throne didn't refuse. He was easy like that. One moment swapping jokes with demigods, the next swigging ale with these roughnecks—all part of the swordsman's charm. When the drinks hit their peak, the one-armed tough guy ripped open his shirt, revealing a tapestry of scars.
One from dragon hunting. Another from Leyndell's spears. He even explained how his jaw got cleaved off. Painful memories, but the veteran's face glowed with pride while the crowd whooped and heckled.
"Chief, how many times you gonna tell that crusty old tale?"
"I marched with the General north and south! You brats who've barely set foot in Redmane Castle wouldn't know a damn thing."
"Bullshit! We're enlisting tomorrow—gonna see how tough that 'Blade of Miquella' really is!"
"Ha! Bring me back a few Haligtree heads!"
Vulgar laughter filled the air. Throne sipped his drink, shaking his head. Lucky he wasn't a Haligtree spy—he'd be pissing himself by now.
He scanned the room. Rough-hewn log tables packed with hunters and farmers. Muscle was the common currency here.
Simple faces argued till they flushed red. When words failed, they wrestled in the open space between tables.
Sweat-slicked muscles collided. Grunts and shouts—"Stay down for me, damn it!"—echoed through the hall. Martial virtue, if a little… enthusiastic.
Conquering Caelid by force? Impossible. If Radahn raised his arm, tens of thousands would rally. This red-soiled plateau was his iron fortress.
"What do you think of Caelid?" A voice, light as wind, brushed his ear. The chief beside him was too busy bragging to hear.
Of course. She'd been eavesdropping.
For safety, Throne carried Ranni wrapped in his cloak—no need to ruin his heroic image with a tiny witch on his shoulder.
"A land of warriors. I like it." Throne took a swig. The wine burned. The cheers roared. No politics here.
Friends? Drink together. Grudges? Take it outside. A man's life could be that simple.
On this grim night, basking in the bonfire's glow, sipping strong wine, watching two brutes wrestle like philosophers—it wasn't half bad.
"A king sets the example. Radahn excels at that."
In The Lands Between, there are very few who understand what "honor" truly means. Ranni, ever pragmatic, never scorned an opponent for their stance. Even mad, he guarded his kingdom. Even with survival rare as mercy, his people would grant him a warrior's end.
Here's the polished version with all content preserved and enhanced for style and clarity:
"Whether Radahn's a hero, I can't say. But from what I've seen? He's at least a good man." "You like him already?" "Never met the guy. Can't judge yet." Throne lifted his flask in a lazy toast toward the veteran beside him. "But I'm getting curious." "Boastful." Ranni couldn't even muster the effort to sound annoyed.
Her voice trailed off—then sliced back, sharp as a knife. "Your cloak reeks. Don't shove me in there again."
Throne clawed his way upright, skull pounding. His face contorted. Caelid bred hard drinkers—even his tolerance had cracked under their relentless toasting. The free meal hadn't cost him coin, but the "free mansion" was a no-go. After a night of raucous celebration, bodies littered the village square like battle casualties.
"Fuck, that's rank." He shoved the demi-human's reeking foot off his chest. Alcohol did strange things. This cowering creature had forgotten all deference after the third drink, hugging the wine jug like a lover before passing out beside him. Been too long since he'd cut loose like this. Throne arched his back in a full-body stretch.
Playing the dignified leader never suited him. Personally? He'd take this raucous chaos over Stormveil's stiff ceremonial feasts any day. The homemade liquor burned like hellfire. Snoring warriors formed a carpet of noise. Throne scanned the scene—Alexander the Pot was already doing squats in the dawn light, a gaggle of kids perched on his head. Their giggles rose and fell with each dip.
"Alexander, ever heard of resting?" "Discipline breeds strength. Your words." The Pot Person didn't break rhythm. "Why don't you train?"
Because ten thousand push-ups wouldn't make a difference.
Throne waved him off, gaze drifting. "I'm tempering my heart."
"What's that?"
"Finding meaning in the fight. Not just slaughter." Vague, but not untrue.
They said traveling taught more than books. Same applied to killing. Meeting all these people on the road—that's what steadied his blade. Reasons for fighting? For killing? Useless most days. But at the crucial moment, they kept your feet moving when hesitation whispered stop.
Alexander wouldn't get it. Throne didn't expect him to. This pot-bound warrior was too green. Understanding came with time. He grabbed a random cup to wet his throat, grinning at the kids now swinging from Alexander's arm—when a calloused hand clamped his shoulder.
"Gods, I'm parched."
The veteran hauled himself up, clutched his head, then snatched the cup from Throne. He took a swig—and spat. "Fuck's sake! More wine? Wasted it all now."
Couldn't find a drop of water. The stuff looked like cola.
Throne eyed the murky liquid. Some Caelid-style "tea," probably. He shrugged. "Village must be doing well, throwing feasts like this."
"Ha! Move two of those logs—you eat free. Move all five? You're a warrior. Of course we treat you right."
You setting me up, you bastard?
Throne looked at the farmer not far away, who gave him a simple, honest smile and slipped away carrying a hoe. He had indeed seen that the village was not wealthy; at the very least, the children's clothes were full of patches. Of course, the men didn't need them because they were shirtless most of the time, showing off their muscles.
"Even if warriors are rare, you can't afford to host them like this, can you?" "It doesn't matter." The village chief scratched his chest hair, his voice booming: "If we run out of food, we'll just go into the swamp to hunt. At most, we'll just have to work a bit harder for two days. But warriors with high martial arts skills are rare, so of course we have to treat them well."
"When enemies come, we take up swords and guns; when friends come, we have good wine. That is us, the people of Caelid!" Throne was stunned for a moment, then gave a thumbs up: "You are indeed warm and hospitable." "It's not that exaggerated. At least you have to be able to catch our eye.
It's a pity that the festival was stopped this year because of the war, otherwise I would definitely go to Redmane Castle to cheer for you. You don't know that scene where thousands of people shout your name together. If I could step onto the arena, it would be worth dying for." It's a pity that the Radahn Festival will never be lively again.
Throne shook his head silently and asked again: "Aren't you worried about the war?" "What is there to worry about? The General will definitely handle it well. Just obeying orders is enough. If you want to earn merits, you can go enlist." Is he that confident? That's true. If it weren't for a weapon of mass destruction like Scarlet Rot, it would be impossible to conquer Caelid.
The village chief was an officer, the hunters were archers, and the village was a fortress. This was just a microcosm of Caelid. "I will consider it." Throne smiled politely, looked at the sky, and thought it was time to go to Sellia. He declined breakfast, kicked the demi-human Boar awake, and prepared to set off.
The village chief didn't try to keep him, but when they reached the village entrance, he extended his strong left arm. "Little brother Roland, we can be considered friends now, right?" Throne took a look and gripped it tightly: "After drinking together, that's for sure. Is there anything you want to entrust to me?" "No, no.
Just remember to come by the village for a visit when you pass by the Caelid highway in the future. Of course, it would be even better if you could teach these children how to use a sword. My amateur skills are really not worth showing." "Eh? Village chief, didn't you say your nickname was the Redmane Sword Saint?" Someone nearby immediately teased.
The veteran's face flushed red, and he argued: "That was with a two-handed sword. My right hand was cut off by those bastards from Leyndell, and my skills were cut by more than half long ago!" Hahaha. The village entrance was suddenly filled with a cheerful atmosphere.
The veteran's skills were mediocre, and he loved to brag, but he still did his best to train the young and strong in the village into decent shape. Throne also laughed along. These villagers were quite fun. They valued strength but weren't overbearing. If he had time, he would be quite willing to stay here as a hidden master. What a pity.
The elden ring is shattered, the dementia disease is spreading, and these living people will eventually become walking corpses. This peaceful village will only remain as ruins. Glancing at the distant Erdtree, he suddenly stopped smiling. Reality and the future are intertwined, which makes it all the more cruel. Even if the flower of rot has not yet bloomed, that is just the beginning.
"Time to hit the road." Throne was about to say goodbye when he heard hurried footsteps. A group of hunters was carrying a makeshift stretcher, and the cheerful laughter around them came to an abrupt halt.