He surged forward, blade raised high, and brought the swirling, air-infused edge crashing down. Storm Dragon Slash! Clang— A one-foot short sword intercepted, but the sheer force drove it down, grazing the leather armor on his shoulder and slicing inward. Royal was an assassin, not a berserker. How could he hope to match Throne's raw strength?
Pain tore through his shoulder, twisting his face. Yet, the staff hidden beneath his ribs transformed into a two-foot blade of pitch-black light, and he thrust it toward Throne's stomach. Wound for wound. Life for life. He'd already figured it out—the strange gravitational field emanated from the longsword in Throne's right hand. "Sharp eyes."
Throne acknowledged, but he didn't forget he wielded dual blades. Bang! The magical blade of Moonveil clashed with the black light. The two locked, and Throne's greater strength shoved the assassin back. Splash, splash, splash…
The sound of water echoed as blades met. Star-Frost lodged in Royal's right chest, blood soaking half his body, his expression growing fiercer. "Do you want to leave the battlefield?"
"And if I do?"
"Then let's make a deal. You leave, and I won't pursue. The affairs of Sellia don't concern you."
"Worthy of a Sage, bargaining even now." Throne paused. In an instant, they'd retreated a hundred meters. Relief flickered across Royal's face as the blade pulled free from his shoulder—but only for a moment. A heavy blow slammed into his stomach. Bang!
Throne kicked him flying, spun, and hurled Moonveil at the stunned Sage. The motion was fluid, swift. The longsword launched later but arrived first, catching Royal mid-air and piercing his brow, freezing all thought. Pfft— A man was pinned to a tree trunk.
His wide eyes still held astonishment. Fingertips trembled with residual nerve impulses. "Sorry." Throne took a deep breath, his flushed face cooling, and glanced behind him.
In the pitch-black forest, they'd fought alone, the dim flames of the Redmane flickering like dying candlelight. Not a single Night Sorcerer could follow. He stepped forward, stared into those wide-open eyes, and yanked out his blade. "I'm taking charge of this!"
"How many years has it been? Let all that pent-up rage explode tonight."
At Sellia's northern spire, Campore spread his arms, embracing the town below. Beside him, magical flames blazed in a candlestick, casting shadows across his sinister face. The Valkyrie hadn't arrived, but the war had begun. Hundreds of Night Sorcerers clashed in the swamp, alarming the Redmane garrison and the Kindred of Rot infiltrators.
The latter had no idea what was happening, why the Night Sorcerers fought, or how to intervene. Campore owed this chaos. Originally, these events were to unfold after the Valkyrie clashed with General Radahn. As the saying goes, when two tigers fight, one is bound to fall.
By then, with the Kindred of Rot stirring trouble, the weakened Redmane Army wouldn't spare a thought for the Primeval Sorcerers. "Riskier now, but the results might be better." Since the battle began, a smile had lingered on his lips. As for his companions' casualties?
The moment he chose to explore the Primeval Current, human emotions became trivial. "So that's it. You're using the entire Primeval Sorcerers as bait to free Lusat." A sigh drifted from the rooftop opposite. The Grand Sage emerged into the night, his face grim. "Campore, I underestimated you."
"Overconfidence is a sin, Grand Sage."
Campore bowed, hand on chest, a sinister smile twisting his lips. "Didn't expect you to take the bait so easily. Pleasant surprise." The Grand Sage's eyebrow rose. This chain of events—an unexpected ripple. Logically, their duel should've come after the Valkyrie clashed with the General. Only then, with the Starscourge forces crippled, would they fail to suppress the Primeval Sorcerers.
Whoosh—
A second candlestick ignited in the distance. The eerie blue flame burned in the Grand Sage's eyes, his killing intent boiling over. "Enough talk." He flung his cloak aside, revealing a belt bristling with weapons. He gripped his staff and short sword, locking eyes with Campore, who stood ready, weapons drawn.
"Let's fight."
Chapter 113: Ranni's Expectations
Throne slipped from the battlefield under night's veil. As he ran, he shed his robe, donned his armor. The swamp's terrain twisted like a maze.
Night Sorcerers, clad in identical garb, clashed in chaos. Throne's ornate breastplate stood out starkly at the battlefield's edge. A few sorcerers spotted him, mistook him for a watching warrior, and hurled spells to drive him off. Throne scrambled away, panic etched on his face.
News from Sellia had arrived.
One side retreated; the other clung tight. Amid frantic maneuvers, no one noticed the missing Sage Royal. On such a battlefield, friend or foe blurred into insignificance. Fight those retreating northward—no time for thought.
Throne circled east, the whistle of magic fading behind him. He slowed, pulled out the doll, and spoke in clipped tones. "You're saying the Primeval Sorcerers seized the chance to free Lusat?" Ranni's voice remained calm as she pieced together Throne's report.
"I think so. Your thoughts?"
"Eighty percent chance. This was their opportunity. A long-prepared battle, triggered early by your intervention."
Why's the blame on me? Throne frowned, considered it, and realized it was true.
In The Lands Between, only he understood the Scarlet Rot bloom's terror. Others reasoned logically: Malenia and Radahn stood equal. Even if their styles clashed, victory would leave the winner grievously wounded.
The Haligtree Army held a slight edge over the Redmane Army. Even with terrain and morale on their side, the Redmanes faced a brutal, bloody fight. The odds balanced at fifty-fifty. Mutual destruction served best—whichever side won would emerge weakened, their grip on Caelid loosened.
"Those bastards stayed out of the war on purpose. They were saving their strength to stir chaos later." Throne clenched his teeth. The plan was cunning, flawless. Why hadn't it worked? Simple—they hadn't counted on the Scarlet Rot, a nuclear blast that wiped them clean. In the original timeline, no one won.
If anyone came out on top, it was the Kindred of Rot.
"Throne, I'll be blunt—this isn't your fight. The risks are too high. Don't force your way in." Ranni's voice cut through the air, cool and sharp. The plan to draw the snake from its hole was sound, but involving Lusat? That raised the stakes to dangerous levels.
"Are you worried about me?"
Across thousands of miles, in her tower, the princess didn't bristle or deflect. She simply nodded. "Yes. I don't want you to fall here. Even in his wretched state, Lusat isn't someone you can face."
Her honesty caught him off guard. Throne grinned as he ran. "Sorry, Your Highness. When I make a decision, I don't back down. And this? It does concern me."
It concerned Sellen. If Lusat broke free, that foolish teacher of his would take it as a sign. Killing Radahn was impossible; becoming a sorcerer's puppet? Far easier. And then what? Sneak in and tie Sellen up?
"Because of your teacher?" Ranni wasn't dense. She pieced it together instantly.
She paused. "Is she that important?" Her tone carried something unfamiliar.
Throne's bitter smile was answer enough. "She's one reason. But this goes deeper."
"How?"
"If I can't win, it's the perfect chance to bow out under the eyes of a powerful enemy."
It sounded absurd—at least to Ranni, who didn't know about the 'reincarnation of the present world.' Throne didn't explain. He had his reasons.
Leaving Liurnia, he'd stepped onto the stage of The Lands Between. The whirlpool had pulled him in. The Black Knives, Raya Lucaria, Godrick, Morgott, Maliketh...
He was a nobody, yet he'd clashed with giants. Especially Morgott and Maliketh. Once they caught wind of him, they'd hunt him down. He needed time to grow stronger, to stand a chance against those monsters.
And then there was the ticking bomb of 'Grace.' After careful thought, the only escape was to 'die for real.'
If he had to die, it had to be epic. Something to immortalize him. Even if Morgott traced it back, he'd already be dead. No one whips a corpse.
"You're hiding something from me."
Ranni didn't miss a beat.
"I am. And it's better you don't know." Throne wore a mysterious smile, already bracing for her next question.
"Does Sellen know?"
"I haven't told her."
"Good. Then I don't want to know either."
Her decisiveness caught him off guard. He'd planned to leave her hanging, but now? Resignation.
Women were a mystery.
The swamp ended abruptly. Ahead, the gatehouse burned with torchlight. Nearly a hundred Redmane soldiers stood in confusion, maintaining order on both sides of the road.
Their commander had long since gone on an adventure with Throne, and the warring factions ignored this small group. Without orders, the soldiers could only guard the gate and help the fleeing townsfolk.
"Has it begun?" Throne's gaze locked on the flames rising from Sellia. The swamp's silence was eerie, muffled by the forest.
"Your Highness, I'm off." "Mm. I don't care what your plan is. The power I have left here is meant to ensure you survive." Ranni's voice was firm, her words carrying a weight that even the wolfman, Blaidd, felt as he returned to report. He glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Lately, Her Highness hadn't been sleeping much.
Sometimes she smiled, soft and distant. Other times, her jaw tightened with unspoken rage. But most often, she sat like this—upright in her high-backed chair, her gaze steady, filled with approval and expectation.
"Understood!" Throne chuckled lightly, tucking the doll away before moving against the tide of fleeing townsfolk. Ranni sighed, her fingers curling against the armrests as she rose slowly.
The scene before her blurred into an illusion—the silent Royal stronghold, eternal and unmoving, contrasted sharply with the chaotic magical town in her mind. Throne, the blood-stained swordsman, strode against the current, advancing toward the Primeval Sorcerers' conspiracy. His resolve was unwavering, yet it felt unreal, like a dream teetering on the edge of waking.
"Your Highness, what's been on your mind lately?"
Blaidd approached cautiously, seizing the moment to ask.
"Nothing. Just watching an interesting story." Ranni's words were cryptic, but Blaidd, her shadow granted by the Two Fingers, understood after a moment's pause.
"Thorne? What trouble is he stirring up in Caelid now?"
Ranni turned, her piercing gaze locking onto Blaidd. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"He's creating his own epic."
"An epic?" Blaidd hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't mean to underestimate him, but with his strength..."
"No, even I underestimated Thorne. From Liurnia to Caelid—think about the path he's walked."
Blaidd's eyes narrowed as he recalled their parting by the lakeside. Since then, they'd never crossed paths again. He'd only heard snippets from Ranni. Thorne's journey had taken him far—thousands of miles.
He'd killed a magic professor, seized Stormveil, hunted flying dragons, slain the Nights Cavalry, and now plunged deep into Caelid.
Blaidd glanced at Ranni's expression and knew Thorne was about to stir something monumental. He felt no jealousy, only a strange distance. The frail sorcerer in his memory had faded, replaced by a swordsman stepping onto the stage like a demon.
"It's full of anticipation. I wonder how far Thorne can go." Blaidd's voice was low, his attempt at humor falling flat.
"Haha, maybe he'll even ascend the Elden Throne. Who knows?" "Do you really think so?" Ranni turned back, her sharp gaze silencing Blaidd. "Uh, I was joking. But he'll surpass that idiot Allen soon enough. Maybe even become the next Loretta."
It was high praise. Top-tier heroes like the Royal Knight were rare in The Lands Between.
"So you still underestimate him." Ranni shook her head gently, her gaze drifting to the window where the Erdtree loomed in the distance. A faint stirring in her heart whispered that perhaps Thorne could climb higher—step upon the throne and beyond.
If Thorne heard what Ranni was thinking, even with his thick skin, he'd blush furiously. He wasn't chasing legends or crafting epics. Everything he did was for a small, insignificant wish: