Unlike the vigilance in Limgrave back then, the soldiers guarding the entrance only glanced at him. An officer-like figure, hand resting on his straight sword, strode over. Without any nonsense, he just tossed a sheet of white paper over.
"If you don't want to die in Caelid, look at it carefully."
Throne flipped it open and took a look.
It was the same straightforward, no-nonsense style as always, clearly laying out the rules of Caelid—such as where one could not go, and which laws would result in being hunted down if violated.
"Why don't I see any Redmane soldiers patrolling?"
"We have greater things to do, but if you want to break the law, those are the examples."
The officer pointed back, where several heads were hanging from the wall, swaying in the wind. Caelid valued martial prowess; the militia here was not the same as in Limgrave. Furthermore, the Radahn Festival was not performed in an arena; many of the heroes who came to participate would work as bounty hunters. Throne nodded, understanding.
No wonder the town was so harmonious; only strength could make the free-spirited Tarnished calm down. He led Torrent into the town, looking around, and found it quite lively. It turned out that many villages in Caelid had been abandoned, and the civilians were concentrated in one place—something that could be attributed to Malenia.
Ten years ago, Throne had prevented the Scarlet Aeonia from fully blooming, but the influence remained. This 'radiation source' was located within the swamp, occupying about one-tenth of Caelid's land and causing many creatures to mutate. Creatures like Rotten Strays and giant crows of rot could be seen as mobile sources of radiation.
Most of the Redmane's energy was currently focused on dealing with these rot-infested creatures and maintaining the Smoldering Church fire walls. These monsters were not only strong but also had a potent corrosive effect. If one were bitten, other than using incantations to suppress it, it was almost incurable. Ordinary villages simply could not hold them back.
"No wonder Caelid didn't invade even after Godrick died, and it has remained in a state of self-imposed isolation for the past ten years."
Throne shook his head gently. It wasn't that the Redmanes didn't want to expand their territory, but rather that they felt protecting their own people was more important. Living life meant facing many choices and troubles.
If it weren't for Throne, there wouldn't be many living people left on this land, so there was no need to ponder that. After walking around the town, Throne confirmed that the Tarnished here were indeed much more disciplined, mostly existing as a foreign legion for the Redmanes. When he arrived beside the Smoldering Church, his expression shifted as he saw something familiar.
It was a sword monument, specifically meant for inscribing epics. However, unlike the other sword monuments he had seen, this one was shaped like a katana, several meters high and half a meter wide. Several soldiers guarded the side, and there was an eternal flame basin in front of it. Throne walked over slowly and saw a sentence in the center of the sword monument.
He came for profit. He left for justice. Courage is the cornerstone of the strong. Justice is the honor of the strong. And only by harboring compassion can one be respected.
Throne's old face instantly flushed red. As someone whose skin was as thick as the walls of Stormveil, this was a truly unprecedented occurrence.
"Too much, too much, it's exaggerated," he thought.
"I admit that back then I had the compassion of not wanting to see the people suffer, and I also meant to repay the favor to Malenia and Radahn, but essentially, I just wanted to fake my death and escape."
The swordsman rubbed his flushed face.
He was a complex person; if he hadn't had his reincarnation in the present world back then, he didn't know if he would have decisively intervened, but when he thought about it carefully…
"Even if I hadn't, I wouldn't have stood by and watched, would I?"
"This is a hero who inspires longing."
A cold voice came from the side. Throne turned his head to look—heavy armor, a great hammer.
Wasn't this the person he had seen in Limgrave? The Tarnished, who was likely Bernahl, did not recognize Throne. After all, the gap between the two was too great; there was no way to equate them. Why did he run all the way to Caelid? Throne's thoughts raced, and he spoke thoughtfully: "Is that why Tarnished are traveling through Limgrave to get here?"
"How did you know?"
"Well, we both have the dust of travel on us. Limgrave has been quite chaotic lately, and anyone running to Caelid now is not ordinary."
"A land of heroes always inspires longing. If I don't come here to see it, I always feel like something is missing."
The Tarnished still didn't want to think too much, waving the red parchment in his hand.
"You're here to participate in the Radahn Festival, right? Go to the church to get your admission ticket."
Reminded, Throne realized there was such a thing as an admission ticket. He complained that the Redmanes, being such straightforward men, had terrible service awareness; how could they not explain such an important matter?
"Does the Smoldering Church have preliminary rounds? I don't see any sign of an arena."
The Tarnished gave him a "are you kidding me" look and explained: "The Radahn Festival is not an arena for noble amusement. With so many Tarnished, how else would they determine who is qualified to go to Redmane Castle?"
Throne was stunned, realizing he had been misled by the people of Cheka Village.
In his impression, a festival should have been like the World Martial Arts Tournament, with one-on-one fights in a circular arena. But thinking about the number of Tarnished and ordinary people, it wouldn't be finished in three months. He took the parchment and looked at it, unable to help but laugh and cry at the same time. It turned out that it was a mission.
For instance, this one was to hunt Those Who Live in Death in northern Caelid, collect their leg bones, and hunt one hundred of them to qualify for going to Redmane Castle. If anyone thought Radahn was a stubborn, simple-minded man, they were dead wrong. Although this general was bold and heroic, he always thought long-term.
He had prepared such rich prizes; just watching a group of strong people fight each other would be too boring, and besides satisfying vanity, there would be no actual benefit.
"Filtering participants on one hand, and indirectly hiring people to do things for himself on the other? This guy Radahn is truly a man of action."
Throne smiled; this was more in line with the intelligence of the Starscourge. He returned the parchment and asked casually: "Thanks, where can I pick this up?"
"The Smoldering Church. I hope we can meet when the time comes."
The Tarnished gave a nod and left silently. Does this guy have a nose like a dog? Can he even distinguish strength when I've changed my disguise?
Of course, Throne knew he was being targeted; otherwise, the other party wouldn't have had nothing better to do than offer an explanation. Fine, I also want to see what the level of the top powerhouses among the Tarnished is. The two never stated their identities from beginning to end, but for the strong, intuition was more important than flowery language.
He bypassed the sword monument and saw the small church. Smoldering was not enough to create a religion, and churches in The Lands Between were not necessarily linked to religion.
Some were to commemorate an event, such as the Church of Vows or the Church of Pilgrimage; others were to commemorate a person, such as the ubiquitous Churches of Marika or the Church of Elleh, so there might not necessarily be clergy inside. For example, this Smoldering Church was the former. Several burly soldiers, led by a Redmane Knight, had set up a wooden platform.
The line stretched long in front of the festival grounds, a mix of Tarnished and ordinary warriors in a rough three-to-seven ratio. The Lands Between still thrived—strength wasn't rare among common folk. As one of the continent's most celebrated events, the Radahn Festival always drew crowds.
If not for the spreading madness and Limgrave's occupation by the Tarnished, even more would've come this year. Throne studied the crowd ahead. Every figure was broad-shouldered, their gear a chaotic patchwork of arms and armor, but none below Knight-level would dare participate.
"No wonder they skipped a decade. Without Radahn to leash them, these brutes are walking disasters. I'd never risk this in Liurnia."
Throne snorted. Order demanded power; the organizers knew that too.
Beneath the wooden platform sat a weathered box. Participants drew red parchment scrolls—some whooped, others groaned. Throne watched, curious. Ten minutes later, his turn came.
"No redraws. One chance."
The Redmane Knight's voice was flat.
Throne shrugged and plunged his hand into the box. The moment his fingers closed around a scroll, he felt stares burning into his back. He unrolled it. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Brother, just walk away."
"Worst luck I've seen. How'd you pull that?"
"Thanks for taking the bullet for us."
Some laughed. Others clapped his shoulder in mock sympathy. Throne blinked at the parchment, dumbstruck.
"My luck's usually bad, but this is absurd."
"Log his number."
The knight's lips twitched. Rules were rules—no changes. They wouldn't let anyone die, at least. Worst case, he'd spectate.
Throne reread the scroll:
Hunt two dragons. Direct festival entry granted.
Dragon slayers existed, sure. But Caelid's current state?
After the Battle of Aeonia, the Starscourge's wounds had emboldened the dragons. They'd reclaimed the northern wastes, turning them into a slaughterground. Hunting there now was like yanking teeth from a live tiger.
Radahn, you bastard. Couldn't you add a 'Most Unlucky' prize? Throne pocketed the scroll with a wry smile.
It changed nothing for him. If anything, it brought the dragon woman to mind. He'd planned to negotiate with her kin anyway. Worst case, he'd start with a more physical conversation.
Caelid served three purposes. First: reclaim what he'd left behind—people and possessions. Second: see how his past choices had reshaped this land.
Third, and most vital: study the dragons. He wouldn't let Caria bleed on the frontlines only for those scaled opportunists to swoop in later. The memory of Crumbling Farum Azula lingered—their strength was no joke.
As the saying went, debts multiply when ignored.
From Leyndell's vantage, the Lands Between teemed with threats, each deadlier than the last. Caria, clinging to the Golden Order, was no longer the prime enemy. That left room to maneuver.
The festival? A diversion. Contacting the dragons under its cover? Far more useful.
However, his unlucky deeds had already spread. Just as Throne walked out of the church, a Tarnished ran out from the side, sporting a shiny bald head, and asked in a slick, merchant-like tone:
"Brother, I've heard about it. How about you pay some money, and I'll swap it for you."
This voice was very sleazy, a bit like running into a bootleg DVD seller in a computer market.
He turned his head to look and narrowed his eyes slightly. A sleazy bald guy—how did he look somewhat familiar?
"Brother, the price is negotiable. As long as you get to Redmane Castle, everything can be earned back."
The bald man spoke again, his voice full of temptation. It was him, Patches. Throne had already confirmed the other party's identity.
He originally wanted to kick this scum away, but after thinking about it, this Patches seemed very useful and was quite resourceful in some aspects.
"Can this thing be swapped? The Redmanes have already recorded my appearance and number."
"Eh, just change your disguise when the time comes, and it'll be fine. Those idiots won't be able to tell."
The bald man waved his hand and introduced himself: "I am Patches, the top-tier merchant among the Tarnished. There is nothing I cannot do."
The top-tier scum, you mean. However, The Lands Between was full of business opportunities now, and with his brain, it was normal for him to get ahead.
Throne sized the other person up and saw him wearing a luxurious purple robe, yet he had no nobility about him, looking just like a comical noble. How did that saying go? A monkey dressed in a nobleman's clothes—that was exactly him.
"So, how do you plan to sell it?"
Seeing the prey take the bait, Patches looked around sneakily and gestured with his hand: "This isn't the place to talk. Follow me. Don't worry, I'm the most trustworthy person."
Throne hesitated for a moment, deciding not to open any random boxes, but other than that, he wasn't afraid that Patches could trick him. The two twisted and turned through the town and soon arrived in a corner. At the end of the alley was a bustling market, where Tarnished or ordinary people were haggling noisily.
This place was much dirtier and messier, with nothing but empty wine bottles and various puddles of vomit on the ground. Sneaky. He saw Patches push open a wooden door and followed him in. The light inside was dim, and he could see some burly men scattered around, either sharpening knives or licking their swords, almost having the word 'bad guy' written on their faces. Bang.
Throne looked back and saw the door had already closed. Then he heard Patches' voice, which this time had less temptation and a bit more coldness.
"Don't be nervous, friend. When traveling, one always needs to bring more guards. Put your weapons away. A customer has finally arrived, don't scare him."
Those burly men grinned and put away their weapons, then blocked the door.
Patches chuckled and took out several red parchment scrolls from the cabinet. Opening them up, they were exactly the same as the one in Throne's hand. The missions on them were all very simple; some were even just to hunt a giant crow. Patches arranged them by difficulty and spread his hands: "Choose whatever you want. They are absolutely genuine."
"Where did you get these things?"
Throne was very curious. Such simple missions could easily be completed, and then one could go to Redmane Castle to claim the rewards. Patches' bald head flickered in the candlelight. He smiled inscrutably: "The Radahn Festival doesn't necessarily have to be participated in. I alone have collected three copies. With me, Patches, as long as you can afford the price, I can get anything."
Alright, could this be considered scalping in The Lands Between? When it came to petty theft and underhanded dealings, this guy was better. Throne hadn't expected this guy to find such a business opportunity, and he was so bold, not afraid of being beheaded by the Redmane Knights, but the price was prohibitive.
The goods were quality, but the price screamed robbery. Not that he'd come to buy.
"Too rich for my blood. Can't afford a damn thing. We're done here."
Throne pushed back his chair—then felt iron fingers clamp around his wrist.
He turned slow, meeting Patches' grin with dead eyes.
Chairs scraped wood. A dozen mountain-sized men rose in unison, cutting off exits. Patches chuckled like they were sharing a joke.
"Apologies, friend. House rules—no browsing without buying. Tell you what—"
The bastard pulled out a Golden Pickled Fowl Foot, greasy in the torchlight. His other hand jabbed toward Throne's hip.
"This trinket for your fancy sword. Fair trade. No funny business."
Throne stared. The audacity almost impressed him. A snorted laugh escaped—Patches beamed, triggering a cavalcade of guffaws from the meatwalls surrounding them.
"Hahaha."
The sound swelled, a grotesque chorus of good cheer.
Then silence.
Throne's mirth died mid-breath. His grin iced over.
"Kneel."
Purple light erupted. The air thickened like syrup. A symphony of knees smashed into floorboards—thudthudthud—as if an invisible god had hammered them down. Patches blinked sweat from his eyes, shoulders buckling under cosmic weight. His face drained of blood.
"You. You. You—"
"Shaking down customers."
Throne tilted his head.
"Cute."
He leaned forward and patted the other's bald head, his fingers skating over the tattooed red scrolls.
"Got rules too. Wanna hear them?"