Don't worry? Throne sneered. He knew the depths of this underground labyrinth—a tangled web of caves teeming with horrors. An army would be devoured within hours down here. This was no place for the unprepared. For the Tarnished, though, it was perfect. They were born for this chaos, a breed of desperate adventurers.
He wandered through the camp, invisible to the bustling crowd. The promise of Raya Lucaria Academy's rewards had drawn them like moths to flame—generous payouts for materials, and the freedom to keep whatever treasures they unearthed. Yet Throne knew better. Survival here wasn't about individual skill; it demanded teamwork.
Lone wolves like him rarely lasted long. Even without the Academy's call, the Tarnished would've come anyway. They were scavengers, drilling into every crevice, lured by the riches of the Ainsel River. Throne understood them better than most. In some ways, they were kindred spirits.
The camp sprawled around the entrance well, split into two directions. To the left, a cavernous maze where bloodied figures staggered back, retreating from something unseen. To the right, a waterfall roared, its base marked by a small lift erected by the Academy.
The left side was a death trap—human-sized red ants prowled the labyrinthine tunnels, their terrain a nightmare to navigate. The right, though seemingly a dead end, held promise. A waterfall was no barrier to those with determination. Throne smirked. Humans thrived on ingenuity.
No one could leap up the falls, but tools could bridge the gap. The Academy's sorcerers guarded the platform and structures, while the Tarnished served as their blades. On the surface, it was a fair exchange—both sides got what they wanted. Many Tarnished even had Finger Maidens at their sides, ensuring they were never truly outmatched.
The sorcery professor was holed up in the most fortified building, his purpose a mystery. Throne kept half his focus on the man while consulting with the Tarnished through Runes. He turned to Melina, his voice low. "If someone wanted to deal with Ranni, why not let Morgott handle it? If Leyndell's army descended from the Altus Plateau, no one could stop them."
"'Your Ranni'?" Melina blinked, startled. Then she remembered—Throne was a Carian Knight. He had the right to call her that. She hesitated, pleased he trusted her enough to ask. "The Lunar Princess holds a special status. Even if she opposes the Golden Order, punishing her isn't simple."
Throne's eyes gleamed. Of course—Ranni was an Empyrean, not just another demigod. That distinction changed everything. The Lands Between ran on the principle of 'one Lord, one God.' The Lord managed the mortal realm, the God the Order. Partners, bound by duty. It was a system built on balance.
Those Tarnished dreaming of becoming Elden Lord? They weren't just aiming for power—they sought to wed Marika, to bind themselves to the Golden Order. But for those who refused to tie themselves to her, there were alternatives. Ranni, Malenia, Miquella—each a potential Empyrean, each representing a different Order.
And Ranni, Malenia, or perhaps Miquella were all potential Empyreans. Each offered a path, a choice. For Throne, loyalty wasn't about duty—it was about which Order he believed in. And he knew where his heart lay.
Malenia and Miquella were simpler to discuss—born flawed, their "candidate" status clung to them like a shadow. That's why Ranni was the true contender, until she chose betrayal. The higher the hope, the deeper the fall. No wonder the Two Fingers lost their minds. This had to be a scandal of seismic proportions, far more damaging than Rykard's misdeeds. No wonder.
Could the Two Fingers fear that if word spread, some lord might strike a deal with Ranni, forging a "Lord and God" alliance?
Throne thought it entirely plausible. During the chaos of The Shattering, only the Black Knife Assassins had come for her. "A pity," he mused. "The Lunar Princess has no interest in ruling The Lands Between."
He chuckled dryly, addressing Melina, who'd guessed his thoughts. "I've seen enough here. The factions of the Ainsel River are pushing back, and the Tarnished are struggling. This reckless venture has upset the balance. That group of Tarnished just ran into the Nox in the Dynasty Ruins."
"That's to be expected," Melina replied, unruffled. "The underground is crawling with monsters and freaks, each guarding their own territory. Invaders provoke a reaction. It's natural." These lost races weren't puppets; silence would've been stranger. To them, Tarnished and sorcerers alike were enemies, tools of the Erdtree.
"It's normal, sure," Throne said, narrowing his eyes. "But I can't shake the feeling this upheaval will create opportunities for certain individuals." He was a born conspiracy theorist. From what he could see, the goals of Raya Lucaria Academy and the Tarnished were straightforward. That sorcery professor had been holed up in his lab, hardly the type to stir up trouble.
"Are you overthinking it?" Melina asked.
"Overthinking is my specialty," Throne shot back. "Since I'm here, I might as well see this underground world for myself. As a Tarnished, I've never exactly done my duty." You're barely a Tarnished, he thought, finishing the bread in two bites. He glanced around and headed toward the waterfall.
A group of sorcerer guards stood nearby, unmoved by Throne's approach. "Alone?" one asked.
"Yeah, just taking a look ahead," Throne replied. The guards exchanged glances. They'd seen their share of arrogant fools. A few more deaths would only stabilize Liurnia. They gestured to the lift in front of them—smaller than the one at the entrance. Throne stepped onto the mechanism. Magic patterns flared, and he was propelled upward.
His vision rose with the lift. The waterfall cascaded down with a roar. At the top, a wooden bridge spanned the gap, flanked by a stone wall bristling with ballistae and heavy weapons.
Tarnished clustered nearby, tending wounds or bartering loot. "This place is a treasure trove," one muttered.
The newcomers barely registered; wealth here meant death. A group of them had been ground down by the monsters, their spirits broken.
Throne moved silently past the stone wall, his eyes widening. Ahead lay a vast cavern. A massive glintstone embedded in the rock wall bathed the space in light. Opposite, another waterfall thundered into the unknown. The hollow teemed with lush trees and dense undergrowth, dotted with the ruins of colossal structures.
The scale was staggering, a testament to nature's uncanny craftsmanship. Deep underground, life thrived. Knee-deep water flooded the area, the air thick with dampness. Throne waded forward, took a step, and suddenly turned around.
Behind him stood a man in ornate attire, a short sword at his waist and a wide-brimmed sorcerer's hat casting a shadow over his face. His hand hovered inches from Throne's shoulder, hesitant. "Uh, just wanted to warn you—it's dangerous ahead. You shouldn't go alone." The man withdrew his hand awkwardly. Throne, already annoyed at being interrupted, clenched his jaw.
He was about to offer a curt thanks when he tilted his head, recognizing the voice. Sorcerer Knight Rogier? Underground, of all places.
Throne hadn't expected to run into someone he vaguely knew down here. Rogier had been a familiar face back in the day, always aiding the Tarnished with a kind heart. He remembered something about the Night of the Black Knives, an investigation Rogier had been obsessed with. What was he doing here?
His gaze lingered on Rogier, sharp and assessing. The sorcerer shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "My name's Rogier," he said, extending a hand. "Call me a sorcerer, if you like. If you're set on going forward, I'll join you. Backup never hurts."
His voice was smooth, almost soothing, but Throne wasn't buying the act. He had no interest in playing the hero. Still, having a guide who knew the ropes might be useful. "Why warn me?" Throne asked, his tone flat.
Rogier's eyes flicked to the staff and rapier in Throne's hands. "Call it a feeling. We might have a connection." Sorcerer Knights were rare, after all.
Throne snorted. A connection? Maybe. He'd traveled far to get here, and now he was bumping into someone who shared his craft. He extended his hand. "Call me Wolf. We'll split the loot."
Rogier clasped his hand firmly. "Fair enough."
It was a common arrangement among the Tarnished. In places like this, betrayal was rare. You worked together, got what you needed, and parted ways. Melina's voice echoed in Throne's mind, curious. "Are you scheming again?"
"Don't be so suspicious," Throne muttered under his breath. "Rogier's reliable. He might have useful information."
"You always seem to know things," Melina pressed. "Why trust him so quickly?"
"Because I do," Throne shot back. "I'm a prophet, remember?"
Melina fell silent, unconvinced but unwilling to push further. Throne's knowledge of the past had grown spotty, but his instincts rarely failed him.
They waded through the shallow river, leaving the outpost behind. Around them, Tarnished staggered back, laden with spoils. The ruins stretched endlessly, twisting and branching like a labyrinth. Throne kept pace with Rogier, listening as the sorcerer spoke of his previous expeditions.
"The Uld Dynasty's remnants are scattered here," Rogier said, ducking behind a crumbling wall. He gestured for Throne to crouch. "Their soldiers aren't much, but the monsters—those are trouble."
Throne leaned out, peering into the dim light. Ahead, an altar lay in ruins, surrounded by a group of Tarnished under siege. The sound of rushing water filled the air, interrupted by the clatter of glowing spears. Strange figures lunged forward, their bodies blackened like stone. Arrows bounced off them uselessly.
A flash of magic lit the scene, and a Glintstone Pebble struck down several Tarnished. Throne watched as the monsters collapsed, their forms dissolving into pools of mud. The battle wasn't one-sided, though. Figures emerged atop the ruins, arms whirling. They hurled glowing stones that exploded on impact. One struck a shield-bearing Tarnished square-on, sending him flying.
Magic light illuminated, and Glintstone Pebble killed several people. Throne clearly saw those monsters fall to the ground and turn into a puddle of mud.
A sky-blue bubble drifted toward the center of the team. Those who recognized it scattered in panic. Energy erupted, shattering the tight formation into chaos. The Mud Men surged forward, and the fight turned into a bloody melee. Rogier lurched to his feet, but Throne yanked him back. "Wait. The real killing move hasn't come yet."
As the formation collapsed, two fiery red figures burst into view. Giant ants, each bearing a knight in a pointed hat, charged into the fray. First, they spewed streams of acrid ant acid. Then the knights lashed out with whip-like blades.
Whoosh—
The blades twisted like serpents, slicing through the Tarnished. The Mud Men seized the moment, battering their enemies with hardened bodies and thrusting stone spears. Puff puff puff... Blood bloomed. The screams died abruptly.
Grave Glovewort and Smithing Stones spilled from torn backpacks, strewn across the ground like remnants of humanity. "What a waste," Rogier muttered, turning away. He slumped against a broken wall. Throne remained calm. High rewards meant high risks. The Ainsel River thrived, but it was a place of constant danger.
If it were easy, it would've been stripped bare long ago. "Is it always like this?" Throne gestured toward the corpses. The ant cavalry retreated, and the Mud Men left weapons and armor untouched, vanishing into the shadows with their stone spears. "Yeah. They pop up from nowhere." "Why not send a hundred men to clear them out?"
"Too many people, and they disappear. Too many hiding spots here." Throne scanned the surroundings. The river flowed gently, and tree shadows flickered among the ruins. So this was underground guerrilla warfare. The place was dark, labyrinthine. The underground races held every advantage.
"Let's move. Stay sharp." Fewer people meant a smaller target. Throne waded through the water, navigating between shattered walls and ruined houses. He stuffed Grave Glovewort and Smithing Stones into his cloth bag. The place overflowed with riches. Even the scraps he gathered could fetch a fortune in Runes.
In just this short time, he could significantly upgrade his Spirit Ashes and Moonveil. No wonder the Tarnished kept coming, despite the casualties. Using his skills, he carefully avoided Mud Men patrols, delving deeper into the ruins. The sound of water grew louder. He raised a hand, signaling caution, and peered around a corner.
Two Mud Men sat cross-legged on steps a few meters away, speaking in guttural tones. After a moment, Throne turned to Rogier. "Can you understand?" "I've studied enough to piece it together." The sorcerer knight listened intently, then replied, "They're talking about revenge. Calling us lackeys of the Erdtree. Traitors."
Throne understood "lackeys," but "traitors"? Had humans once stood with them, long ago? "Someone's coming from behind," Rogier whispered, gripping his short sword. The sound of water approached from their rear.
Throne didn't have time to map the Mud Men's patrol routes. Once spotted, they'd be surrounded. "Forward. Give me five seconds." Rogier hesitated, ready to suggest retreat, but Throne burst into motion. In an instant, he vanished with Bloodhound's Step, reappearing behind the two Mud Men.
Their faces froze mid-conversation, eyes widening as if they'd seen a ghost. Before their hands could close around their spears, the rapier punched through the backs of their skulls, steel points erupting from their foreheads. The remaining Mud Man opened his mouth to scream—a blade of sky-blue light flashed from the staff, sweeping clean through his neck. Their bodies collapsed, already dissolving into streams of foul, muddy water.
Throne's hand moved with mechanical precision. Gravity Magic surged like an invisible vacuum, gathering the muddy liquid into writhing spheres. With a flick of his wrist, the orbs hardened into stone and arced into the nearby pool. Water erupted in a loud splash. Heads emerged from the ruined house, Mud Men scanning the area, but they found nothing.
Rogier pressed himself against the wall, breath ragged, chest heaving. He sat beneath the outer wall of the ruin, heart pounding. The Mud Man's head had appeared directly above him moments ago. His gaze shifted to Throne, who stood behind the steps across the way. The man's movements had been unnervingly fluid—kill, clean, dispose. No hesitation. Throne gestured sharply, and Rogier crouched low, darting over.
"Time to retreat. Deeper in, things get messy." Rogier paused, eyeing Throne's satchel. "Only the strong Tarnished from the Roundtable Hold venture deep into these ruins. The rest of us scavenge the edges. Hey—what happened to the materials you collected earlier?" The bag had been bulging just moments ago. Now it hung limp, empty.