"This cannot be blamed on him." "I have never blamed him either. Do not forget, Radahn is also a member of Caria, so he is the only one capable of holding back the stars, and the cost is the same as mine." Ranni's tone was indifferent; she truly held no resentment. Throne frowned at first, as if he didn't quite understand, then nodded slowly.
The three siblings—Radahn, Ranni, and Rykard—were kin by marriage, all carrying half of Caria's blood, and their fates were inextricably linked to the royal family. As for what this ethereal fate might influence, Throne did not know. "Then, Your Highness, what should I do now? Should I go to Sellia to report this?" "It is useless.
Not to mention why Sellia would believe such a tall tale, they have insiders who can forcibly suppress it." Ranni paused, her tone seeming to carry a hint of a smile. "As for the simplest solution, don't you already have the answer?" She was far too clever, practically the opposite of Sellen.
Ranni's exquisite heart made Throne, who had just parted ways with an idiot teacher whose IQ was zero, feel quite unaccustomed. That's right, the simplest solution was to trick everyone in Cheka Village into mobilizing and burying hundreds of people in this swamp. Then, use their lives to make Sellia alert, thereby forcing a full-scale search of the swamp and compelling them to leave.
This was sacrificing the few to solve a major problem—an efficient and rational method, but—
"You are unwilling?" "Well, I think there is a better way. For example, luring out the Primeval Sorcerer hiding in Sellia. The effect would be the same." "But you will be in great danger; they could join forces to kill you." "Which thing I have done didn't involve risks?"
Throne closed his mouth, then probed slightly: "Of course, this also depends on Your Highness's wishes, as the subsequent consequences are hard to estimate." "Do whatever you want; there is no need to consider me." "Oh? You trust me that much?" "No, this is just respecting you." Respect, huh? The hollow tree fell silent for a moment. Throne's lips curled upward, and he smiled silently.
"Working under you is truly reassuring." "We are both master and servant, and friends. Since we are on the same path, I do not wish to change your will." Proper and polite; it couldn't help but greatly increase one's favor, but in Throne's view, this was a matter of course. Ranni craved freedom, and he similarly wanted to live without being threatened by anyone.
Naturally, they had common interests. In The Lands Between, Throne was surrounded by enemies, but fortunately—
Behind him were Sellen and Ranni. "Fine, anyway, I cannot reach Radahn, so I might as well spend some time dealing with this matter. I am far too familiar with dealing with sorcerers." Based on his memory, Throne drew an 'X' on the map, then crawled out of the hollow tree.
Just as he was about to leave, his brows furrowed. Something was there? A giant crow was circling in the air, seemingly avoiding something. He held his breath, slowly lowered his body, and heard a 'rustling' sound. A slender figure walked out from the shadows twenty meters to the right.
It was pale all over, covered in centipede-like features, with thin, long legs, four frail arms, and holding a crescent-shaped spear. Kindred of Rot? Did it actually come to the outer perimeter? Throne was startled, then immediately realized the reason. It must have been the incident during the day that alerted them, prompting them to send out sentries to eliminate the hunters in advance.
There were many beasts in the swamp, and one or two deaths didn't really matter. Perhaps if a few more died, no one would dare to enter for a while. 'What to do? Should I go around?' Throne touched the sword at his waist. Just as he was about to detour, his heart stirred. There was only one, and it was off guard. How about I give them a smoke bomb? Avoiding conflict was not his style.
After a moment of hesitation, he moved his hand away from the sword hilt and directly pulled out a Glintstone staff, aiming at the back of the Kindred of Rot in the distance. Glintstone Arc. Mana was instantly activated, but the magic sigil could not be concealed at all, and the Kindred of Rot reacted immediately.
Almost halfway through the arc's travel, it turned around abruptly, locked onto the attacker's position, and without any hesitation, charged over immediately. With its six legs on the ground, it ran swiftly, and its long, narrow body twisted like a python, dodging three arcs in a row. So fast. Throne's eyes widened slightly; this speed was faster than an average knight.
Within a few breaths, it was in front of him, the crescent-shaped spear enlarging in his vision. Swish—
The spear pierced through an afterimage. The Kindred of Rot paused, as if not expecting a sorcerer to be this fast. It instinctively jumped back a few steps, and several Carian Piercer spells landed directly in the surrounding area. Throne still did not draw his sword.
Watching the Kindred of Rot keep jumping back, he simply gripped his staff and charged forward. The spear slashed horizontally, the gale sweeping over his head. He lunged forward, staff tucked under his ribs, and then saw a pale fist smash toward his face. At this moment, he didn't care that the doll was on his chest and directly raised his right foot. Storm Stomp! Boom!
Mud exploded, and the gale sent the Kindred of Rot flying. But before Throne could pursue, he saw the opponent raise its spear high—a move too familiar. Not good. The air shrieked as a large mass of tough white threads surged over, stabbing into the water with a thudding sound like sharp arrows. This thing even had homing capabilities, flying straight toward Throne as he jumped back repeatedly.
Fast, long-range, and homing—who knows how many sorcerers had suffered before this thing. Fortunately, Throne was no ordinary sorcerer. Before being hit, he dissipated into starlight. There was a one-second gap between dissipating and reassembling. The Kindred of Rot did not daze; it turned around quickly. Three meters away, the starlight was gathering.
At this distance, it was undoubtedly courting death in front of it. Swish—
Its long, thin legs stepped into the muddy water. It lunged forward, and without a word, raised its spear to stab. At this speed, no mana could be condensed. Throne smiled cruelly, tossed his staff upward, and gripped the hilt of the sword at his left waist with his right hand. Moonveil! Clang!
Sword and spear collided, sparks flying. The force of the iaijutsu strike sent the Kindred of Rot reeling backward, emitting a strange 'kachi' sound, as if puzzled by the attacker's strength. "Sorry, your strength is still lacking." Throne leaned forward, raised his hand to catch the falling Glintstone staff, and then thrust it into the opponent's face—
Crystal Burst!
The magic sigil illuminated their faces, just like putting a shotgun to someone's forehead and pulling the trigger. Rat-tat-tat... The Kindred of Rot's body swayed in the hail of bullets. Its bone-hard skin was pierced, its arms were blown off, and its mutilated body fell into the muddy water. It wasn't dead yet, turning its alien-like pointed head to look at the sorcerer beside it.
Its simple intelligence could not comprehend:
Why a sorcerer's strength was greater than a knight's. Throne looked down at the strange creature, mana forming a blade on the staff, and stabbed down casually. Pfft. Without a word of nonsense, Carian Piercer melted a large hole directly through its head. Throne glanced at the monster whose limbs were still trembling and exhaled a breath of turbid air.
Ugly, but not weak. The truth was, this thing already fought like an intermediate knight—and that eerie homing attack would turn careless men into sieves. Did it generate faith power too? Throne studied the corpse, surprised, but there was no time to dwell on it. Sooner or later, someone would find this body.
Sellian night sorcery bore no resemblance to the Academy's glintstone arts. These wounds would scream their origin to any passing sage. And when they came sniffing around, they'd ask one question:
Where did the glintstone sorcerer come from?
"Take your time guessing. I'll give you the answer soon enough."
Throne kicked dirt over the corpse, gave it one last look, sheathed his sword, and vanished into the trees. When he finally stepped free of the canopy's gloom, the sun hung low—afternoon. Half a day wasted wandering the swamp, if you didn't count casually butchering a Kindred of Rot. Not a bad haul.
The road came into view, and with it, the entire village gathered outside. A massive pyre dominated the clearing, the grizzled chief standing sentinel at its base, leaning on a notched greatsword. Throne's frown deepened as he closed the distance.
"Dead?"
"Poison took Yanan at noon." The chief's voice was flat. He turned, mouth twisting into something like a smile. "No grief here. Died fighting. That's glory."
Caelid's people had their own arithmetic for life and death. Throne scanned the crowd—not a single tear. When you couldn't return to the Erdtree, a battlefield death was mercy.
Then the chief added, "You fought something?"
"Killed a peculiar beast. Call it vengeance if you want." Throne kept it vague, then cut in before the old man could pry. "Don't go deep into the swamp these days."
"Why?"
"Doesn't matter. I'll handle it."
The chief studied Throne's face, nodded slowly. Maybe he remembered his own captain saying those same words during the Siege of Leyndell—right before he followed orders and lost an arm. "You're stronger than I ever was. My trust's all I've got left to give." Decades retired, but the man still moved like a soldier.
He set his sword down, snatched a torch from a one-legged veteran beside him, and shoved it into Throne's grip. "The strong lighting our pyres—that's an honor."
Throne took it without hesitation, stepped forward, and stared at the young hunter laid across the kindling. They'd barely exchanged ten words. No grief here either.
Just like the chief said—in these crumbling Lands Between, a warrior's death was its own kind of blessing.
The torch fell. Grease-soaked wood roared to life, flames swallowing the corpse whole, painting Throne's face in flickering shadows.
Could Radahn be killed? He didn't know yet.
But those Kindred of Rot fanatics, those primeval sorcerers dreaming of scarlet blossoms fed by countless corpses—
They'd die.
Hooves pounded the road. A warhorse tore past, trailed by a Pot Person sprinting at full tilt. In Caelid, the sight barely earned a second glance. Warrior Jars made good servants—loyal, deadly, and the best damn rear guard a retreating company could ask for.
Whoa—
Throne tugged the reins, his disguise magic clinging to him like a second skin. The gate tower loomed ahead, its walls bristling with Redmane banners snapping in the wind. Armored figures moved along the battlements—one knight, ten soldiers, and a hulking flamethrower contraption that looked like it belonged in a nightmare. He'd never studied Radahn's men this close before.
The knight's surcoat burned crimson, a lion roaring across his chest. The cuirass resembled a Cuckoo Knight's, but the rest was heavy chainmail, save for the pauldrons.
Not as sturdy as a Cleanrot's full plate, but it let the wearer pivot, slash, strike wide. The helmet ruined the practicality—a bulbous jar shape with a red tassel flopping like a lion's mane.
Throne had seen prettier knights. This one ranked upper-mid at best. But strength? That was another matter. The swordsman's gaze barely grazed him before the Redmane Knight's head snapped up, eyes locking onto him like crossbow bolts.
Blond. Blue-eyed. Silver-gray half-plate with a scarlet cloak flaring behind him. Twin swords at his hips. The warhorse was scrawny, but the armor had been tailored, no family crest in sight. Some noble's son playing at war?
This attire was very common in Caelid. The Redmane Knight was not suspicious and, along with Throne, performed a nod of greeting before looking away.