The trap had sprung. If this was coincidence, fate despised him. He twisted his body, swaying toward the inner cliff. The Fire Bishop crawled across stone, ice shards jutting from his ruined form. A shadow blotted the light. The man turned his head—and froze.
Rykard loomed behind him, coiled like a viper over prey. Serpent eyes mirrored the bishop's terror. No time to scream. The maw gaped, swallowed him whole. Crunch. Crunch. Twisted armor spat onto the rocks, helmet's undying flame snuffed out.
Next, the Godskin Noble's corpse. Same ritual. Two chews. Another discard. Rancid, flavorless—like scraps from another's table. Why did fresh kill taste so stale? Before he could ponder, a presence prickled his senses. He turned.
Bernahl stood in the ruins, greatsword resting on his pauldron. Beast Champion armor, battered but unbent. The Tarnished watched him, unmoved.
"Expected you to devour me next."
Rykard's gaze flickered.
"You're my friend. Why would I?"
He flicked a Misbegotten corpse into the air, gulped it down. Bones and breastplate clattered to the ground; flesh vanished. Soon, the rocks gleamed with half-dissolved metal and picked-clean skeletons. Bernahl didn't flinch.
"You'll lose yourself eventually. Then you'll eat me too."
"Blasphemy demands sacrifice."
Rykard's voice held no madness, only grim focus.
"A demigod is less than dust against the Greater Will. I need power that threatens It. Only then do our lives—mine, yours, Fabray's—mean anything."
Bernahl said nothing. Truth didn't need rebuttal.
"A monster can't challenge It," he finally muttered. "You'll be lucky to keep your mind."
"Luck doesn't matter."
Rykard's voice thickened, rising like magma.
"After Leyndell crushed us, I understood—playing safe means dying on this volcano. I refuse."
His roar shook the cliffs.
"I poured my strength, my mind into that war, and still couldn't end The Shattering. Couldn't break the Two Fingers. Demigods are kindling. But I'll burn their designs to ash!"
Lava-light bathed him as he spread his arms.
"The Erdtree will fill my belly. Every life in these lands, fused into one flesh. Then I face the Greater Will."
Bernahl watched the demonic silhouette. The Lands Between birthed countless such horrors. All failed.
"No one knows the Greater Will's strength," he said softly. "Pay this price and lose? That's the real tragedy."
Rykard crushed a skull in his fist. Bone dust streamed through his fingers.
"Then let my teeth mark It. Let It see what its 'order' created. Let It choke on my hunger."
For a heartbeat, the legend stood reborn—that fearless hero resurrected in the flicker of Rykard's eyes. Only despair drives men to madness. No sane soul would cling to such feeble hope. He couldn't even face the Greater Will. The battle to remain himself was already consuming him.
The serpent's outstretched hand trembled with hunger now, not valor.
"Bernahl."
Rykard's voice slithered between them.
"You've been their puppet too. You know the Elden Lord's throne reeks of rotting promises. Join me. Let our teeth tear through that golden lie together!"
The Tarnished's face twisted—not with fear, but the hollow ache of a man counting his losses.
The great serpent coiled and uncoiled, its scales whispering against stone. For one dangerous moment, Bernahl almost reached back. The Erdtree's roots ran deeper than gods. Its master moved in shadows no blade could pierce. What chance had honor against such a foe?
"No."
His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt.
"There must be another way."
"That Tarnished showed me something. A mortal who walked among demigods and didn't break."
"You lost to him."
"I did."
Bernahl exhaled through his teeth.
"Fought with everything. He's... not what he seems."
The bandages across his chest told the rest. He peeled back his breastplate just enough to show the stained linen beneath.
"Mt. Gelmir's battles aren't mine to fight. Not like this."
The serpent convulsed, its roar shaking loose stones from the cavern ceiling.
"There IS no other path! I scoured the rot-lands, interrogated flame, dredged up crucible filth—even let that yellow-eyed madness whisper in my skull! Nothing! Just different roads to the same gilded cage!"
Rykard's voice dropped to a hiss.
"Marika herself is a sacrifice. To climb higher than her throne? To spit in their eyes? Only this."
"Become the devourer."
Bernahl's sword flashed upward in salute. The irony tasted bitter—how greed's final form was selflessness, how villainy could dress itself in noble cloth.
"Your conviction humbles me, old friend. But I'll keep searching. Lose yourself in that maw, and what's left to strike the killing blow?"
The serpent stilled.
A minute passed. Two. When Rykard spoke again, the frenzy had bled out of him.
"Go then. When your roads end in cliffs, my teeth will still be here. If I... cease to be myself, Tanith holds the keys. My failures might steady your steps."
Their eyes met—one pair human, the other lidless and burning. Bernahl's nod was barely perceptible before the shadows swallowed him whole.
Silence.
Then the mountain itself shook as Rykard's laughter erupted skyward, a challenge carved from madness and resolve:
"Let the world curse me! Let history forget my name! This path ends in their ruin or my own!"
Leyndell's outskirts stank of iron and damp earth.
Thousands stood arrayed—golden Tree Sentinels with shields like miniature fortresses, Leyndell Knights armored in sculpted sunlight, Nights Cavalry blacker than a starless void. The host split clean down the middle.
To the left, the Golden Order's ranks gleamed with sterile precision. Morgott's regal silhouette loomed where an Elden Lord should stand.
To the right, something darker waited. No banners. No fanfare. Just the quiet of a blade being slowly, methodically sharpened.
The city bristled with dark power. Funeral horses bore their riders in grim procession, their hooves echoing like distant thunder. The Omen executioners stood in ranks, clad in black armor, their bucket-helm masks obscuring faces that no one wished to see. Cleavers gleamed in their hands, blades honed for slaughter. Along the walls, the elite gathered—Bishops of the Two Fingers, Confessors robed in solemnity, priests murmuring prayers, Golden nobles draped in opulence, and high-ranking Perfumers whose scents masked the stench of decay.
This was the heart of the Golden Order, a bastion of strength and tradition.
The nobles clustered together, their whispers sharp as knives. They cast disdainful glances at the Nights Cavalry, their lips curling with contempt.
"The Tarnished overreaches," one hissed. "Morgott's judgment falters. Rewards and punishments blur into madness. To drag Omens from the sewers, to arm them as soldiers—it's an affront to the Golden Order itself."
Yes, those masked infantry were Omens, cursed and cast out by the Order. Yet the Church had sanctioned their rise, twisting scripture to justify their presence. The nobles could protest, but without Marika herself to decree it unlawful, their objections were mere noise. Still, they reveled in their idle chatter, heads held high, pride swelling at the sight of their invincible Erdtree. The Tree Sentinels, led by Lord Miles, stood as a testament to their might—a force capable of bringing even demigods to heel.
"Will the Haligtree yield this time?" one noble asked, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Will they crawl back to Leyndell, tails between their legs?"
"They have no choice," another sneered.
"Lord Christopher marches north with the Tree Sentinels. Without the Valkyrie or Miquella, what resistance can they muster? The Cleanrot Knights are seasoned, but they're no match for our might. Lord Miles could stand idle in his dragon armor and let them hack away—they'd break their blades before scratching him."
The nobles tittered behind delicate hands, their laughter brittle. But as two Nights Cavalry passed, their voices faltered. Disgust flickered across their faces.
"These monsters multiply," one muttered. "The Nights Cavalry grow too numerous. They'll become unwieldy, uncontrollable."
"Let them," another replied. "Morgott hasn't claimed the throne. Once an Elden Lord rises, these creatures will be cast aside. Tools are meant to be discarded when their purpose is served."
"Enough of this gloom," a third noble interjected.
"Count Hero, I hear you've acquired maids from Limgrave. How do they fare?"
"Country girls," the Count replied with a smirk. "Crude compared to your treasures. But they're durable."
Enrique of the Nights Cavalry heard every word. His hand tightened on his scabbard, knuckles white. He longed to turn, to cut them down where they stood. But Erickson, the centurion beside him, nudged him with an elbow.
"Don't stir trouble for his lordship. You've endured worse."
Enrique exhaled deeply. He had endured, yes. But the killing intent within him grew fiercer with each passing day. His gaze drifted to the solitary figure on the wall, and his resentment burned like a furnace.
"Why can't he claim the throne?" he muttered. "He's the only one who can fix this broken world."
Erickson, a warrior whose strength rivaled the greatest heroes, said nothing. He glanced at the nobles, his face a mask of sarcasm.
"He will," he said finally. "Power is the path to kingship. And what unfolds now—" He brandished the intelligence report in his hand.
"Only he can resolve it."
From the heights of Leyndell's walls, the view stretched far. Two armies stood arrayed below, one gold, one black—a stark division of loyalty and purpose. The Nights Cavalry, Morgott's private force, answered to Margit, the Fell Omen. The Erdtree Army, a coalition of Leyndell's factions, represented the Order's might. Together, they formed a fragile alliance, bound by necessity and fractured by ambition.
The web of relationships here was tangled, difficult to maneuver. Morgott's nature was upright—he didn't hunger for power, always handling matters through official channels without mixing in his personal forces. To the two Nights Cavalry, those people weren't comrades. Just knights and officers, most of them nobles' relatives.
Only the Tree Sentinels held some purity, but their arrogance kept them aloof.
"If they weren't constantly dragging their feet, His Highness would've pacified The Lands Between by now."
Enrique shook his head.
"Of course they drag their feet. Pacification doesn't serve them. Why risk their own forces unless cornered?"
"Hasn't the dementia reached the noble class yet? How is there no benefit?"
Erickson sneered.
"These fools stay naive. Long before it touches them, they'll feast on the families already rotting from it."
Pathetic. How did such shortsighted worms ever become nobles? Even the strong among them had the vision of gutter rats.
They passed a cluster of robed figures—Perfumers. Skilled in battlefield medicine, equally adept with gunpowder.
"You two move with haste. An emergency?"
A Perfumer in a monocle blocked their path.
"Lord Kalman."
The Nights Cavalry dipped their heads in greeting. They'd worked together before.
"Urgent military intelligence. For Lord Margit."
"Why not deliver it to His Highness Morgott? Speaking of—why hasn't he appeared for such a critical expedition?"
Kalman squinted toward the city, where the gaps between pristine houses swarmed with bodies.
Some had come to bid farewell. Others were ragged, hollow-cheeked commoners—refugees, mostly, fleeing from the outer lands. This golden city wasn't the paradise they'd imagined. The nobles carved them up like livestock.
Every day, women's broken bodies turned up in the gutters. The lucky ones got plucked by the Two Fingers.
The Nights Cavalry exchanged a glance.
"This isn't the final campaign. Lord Margit suffices. Farewell."
Enrique's tone left no room. As they quickened their pace, Kalman's lips curled into something knowing before he tucked his hands into his sleeves and returned to watching the army below.
Margit the Fell Omen stood atop a tower. A hundred meters of empty space surrounded him, as if he carried some stench the "refined" citizens of Leyndell couldn't abide.
To the Golden Order's zealots, he was a fly on their sacrament. No amount of merit, no measure of Morgott's trust, could outweigh his Omen's visage. If not for the chaos swallowing the Lands Between, they'd have banded together to put him down long ago.
Margit—no, Morgott—didn't care. He'd protect the Golden Order, but he expected no reward.
His gaze swept the assembled forces. Good. This should be enough to make the Haligtree yield. The Erdtree's might made manifest—better if bloodshed could be avoided.
The intelligence had arrived. Malenia slept deeply. Miquella remained missing. Finlay held the Haligtree now. A formidable champion, yes, but no monarch. Whatever history she had with that Primeval Sorcerer, standing against the Golden Host was madness.
I didn't expect this much resistance.
The Cleanrot Knights didn't overstep for sentiment. Something else drove them.
Have they already begun to cooperate?
Morgott's hand rested on the battlement, his fingers digging into the stone. Cooperation was irrelevant. He'd tear them out by the roots. The clatter of iron boots echoed closer. He turned, eyes narrowing as his two loyal subordinates approached, their faces tense. His brow twisted unnaturally.
"The expedition is imminent. Why are you here?"
"Your Highness."
They knelt, one knee to the ground, and lifted a scroll.
"We've received word. Something's happened at Mt. Gelmir."
Mt. Gelmir? Morgott stiffened. That cursed, forsaken land disgusted him. Yet its treacherous terrain and Rykard's cowardly retreat had pushed it to the bottom of his priorities. He snatched the scroll, skimmed it, and his frown deepened.
"Civil strife? The rebels are collapsing?"
"Confirmed, Your Highness. Their forces have scattered. Many are surrendering."
Enrique nodded. He'd been stationed outside Mt. Gelmir for years—if you could call that plague-ridden battlefield a station. Few ventured there.
"The cause?"
Enrique hesitated, then produced another scroll.
"A Gelmir Knight's testimony. It's... incredible."
"Hmph. What tricks are those traitors playing now? Likely just infighting with the Tarnished. Nothing significant..."
His voice trailed off. Morgott's eyes widened as he read. He muttered under his breath, "Rykard transformed into a great serpent? Fed on the living of Mt. Gelmir? Forced to reveal his true form?"
"Yes. It sounds absurd, doesn't it?"
"This is no jest!" Morgott's head snapped up, his voice sharp. Both Nights Cavalry stiffened.
"The serpent of Mt. Gelmir—Rykard found it? He dared merge with it? Defile the Great Rune?"
His rage erupted, silencing the whispers around them. Those who thrived on chaos glanced away, uneasy. The last time this Omen had raged was during the siege. The aftermath had been a river of blood.
The Nights Cavalry ignored the stunned crowd. Erickson stepped forward, brow furrowed.
"Your Highness, do you believe it?"
"Of course it's true. I was just wondering why Rykard hadn't made a move all these years. Now I know—there's a monster in Mt. Gelmir."
Morgott's knowledge of the Ancient Great Serpent wasn't speculation. With the Great Library at his disposal, he'd spent years studying history to protect the Golden Order. The truth was undeniable.