Understand? Understand my ass! Throne had a faint feeling that if he defected to Caelid, Ranni might not stop him, but she would certainly be heartbroken. "Please, Your Highness, do not make such jokes. I will not change my stance." "Why?" Throne's expression grew serious, and he replied, "Because the two of us are not just master and servant, but also companions resisting the Greater Will.
Besides, everything must respect the order of arrival; if I were just looking for development, why would I have left the Haligtree Army?" "Just as simple as that?" "Mm." Ranni, sitting in the high-backed chair, was stunned for a moment, then couldn't help but laugh.
It was strange; even though there was a Carian guest knight, Jerren, by Radahn's side—whom Ranni could accept without any emotional fluctuation—she could say she understood Throne, but in her heart, she was one hundred percent unwilling. Mm, after all, such talent is rare; it must be that!
She seemed to have convinced herself, and her previously bored demeanor became much more serious: "So you want to take advantage of Radahn's lack of attention to gather some intelligence?" "Am I a schemer in your heart? Why is it that I'm either plotting against people or on the way to plotting against people?" Throne helplessly picked up a bag of Runes and shook it. "Compensation given by Sellia.
It's not much, but it's just enough to repair my blades." Neither star-frost nor Moonveil could be considered divine artifacts, and after consecutive bitter battles, they were quite damaged. Although there were no chips, the edges were rolled. He had intended to reinforce them last time, but unfortunately, he didn't have enough Runes.
Now that he had the opportunity, he certainly couldn't let it pass. He first went to buy some Smithing Stones. With Ranni's remote guidance, he avoided many pitfalls. After persistent haggling, even the mineral boss thought he had encountered an expert. Thus, a satisfied Throne carried the wooden box to the side of the square. A small shed was set up there, containing an anvil and a furnace.
A Misbegotten over two meters tall was smoking a long-stemmed pipe. Seeing Throne approach, he extinguished the pipe. "You've finally come." "Do you know me?" Throne looked at this Misbegotten. He had heard him shouting last time, claiming to have worked in the armory of Leyndell. Now, looking closely, he discovered the rusted iron ring worn on his hand.
"A brand left on me by the Golden Order Army. I thought it wouldn't affect my forging, so I've kept wearing it." The Misbegotten smith explained, then added, "Bring the blades here; I noticed them last time." Good eye. Throne began to trust the other's skills. In The Lands Between, every race had its own specialty.
Take forging, for example; Trolls were the most proficient, but this Misbegotten was also experienced. Looking at those shackles, he must have been captured by Leyndell as a war slave, and picked up some craftsmanship along the way. He drew his dual blades, spun them, and handed them over backhanded. The Misbegotten took them and examined them carefully against the sunlight. "Good blades.
This is Troll craftsmanship, but you are far too careless with them. Not only are the edges rolled, but even such a sturdy hilt has loosened." A katana has many components; the part that breaks most easily is actually the hilt. When hacking at people, it rattles, which really affects the feel. "The enemies are too strong; it couldn't be helped." "That's true, there's no helping that.
No matter how good a blade is, it is a weapon. If it were kept in a cabinet by some noble, the blade would cry." The Misbegotten looked like a practitioner of combat as well, and asked casually, "How do you want to handle this?" "Help me repair them, then strengthen the blades." Throne opened the wooden box, revealing the white Smithing Stones inside.
The items glowed faintly—pale gold, pure white, their intensity flickering. The Misbegotten smith nodded, his rough features softening. "Not bad. Dug these out of that profiteer's junk pile, did you? Good finds. Take those Smithing Stones away, though."
"Why?"
"My skill's not there yet. You think reforging a blade is just hammering metal?"
Throne shook his head. He knew better. Dissolving the stones, spreading the molten essence evenly across the blade—one misstep and the weapon would be ruined. "Please." He placed the rest of his Runes on the table.
The smith turned in silence, relit his pipe, and began his work. Mekugi pins removed, blades separated from hilts, furnace roaring to life. He melted the Smithing Stones in batches, the molten metal pooling like liquid sun. Between pours, he crafted new hilts from an unknown alloy, wrapped them in supple leather.
The process dragged on—no simple matter of lifting a hammer and striking steel. Throne leaned against the wall, boredom creeping in. "How long were you in Leyndell?"
"Long enough. Started forging during King Radagon's reign. Saw these weapons in the hands of Carian mercenaries."
The smith didn't look up, his focus unwavering. Radagon's reign—a lifetime ago. The king had been vibrant then, the Erdtree preaching expansion, war never far. "What brought you to Caelid?"
"Followed the General when he was enfeoffed. Freer here. Forging's not just a chore anymore."
The Misbegotten's face twisted with nostalgia, gratitude etched into his rough features. Even during The Shattering, Radahn hadn't enslaved him. "You're a skilled old smith, then."
"Far from it. Among the war slaves, there was one—craftsmanship divine. Even the Goddess received him. He was my master."
The smith lifted the sword with iron tongs, dipped it into the molten steel as carefully as if it were his own child. Throne's expression shifted. "What's his name?"
"Hewg. A genius, peerless talent. Hero to all Misbegotten." He set the glowing katana on the anvil; Moonveil shimmered, encased in a molten shell. The hammer rose.
"He left and never came back." Clang. Sparks flew. The rhythmic strikes echoed, the Smithing Stones' power seeping into the blade. Throne's thoughts drifted. Hewg—alive, tasked by Queen Marika to forge a weapon to kill a god. Suspicion lingered, but this wasn't the place for such talk.
"Every race has its strengths. Any wishes of your own?" "Under the golden order, wishes are meaningless. What's to be done is already decided." The smith hammered on, no trace of anger or sorrow. Only in forging did he feel alive.
"What if you could choose?" The smith paused, looked up, his gaze empty. "No 'ifs.'" Throne fell silent, retreating. He turned to Ranni later, who confirmed it—Misbegotten excelled at forging, but their numbers were few.
Weak races like Demi-humans and Misbegotten could only hide in cramped, dark caves, waiting for the Golden Order Army to snatch those with talent as slaves when needed. Tailoring, forging—such skills were never meant to spread. The Erdtree thrived on absolute, high-pressure rule. To defy the golden order was heresy.
Death, slavery, or scraping by—those were the only options. No surprise that when The Shattering hit, monsters and freaks crawled out of the woodwork. Everyone pushes when the wall's coming down. Throne sneered. Then it hit him: these races could be allies. Ranni's vision could stretch even further. But why did the Erdtree's grip stay so tight?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Heavy footsteps echoed from outside. Heads in the square turned. A sea of crimson tassels, like Redmane manes, swayed as dozens of armored knights ascended the stairs. Their raised spears formed a forest inching forward. The air thickened with the scent of battle-hardened survivors. Merchants, peddlers—everyone bowed, hands pressed to chests.
The lead Redmane Knight, carrying a greatbow, gave a solemn nod. The Erdtree's rule wasn't held by laws or priestly sermons. Throne watched the knight approach, returning the slight nod. Swords and warriors—that's what kept the order.
Years of The Shattering had left the Erdtree's demigods slaughtering each other, leaving heaps of casualties. No demigod had fallen yet, but their armies were bleeding dry.
Still, from the Kindred of Rot to the Frenzied Flame's emissaries, from the Primeval Sorcerers to the dragons, no faction dared openly defy the Erdtree. The reason was simple. Organized resistance had been crushed by Godfrey and Radagon. What remained wasn't enough to topple the demigods.
Take these Redmane Guard knights. How many could withstand their charge? Even dragons, lofty as they were, had to crawl. "Throne?" The towering knight stood before him, no trace of disdain for the shorter man. "Yes." "I'm Ogha, the General's adjutant. He wants to see you. Come with me." Throne didn't budge, pointing to the smithy.
The knight raised an eyebrow. "Mory, once the forging's done, deliver it to him personally." The Misbegotten nodded silently, hammering the weapon with unwavering focus. Throne still didn't move. "I need to find a companion. He's been missing for two days." "A Pot Person, right?"
The knight spoke first, clearly having done his homework, then gestured. The Redmane Knights parted, revealing a Pot Person tied to a warhorse. It looked sturdier, its pot body riddled with cracks. Alexander. "We found it in the swamp. Stuck in the mud. Pulled it out on the way. Don't disturb it now."
Why'd this idiot chase me? With its knack for getting stuck, wasn't it begging for death? Throne cursed under his breath, stepping forward, but halted at the knight's next words. "Why?" "You don't know? How'd you get a Warrior Jar servant?"
The knight's tense face cracked a smile. "It ate too much flesh at once. Evolving in a certain direction." Evolving? Since when did these things have directions? Throne couldn't wrap his head around Warrior Jars. Weren't they just tough guys with iron fists?
He thought back to Alexander devouring those Night Sorcerers last night. A flicker of anticipation stirred. "He's my friend. Not a servant." Ogha blinked. What else would you use a Warrior Jar for if not as a servant? But he'd seen stranger things. He nodded. "Fine. Leave your friend to me."
"Don't keep the General waiting."
"Can I make a request?"
"You talk too much nonsense." Ogha raised his chin impatiently, signaling him to speak.
"Can you stuff all those Primeval Sorcerer corpses into him? Burning them is wasteful."
"Are you sure? There's a high chance he'll burst from being overstuffed."
"Mm. This opportunity is rare. Alexander's willing to take the risk."
Throne nodded. He knew Warrior Jars too well. This guy strengthened himself through self-harm—an obsession far beyond ordinary people's. If he were awake, he'd take the risk without hesitation.
"Fine. Don't blame me if something goes wrong." Ogha couldn't be bothered to argue and strode ahead.
Throne glanced at the sleeping Warrior Jar, followed silently, and asked Ranni in his thoughts: Your Highness, should I put you in the spirit-calling ring?
"No need. As long as I don't speak, Radahn won't notice." Ranni paused. "Just carry me like this. It's been a long time since I've seen my brother."
They were siblings, yet their paths had diverged so sharply they loved and killed each other—no turning back. Throne sighed. What kind of mess was this? He climbed the stairs.
This was the core area, the hardest-hit zone of the battle. Buildings lay in ruins—smashed by comets, cratered by meteors. Throne vaguely recognized where he'd run the night before, where he'd leapt down, where he'd driven his blade into a chest.
"Throne, your identity is strange. Even tied to that sorcery instructor," the knight ahead said abruptly.
"Why bring up such nonsense?" Throne's eyes narrowed. He'd anticipated this.
Instructor Vane wielded a staff. Aila, who'd witnessed the battle, was dead. As for him, he'd appeared from the town inn, entered Sellia before Vane. Countless people could vouch for that.
"I couldn't find the Glintstone Sorcerer's corpse," the knight continued, as if discussing the weather.
"Your suspicion's baseless. Just because I know Glintstone Sorcery doesn't tie me to that instructor." Throne's tone stayed calm.
"Mm. I've no evidence, but I'll keep an eye on you."
Did all the Starscourge General's subordinates act so independently? Throne shrugged. You don't even realize what kind of monster your monarch is. Is he someone you can assassinate?
The conversation ended awkwardly. Throne glanced around—dried blood lingered in the cracks, cleanup crews worked in the wrecked houses. As he walked, he noticed a massive "dark cloud" ahead.
Gravel, wood, and bricks floated in the air, then shot toward the southern mountains with a whoosh. Seconds later, a low rumble echoed.
Ogha sped up. Throne hurried to keep pace.
After climbing a few more steps, he saw it clearly—a flat area, or rather, ruins moved entirely by Gravity Magic. Radahn stood in the center, helmetless. His wild, hedgehog-like red hair stuck up, a white towel draped around his neck. He looked like a burly laborer.
Ogha was nearby, criticizing something. Throne caught fragments—"sorcerer," "beware of assassins." Radahn wiped sweat, laughing loudly, clearly ignoring it. He pushed the knight aside and waved Throne over.
"Yo, you're finally here. Haven't had time to deal with you these past two days. How're your preparations?"
"Ahem. I've got some ideas."
"Alright, tell me about it. Sit." Radahn grabbed Throne's arm and hauled him onto a crumbling section of wall. With a rough swipe of his hand, he wiped dust from Throne's face, then barked at Ogha, who stood rigid nearby. "Bring wine! This heat's sucking the life out of me." The knight's jaw tightened. He shot Throne a sharp look before striding off. Throne pressed his lips together, silent.
He and Ranni had spent days digging through texts, crafting arguments, rehearsing every word. Now, faced with the moment, his thoughts tangled. Radahn leaned back, arms crossed. "Relax. Neither of us wants the Scarlet Rot spreading through Caelid. Just say it plain."
Radahn saw this hesitation, smiled, and patted Throne on the shoulder with a force that nearly drove him into the dirt. Throne winced, rolling his shoulder. He half-expected to find a fracture. No point delaying now. He took a breath and began.