Lightning cracked, painting the army camp in stark relief. Beyond the fence, figures surged through the mud—arrows arcing toward watchtowers, screams swallowed by the storm. At their head, wasn't that Vyke? A Finger Maiden scrambled beside him, her white robes streaked with filth, her hands weaving Two Fingers incantations through the chaos. "Finally," someone muttered, "he looks like a hero." The camp erupted.
Soldiers stumbled from their tents, exhaustion replaced by panic. A hundred knights could've halted the assault, bought time for the main force to rally. But scattered, drenched, how could they regroup? Confusion gripped the defenders—until flames licked the outer wall.
The Tarnished fought with everything they had, hurling Fire Pots, Lightning Pots, Poison Pots as if they cost nothing. The outermost platoons managed to form up under barked orders, but the barrage caught them mid-move. Half fell instantly, dead or writhing.
A thunderous crash—Vyke's boot shattered the thin wooden wall. He spotted a Godrick knight cutting down fleeing soldiers, raised his hand, and hurled a spear. "Follow me! Kill!" Shield raised, blade drawn, he charged. Behind him, hundreds of Tarnished surged forward. The knight fell, his platoon scattering like startled animals.
The Fort Haight Tarnished breached the camp, attacking wherever defenders tried to rally, flinging pots as they ran. The chaos made it impossible to count them, but fear spread faster than the rain. "What do we do now?" Darian arrived, dripping sweat.
He wasn't blaming anyone. Who'd have thought the Tarnished, always cowering behind defenses, would dare a night raid in this storm? Throne scanned the chaos, his face blank, like a strategist watching his plan unravel. He clenched his teeth. "Assemble the rear guard. We'll hold in waves. This camp is lost. I'm going to find His Highness."
"Lost already?" Darian's voice cracked. "Our men are exhausted. The knights can't stop the rout. And do you really think it's just Fort Haight attacking tonight?" The implication hit him—the logistics raiding team mentioned in the council.
He opened his mouth to call for help when a chill prickled his neck. Two figures locked onto him—'The Dauntless' and 'Old Knight,' charging in unison. Darian's ornate armor marked him as a prime target. He spun, searching for Throne—
Where was he?
Throne had vanished into the downpour, swallowed by the chaos. Soldiers stumbled in every direction—some advancing, others fleeing. Most hadn't even donned their armor. Throne's maneuvering left Darian isolated, a lone commander barking orders no one could hear.
The fifty heavy knights meant to guard him were scattered, fighting their own battles. The rain grounded the Storm Hawks, Stormveil's aerial trump card. Waterlogged and sluggish, they were easy prey for Tarnished archers.
Throne didn't charge toward Godrick's main tent, even though he'd already seen the demigod burst forth, battle axe raised, bellowing orders. "Gather to me! Gather to me!" Godrick, for all his flaws, understood the basics. Rallying the troops was the only hope.
His approach wasn't flawed. Hundreds had gathered there, ready to counterattack at a moment's notice. "But sorry," Throne muttered, climbing the watchtower. Through the downpour, his sharp eyes caught the breach—a gaping hole torn in the wooden wall at the camp's rear. Shadows slipped through, silent and quick. Roundtable Hold had finally arrived.
Gideon smirked as he stepped through the breach, his boots sinking into the mud. The camp was chaos, a mess of scattered supplies and panicked soldiers. Throne's strict discipline had worked against him. Roundtable spies had blended in with the retreating troops unnoticed. Who could spare the focus to check for the Grace in their eyes? Not now.
Even professionals couldn't stop them. When Crepus reported this, Vargram the Raging Wolf and the others were frantic. They were certain this would restore Godrick's forces. Only Gideon saw the opportunity. While the army's strength was indeed bolstered, Godrick's elite guards were spread thin.
The fortress would fall tomorrow. But tonight, the chance to kill Godrick had appeared. The choice was obvious. Still, Gideon waited. Caution was his nature. Only when Vyke led the army in and confirmed no ambush did he act. "The one in gold armor," Vargram said, his voice sharp with anticipation. "That's Godrick."
Roundtable Assassins moved in full force, joined by hero-level Tarnished. Godrick, stripped of Stormveil's defenses and his elite guard, stood with a few hundred demoralized soldiers. If not now, when? "Ensha," Gideon ordered, "take the assassins and move in quietly. Crepus, secure the high ground for sniping. The rest—follow me."
There was no time to hesitate. First, scatter the retreating soldiers. Then, surround and kill him. Godrick had rallied two or three hundred men, his face twisted with rage and shame. With a roar, he hacked down a dozen fleeing soldiers.
"Get back to the fight, damn it! Bring the knights to me first!" His voice thundered, his battle axe raised high. Something felt wrong. The enemy's timing was too precise, as if every move had been predicted. Either they were brilliant—or he had a traitor in his ranks.
"Bring Isshin Ashina to me! What the hell is happening?"
Godrick didn't see Throne watching from the distant watchtower. But the demigod's instincts screamed danger. Killing intent—from the side and rear. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. Through the rain, a group of black-clad figures raised their crossbows. The twang of bowstrings echoed, rapid and deadly. Repeating crossbows. Dozens unleashed concentrated firepower, cutting through the unprepared soldiers like scythes through wheat. Nearly a hundred fell in moments.
Just as Godrick turned, a Banished Knight lunged in front of him. "Your Highness, watch out!" The words barely left his lips before a black bolt pierced the rain, slamming into the knight's chest and sending him sprawling. Godrick caught a glimpse—a long, narrow bolt with a spiral tip. Black-Key Bolt. Roundtable Assassins. A black mist rose, blending with the rain.
Silence swallowed the night. Shadows moved without sound, blades flashing in the darkness. Throats opened. Hand crossbows pressed against foreheads and fired. Bodies dropped like cut wheat—faster, cleaner, deadlier than any knight's work. Godrick's teeth ground together. "You dare scheme against me?"
His great axe swung down, cleaving the air, the rain splitting around its edge. The force shredded friend and foe alike—knights, assassins, nothing but meat in its path. He almost laughed. Almost.
Glintstone Pebble surged like a storm, rolling toward him. Godrick leapt back. The soldiers beside him weren't so quick. They exploded into pulp, their armor crumpling like paper. He soared into the air, his axe shattering the incoming Glintstone blades. His eyes locked on the plain-clothed mage weaving spells with terrifying speed. "'Stray Sorcerer' Vilhelm?"
Vilhelm's staff danced. Lives ended with every flick of his wrist. His speed matched the greatest magic professors. Godrick roared, his axe carving two half-moons through the air. Vilhelm didn't even glance his way.
A swordsman with white hair darted forward, a spiral greatsword in hand. He shattered Godrick's storm blades mid-air. 'Vargram the Raging Wolf.' Thud. Thud. Thud. A Tarnished in heavy armor charged out, slow but unstoppable. His dark gold armor weighed him down, but his raw strength launched soldiers into the sky.
A Grafting aristocrat leapt into the fray, his blade sparking with chaotic fury. 'Great Horn' Tragoth. Godrick's stomach dropped. This was no spur-of-the-moment ambush. His own cooperation had handed the enemy the perfect opening. And with this lineup from Roundtable Hold…
Light flared. Torrent illuminated the battlefield.
Godrick ripped open his cloak, revealing six arms grafted to his back. One hand raised a great shield. Another gripped a staff, layering magical defenses. Boom. Boom. Boom. Comet Azur tore through the rain, its raw power blasting Godrick back dozens of meters.
Golden spears rained from above. Magic blades flew from the front. Godrick spun, his blade becoming a storm, shredding every attack. When the dust settled, he stared at the Black-Key Bolt embedded in his golden breastplate. Scarlet Rot burned through his veins. He roared, "It's you, 'Sir Gideon Ofnir!'"
Gideon Ofnir stepped forward, his bow elegant, his eyes mocking. "Very glad to see you, Your Highness Godrick." His smile was colder than the rain. "Now, could you please die for the future of The Lands Between?"
"You bastard!"
Godrick's fury burned, but his mind stayed sharp. Any one of them he could crush. Together? They were death itself. Four—no, more—hero-level Tarnished, coordinated at range and in close combat. And somewhere in the shadows, a Black-Key Assassin waited. That cursed bolt had drawn first blood. What now?
If he retreated, his army was lost. If he stayed… The Tarnished didn't give him time to think. Vilhelm's spells rained down, Vargram and Tragoth charged like a tidal wave, and the Roundtable Assassins scattered through the ranks, cutting down anyone who dared regroup.
The cooperation was flawless, the assault brutal, the firepower overwhelming. Daylight might have let him hold through sheer numbers, but in this chaos—how many men keep fighting when their comrades drop like slaughtered pigs?
"Your Highness, run!" Morey's voice tore through the din, shrill from Grafting's distortions.
His frenzied swings drove Tragoth back—just long enough for Vargram to slip in sideways. The sword flashed. Morey's right leg spun away. He staggered, propped himself up—then the tiny arrow punched through his neck. His body swayed like a drunkard. Sleep took him before the Comet Azur beams carved through his torso.
Godrick didn't hesitate. One glance at his butchered confidant and he was moving, abandoning everything—army, honor, even as sleep arrows thudded into his retreating back. Gideon actually froze. A lord? Fleeing like a whipped dog? No thought for consequence, no shred of dignity?
I gave him the illusion of victory. Did he never consider what happens when he crawls back defeated?
Godrick's legs pistoned. A hundred meters vanished in seconds. Gideon snapped back, shouting at Vargram mid-decapitation: "After him! Don't let that coward escape!"
Runes mattered, not glory. Gideon's view was blocked by his floating heads, but Throne saw everything from the watchtower. Roundtable Hold fought like demons. Their leaders matched him blow for blow. And Gideon Ofnir? A schemer to his bones.
Godrick fell for the oldest trick. Did he graft extra magic resistance? The battle lasted minutes, but Throne had learned enough.
"Godrick would flee?" Melina's voice sharpened. "He just lost his entire army. Even if he reaches Stormveil, he's powerless now. This makes no sense."
"You don't know him." Throne vaulted off the ledge, whistling for Torrent. "Godrick believes survival is everything. Stay alive, and you'll rise again." Hooves materialized beneath him. The demigod was fast, but two legs couldn't outrun four.
Melina's skepticism hung between them. "You speak like you understand him intimately."
Throne swung onto the spectral mount, barking at nearby knights: "Hold these Tarnished! I'll cover His Highness!" None questioned the sudden steed—Throne was Godrick's enforcer, his word law. To the panicking soldiers, his command was a lifeline.
Lost men cling to orders. "With me! Protect His Highness!" A Banished Knight's roar rallied the remnants. The nobles' troops had already scattered. Only the fanatics remained, shaken but now galvanized—Throne's presence stiffened their spines.
With the rear guarded, Throne spurred Torrent forward, answering Melina over his shoulder: "In all The Lands Between, no one knows Godrick like I do."
If he had any pride, he wouldn't have licked boots ten years ago.
That humiliation dwarfed today's. Yet he endured, biding a decade to reclaim power. If he climbed back once, he'd do it again. And now? No more schemes. Just steel and survival.
Rain slashed sideways. Thunder howled. The storm mirrored the blade in his hand.
He tore through the chaotic camp, Torrent's hooves barely touching the ground. The Spirit Steed surged forward, unstoppable. No one could match its speed. Roundtable Hold's forces slaughtered blindly, their knights loyal and brave—and doomed. The rain poured, blinding them, leaving only the faint silhouette of a warhorse chasing Godrick. Hahaha. Thank you for your help.
From Torrent's back, Throne scanned the battlefield behind him, laughter spilling into the storm-dark sky. His gaze locked onto the figure fleeing hundreds of meters away. "Strip away the tyranny, the arrogance, and he's just a coward. Obsessed. Selfish. Convinced survival guarantees revenge. But this time—"
"He won't be that lucky."
Limgrave was a chessboard, every player deluded into thinking they controlled the pieces. Godrick believed it. Sir Gideon Ofnir believed it. Even Vyke and the nobles clung to their illusions of dominance. Thorne's arrival shattered their delusions with a cold, undeniable truth:
The true chess player had just entered the game.
Wind and rain raged, the world was dim, and the wailing and shouting faded into the storm.