"Good thing I've got the chops for this." He flexed his right hand, leaned forward, and as his greatsword screeched against chainmail and a straight sword whistled past the back of his head, Throne opened his left palm. Magic surged, condensing into a blade of light. Carian Piercer. Pure magic, razor-sharp, lethal.
The light blade slashed. Spears snapped like twigs. Throne charged into the fray like a bull let loose. The impact sent bodies flying. He didn't need to look to know the knights were closing in from behind. His foot slammed the ground. Bloodhounds Step.
He vanished, reappeared ten meters away, right in the middle of the crossbowmen. They fumbled for their swords, too slow. The magical blade flashed once, twice, three times. Limbs tumbled. Screams never made it past their throats.
The knight commander's eyes burned with fury. "Surround him! He's trapped!"
"Maybe," Throne said, smiling coldly. He dissolved into starlight, reappeared behind them, right where he'd started. Not an inch off.
He sipped blue dew, flicked his left hand. Another blade of light formed. Dual blades in hand, he gave the stunned knights a mocking salute. "Gentlemen, round two." The tower was drowned in the roar of battle.
The Tarnished surged into the city, eyes wild, cutting down everything in their path. But something was off. This was supposed to be an ambush, a trap, yet the garrison was falling apart. Scattered, demoralized, fighting like individuals, not an army. The truth came when they caught two prisoners. "Count Haight!?"
Vyke's spear dripped blood. He stared at the dying Count in his grip, disbelief etched into his reddened eyes. After finding a Finger Maiden, the Old Knight had poured all the Runes from Mistwood into him, urging the Tarnished to pitch in. The result? Vyke leveled up like a comet. Enough to make anyone seethe with envy.
He'd carved through a dozen men while hauling a captive, but the thrill of newfound power had faded into shock. "Yeah. Your luck's unreal," the Old Knight said, shaking his head. Vyke's growth was expected, but this? Not even a Maiden could've arranged it.
Damn it, the enemy leader had practically delivered himself on a silver platter. Vyke didn't know what to make of it. He tried to scratch his head but only hit his helmet. Scanning the chaos, he yelled, "Does this count as a win?"
"Almost." Istvan's voice was grim. "This rabble's no match for us, but they're retreating to the main castle. We need to cut them off."
Before he could finish, a meteor streaked across the night sky, slammed into the arrow-riddled castle top, and exploded in a cloud of black smoke. Comet Azur. Which Tarnished had pulled that off? Damn precise shot.
In the brief flash, he missed the dark figure leaping from the tower's breach. The night wind whipped the man's robe, snapping it like a flag. Throne arced through the air, eyes locked on the knight commander. The man's armor was shattered, blood streaking his chin. Still breathing.
Interesting.
The knight commander fought with the skill befitting a great lord's right-hand man—his strength rivaled a Cleanrot Knight's. But it wasn't enough. Not against him. Sellen's research had refined more than just flashy spells. Without the weight of a staff, he wove magic between sword strokes like threading a needle.
A two-handed slash shattered the shield. Before the knight could recover, Throne drove the Gavel of Haima into his chest point-blank. The impact launched him backward—a human comet crashing into stone. Storm Assault. Gravity bent beneath his feet. He soared, a shadow against the moon, clearing the gap in one stride.
The knight commander staggered to his knees. Archers on the roof whirled toward the movement. Throne gripped his sword with both hands and dropped, spinning. The Great Ninja Falling Slash carved a trench across the rooftop. Archers fell in halves before they could scream. The knight rolled aside—only for an unseen force to yank him back.
A blade flashed.
The armor, already cracked by magic, split like parchment. Steel met flesh. A wet crunch. Blood arced into the air. Throne didn't glance back.
The remaining archers fumbled for weapons—swords drawn, bows half-strung. He hurled his blade. It spun, a silver disc in the dark. His left hand twisted. Gravity Magic tugged an invisible wire, whipping the sword sideways. The blade carved a crescent through throats. Bodies toppled.
The entrance exploded inward. Vyke charged through, shield raised, spear ready. Cold steel kissed his neck before he could process the carnage. He froze. The blade hovered, glinting, then ripped free—streaking back to Throne's outstretched hand like a meteor returning to orbit.
Moonlight broke through the clouds. The rooftop was a slaughterhouse. One figure stood untouched in the center. Vyke's skin prickled.
Throne flicked his sword. Blood scattered in dark droplets. He turned, eyes calm as still water. "Done?"
Vyke swallowed. "The fortress is ours." His voice sounded distant to his own ears. That technique—how?
"Move to the next phase. No survivors."
Throne walked to the roof's edge. Below, the Tarnished hunted the last defenders. The battle had ended the moment he flung Count Haight from the tower. Now, his own plans demanded motion. He stepped into open air.
Vyke lunged forward. "Lord Isshin, wait—"
Too late. The night swallowed the swordsman whole. Vyke gripped the parapet, straining for a glimpse. Nothing. No farewell, no theatrics. Just efficiency.
He exhaled. "Should've known. No one else could drop a Count at my feet like a stray dog."
The departing swordsman left no trail, no sound. Conquer a city without a word. Leave without a glance. More Tarnished flooded the rooftop, gaping at the carnage. Their eyes sought the distant shadow—admiration, awe, fear.
Vyke muttered to himself. The departing swordsman was as impenetrable as the night itself.
The Dauntless moved like a force of nature—the final fortress fell in less time than it took to draw a blade. As always, Vyke offered no explanations. None were possible. He simply grabbed a straight sword, climbed to the roof, and severed the banner ropes. Cheers of "Long live!" rose around him as he stared into the suffocating dark, throat working around a dry swallow.
This was the meaning of—
Ten steps, one corpse. A thousand miles, no witnesses.
Throne had already vanished by the time the Old Knight and the Finger Maiden reached the rooftop. Once again, Vyke stood drenched in borrowed glory. The boy didn't protest. Maybe he'd grown accustomed to these accidents of timing. Or maybe appearing precisely when the spotlight burned brightest was its own kind of talent. He kept tripping into legend.
The Runes flowed freely, at least. Leveling came swift enough to paper over his inadequacies. Throne couldn't care less about credit. His will was iron—if he chose to move in silence, no amount of cheering would sway him. Glory was cheap. He'd seen too much of it. Tangible gains mattered.
He slipped from the city amid the chaos. Particles of mist coalesced as he hit the treeline. Melina materialized, her form bleeding out of the fog. "'Blooming from the center.' Did you learn it?" Throne adjusted his belt without glancing up. The girl nodded, gaze fixed on the distant fortress where Tarnished voices still roared in victory.
"You could've held that fortress alone." The realization sharpened her tone. A mage of his caliber would've turned siege into slaughter. "No profit in playing garrison. Should I wait for the Roundtable Hold to lift the siege and pat me on the head?"
Throne shrugged. His breath fogged in the cold air. "Besides, this was just infiltration. Paving the way."
"Infiltration?" Her eye narrowed. "Since when do infiltrators stroll through the front gate?"
He laughed. "Everyone who saw me is dead. Except Vyke. Sounds perfect to me."
Melina had no rebuttal. She'd watched the entire operation. This man had systematically exterminated every witness. Technically flawless. But the method—
When Throne first walked openly up to the fortress walls, when he turned coats mid-battle and used Tarnished lives to buy Count Haight's trust, she hadn't predicted this outcome. A normal mind would assume he'd sacrificed pawns to reach Godrick.
"Haight's corpse is cooling. What's next?"
"I'll tell Godrick the Tarnished went berserk. Slaughtered everyone." Throne sheathed his sword and kept walking.
"How?"
Melina hurried after him. Throne paused, studying her with amused curiosity. "You never used to ask this much."
She froze. Had she? Words came easier now than when they'd first met. Confusion flickered across her face. Her fingers rose unconsciously to her brow.
"Forget it. If you won't—"
"I will. Bottling things up is tedious. Ask whatever you like from now on." He resumed walking. A silent companion was torture. "Here's a clue: remember my deal with Haight?"
The slight displeasure was diverted by the question. Melina's single eye widened as the pieces clicked. That letter. After securing the intelligence, Haight had penned a personal missive to Godrick. It would've named his source.
He probably spun some grand tale about his wisdom and martial prowess, claiming he'd planted spies among the Tarnished long ago. "Voluntarily, he turned me from an unknown trader into one of his own." Throne's smile was sharp, predatory, as he gestured toward the fortress where flames flickered and died.
"And as a 'traitor' to the Tarnished, with no place in Limgrave, I've got no choice but to defect to Lord Godrick. My loyalty's firmer than any noble's." The words coiled like a serpent. Did he even plan this far ahead? Melina felt a chill crawl up her spine. Compared to him, she felt painfully naïve.
Unconvinced, she pressed him. "What if the Tarnished get their hands on that letter?"
"Even better. The letter of allegiance is ready. Imagine Godrick himself fishing me out." Throne's smile was icy. "So what if I'm their enemy? The cold-blooded killer is Isshin Ashina. Not me."
Melina stared at him. Not just terrifying—his very nature twisted like poison. Yet it was this twistedness that would earn Godrick's trust. Throne would wait, hidden, then strike the fatal blow. She finally understood his plan.
If Throne faced Godrick head-on, he'd be crushed. But a sneak attack? Even Godrick might fall to a knife in the back.
"Are we heading to Stormveil now?" "What's the rush?" Throne waved her off, his gaze fixed on a distant golden Minor Erdtree. "Let the bullets fly for a while."
Two fast horses raced toward Stormveil, carrying news that would leave Godrick ecstatic—and furious. Limgrave descended into chaos. Armies clashed with Tarnished, villages sealed their gates, and rumors spread like wildfire. One moment Summonwater Village was captured; the next, the Tarnished were wiped out. Truth drowned in the chaos.
On the outskirts of Mistwood, now abandoned, figures emerged where they'd once fought. They moved like shadows, unnoticed in the turmoil. The eerie screams of Mistwood fell silent. A Tarnished lay sprawled on the ground, his body drained, muscles shriveled, bloodstains drying on his skin.
Foul-smelling bloodflies crawled from his gaping mouth into a jar. The man holding it wore a grey-white robe, a white mask covering his face, gloves hiding every inch of skin.
"Varré, what's the situation?"
A tall figure stepped from the shadows, draped in a hooded robe embroidered with gold thread. The White Mask turned and bowed deeply.
"Lord Minerva, Nerijus is dead. No further details. This Tarnished only mentioned 'The Dauntless' Vyke."
"Ridiculous." The voice was sharp, grating like steel on steel. "Vyke's mediocre at best. He didn't even have a Finger Maiden when this happened. He couldn't have killed Nerijus."
"I agree, my lord. Someone else intervened. Vyke's rise was too sudden—likely a pawn pushed forward by the Roundtable Hold."
That Vyke is mediocre in strength, and he only obtained his Finger Maiden after this event. He couldn't have killed Nerijus!
The Bloody Fingers and the Roundtable Hold had danced their deadly dance for years—each knew the other's moves by heart. Countless Tarnished had bled out under their knives.
"Enough." Minerva's voice cut like a blade. "Who did this? A full squad of Bloody Fingers slaughtered without a trace? Lord Mohg won't tolerate the insult."
Varré's first instinct pointed to the Roundtable Hold, but the pieces didn't fit. If Limgrave hid true warriors, the Tarnished wouldn't have fled Mistwood. "I'll dig, but it's chaos out there. No clean intel to be had."
He caught the noble's icy stare and dipped his head again. "But we can turn this into an opportunity. Strike back hard—Lord Mohg would relish it. A blow against the Erdtree's lapdogs." Call it strategy or pride, the result was the same. No other path remained.
Limgrave was a tinderbox. Where did you even start looking? And after a humiliation this deep, the Mohgwyn Dynasty had to answer in blood. Vyke holed up in Fort Haight might as well be a myth, but a few stray Tarnished? That was doable. The noble's lips curled. "Go. Where first?"
Varré's gaze drifted to the distant Minor Erdtree, his expression smoothing into something almost serene. "Why not defile their precious symbol?" No need to spell it out—the noble's grin said everything.
In ordinary times, the Minor Erdtree was a sacred object to the Tarnished, a thing even Golden nobles wouldn't dare desecrate. But now? Let it burn.