Charge! No mercy for those who stand in our way—them or us. This blade knows no obstacle. Where battle rages, the Nights Cavalry strike like wolves, tearing through enemy ranks alongside their brothers. No time for strategy, retreat, or tending wounds. Only forward.
Margit's lips curled as a dozen warriors plunged into lava, hacking at the Magma Wyrm's scaly back.
"Rykard! Your puppets won't save you!"
The volcano's interior twisted like a maze, segmented by jagged rock and crumbling structures. No room here for traditional formations—just the chaos his blade thrived in. Ten-man squads dove into the thickest fighting. Five hundred knights at minimum, plus a core of Nights Cavalry veterans who'd shattered kings' armies beneath Leyndell's walls. He remembered how those proud lines had crumpled like rotten timber beneath such a charge.
The blade in his hand felt lighter now, sharper. His Omens fought well, those hulking brutes charging without fear. Their loyalty pleased him.
A thunderous crack split the air. Margit looked up. The temple doors exploded inward, leaving a gaping maw of darkness. The sound of scales rasping against stone echoed from within. At last.
"Shields up!"
Erickson raised his greatsword, bracing as he climbed the final stair. His pupils contracted. Something moved in the blackness—
A streak of black lightning shot forth, reeking of. The impact hit like a charging troll, launching him backward through the air. Below, a serpent's head thicker than a siege tower swayed, crimson eyes locking onto him. He hurled his greatsword without thinking.
The blade sank deep, spraying black blood. The serpent barely flinched. Its maw yawned wide, sweeping across the battlefield—ignoring weapons, ignoring pain—seeking only flesh. Omens. It was targeting the Omens specifically.
Across the chaos, man-serpents writhed with renewed frenzy, attacking without regard for defense. Margit's face hardened. So Rykard finally showed his true face.
Two Omens disappeared down the serpent's gullet. Their deaths brought a gleam of satisfaction to those monstrous eyes—and fresh scales knitted over its wounds. The legends were true.
The Ancient Great Serpent fed on men. The more it ate, the stronger it grew. An abomination. Every breath it took defiled the Golden Order.
"My Lord, should we reform ranks?" A Nights Cavalryman shouted over the din. Their squads pressed the attack, but the serpent's sheer bulk made closing impossible. Its full length remained hidden in the temple's depths.
Margit shook his head.
"Kill the Magma Wyrms. Two squads hold the perimeter. The rest—with me! We pin it here!"
If it were an ordinary monster, he could let his subordinates wear it down. But this thing grew stronger with every meal—he'd have to kill it himself. The feeding proved the tales true, and with the Primeval Sorcerer's involvement, the link to the Death Eater was clear. It had to die.
As the black-armored legion moved, Melina, who was observing from the shadows, immediately reacted. Due to her usual blankness, she hadn't felt much about the previous battle, but now she showed a slight response.
"Throne, Rykard has appeared, and Morgott is on the move as well."
"As expected. These Omens are the best food; he won't be able to suppress his greed."
Throne had been listening to the "live broadcast." Melina didn't know much about military affairs, but the scenes she described gave him a general impression. This Nights Cavalry is like a vanguard unit. In a clash between two armies, anyone would have a headache being charged by a group of such powerful brutes. Once they open a breach for their allies to rush through, the enemy's defeat is immediate.
Melina didn't think that far ahead and asked casually, "Are the cursed Omens tasty?"
"Cursed? That is a supreme blessing. To it, they're even more delicious than devouring the Tarnished."
Throne, sitting cross-legged in the room, chuckled. Omens were the product of the ancient Erdtree's excessive blessing. As for why it was called a curse, only Marika would know.
"Rykard is being besieged. This Morgott's Golden Order Incantations are so powerful!" Melina exclaimed. She was hiding behind a rock, and even from a kilometer away, she was drawn to the brilliant golden light. The same Golden Order Incantations were beyond comparison.
The prayers condensed into golden swords and great hammers, clanging as they slammed into the giant serpent. Twisting its body, the serpent picked up a giant sword and a large axe, frantically trading blows with Margit. It extended most of its body out, even ignoring the wounds being left on it by the Nights Cavalry.
Seeing the two trading blows, Melina said in surprise, "Huh, Rykard seems much stronger than last time. It's only been a few days."
"He is somewhat similar to me, after all. Besides, with a body that large, there's no such thing as being too full."
Throne rubbed his fingers. Morgott wasn't stupid; there was no need to worry about him feeding Rykard too much. But then again, for Rykard to take on an entire legion with just a few minions was a bit too aggressive. He likely had some trump cards left. I'll let Morgott test him for me. He won't have many trump cards.
"Melina, keep watching. Let me know when Rykard can't hold out anymore."
Throne glanced at the helmet. It had a large red plume, with only the eyes exposed—it was the armor of a Gelmir Knight. Clearly, he was prepared to shift the blame. After a moment's thought, he took out the exquisite doll.
"Ranni, the show has begun."
In the center of Liurnia of the Lakes hundreds of miles away, the pacing Ranni stopped, the anxious expression on her face quickly fading. Aside from the unexpected factor of Azur, Throne had already explained the entire plan to her. It was simple and easy to understand: the core was to let Rykard and Morgott fight first, then let the fisherman profit from the struggle between the snipe and the clam. But it was easier said than done. One had to remember that Morgott wasn't alone; he had an entire elite legion with him.
"How certain are you of the implementation?"
Ranni's voice was calm, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep.
"At least sixty percent. I've confirmed that the one Morgott sent is only a projection; otherwise, he would have charged in to fight for his life immediately."
Throne spoke with a tone of certainty. This was also the key point he had Melina observe. If it were Morgott's true body, he would have turned and left immediately.
"Sixty percent? Are you serious?"
"I am very serious."
Ranni breathed a sigh of relief. She had been truly frightened by this man's tendency to risk his life on a twenty or thirty percent chance of success. As a cautious person, her mindset had changed; it seemed sixty percent was as good as a guaranteed victory. But as the moment approached, she hesitated for a moment:
"Can he be brought back?"
"No."
Throne's voice cut like steel. He knew the war inside Ranni's chest. Silence stretched between them until her answer came.
"Then kill him for me. The last kindness a sister can offer."
The world had room for only one devourer. With Throne already here, with the deed half-done—no point in hesitation now. Grief hung thick in her words. Paths might diverge, Rykard might wear a serpent's skin now, but childhood memories of three siblings playing in the rain refused to fade.
"Your pain's known to me. But pain's all that remains in these lands. When it's done, we burn that fucking tree together."
Ranni's eyes found the Erdtree beyond the window. Her stare sharpened to knife points. That golden bastard—root of every tragedy. Without its chains, would brothers raise blades against each other? She remembered sunlit days. Her golden-haired firstborn brother swinging wooden swords. The second-born, broad-shouldered even as a boy, carrying her on his back when she scraped her knee. Herself, small fists on hips, scolding them both for tracking mud inside. Somewhere between then and now, it all curdled to ash. Yet that damned tree still stood, gilded and smug beyond the glass.
"Throne, I'll await your signal."
"Understood."
He rose. Pain wrapped around her like a mantle, but the Lunar Princess wore it like armor now, regal as moonlit frost. When the mental thread snapped, he turned to the girl keeping careful distance by the far wall.
"Rya, stay put. I won't be long."
A practiced bow.
"As you command, Lord Throne."
She knew her limits—this battle wasn't hers to fight. A pause, then softer: "I'll pray for your return."
Pray? To what gods?
"Don't die if the ceiling starts shaking. Get to high ground."
No farewells. Throne wrenched the attic door open and dropped through the hatch. Kinslayer's burden. Let it be mine.
Boots met stone with a muffled clang. No such thing as blind sentries here—two Omens at the corridor's end snapped their masked faces toward the sound. Their hesitation lasted half a breath: a Gelmir Knight shouldn't exist in this corpse of a manor. Eyes locked.
Somewhere below, the volcano groaned with distant combat. As the Omens drew breath to shout alarm, Throne moved.
Attack! Cleavers and hooked axes came up fast. Their bloated bodies filled the hallway, shoulders smashing wall sconces to splinters. No finesse—just raw, crushing power. Throne leaned back, blade leaving its sheath as he slid across flagstones. Steel screamed.
A crimson arc split the dark. His sword met the descending cleaver mid-fall, drove it down hard enough to carve furrows in the floor. When he ripped the blade free, wood fragments exploded outward.
Twist at the waist. Spin. His elbow cracked into an Omen's jaw, sent it hurtling upward—skull cratering the ceiling plaster. He jumped as a hooked axe whistled beneath his heels, landed on the weapon's haft. The off-balance Omen lurched forward.
Its last sight: cold steel filling the world. A wet thock. Head rolling. Throne didn't look back, just pointed over his shoulder.
Night Comet. Magic surged through the corridor, blasting a bloody hole through the chest of the Omen still struggling to wrench its head from the ceiling. Its hands went slack, painting the ancient stones in arterial spray. Throne flicked gore from his sword as he advanced. A crossbowman burst from a side room—died mid-step.
Then the stairwell ahead disgorged fresh prey.
His right hand clenched. The corridor erupted—candelabras ripped from walls, paintings torn from their hooks, all hurled toward the stairwell under gravity's pull. Omens and Night soldiers clustered at the landing raised shields and crossbows. A single attacker? Their aim wavered as a storm of debris smashed into their formation.
Wood splintered against steel. No fatalities, but chaos erupted—shields knocked askew, men stumbling. Throne moved like a battering ram. His shoulder crashed into a shield with a thunderous crack, sending wooden railings spinning through the air. The soldiers staggered back, boots scraping against stone, then braced.
"Elite troops," Throne muttered. Mobs were still mobs. He leapt, gravity twisting around him. A thousand pounds of force drove him downward. The floor exploded—planks shattered, masonry burst upward, bodies tumbling into the gap like discarded sacks.
Mid-fall, his fist smashed aside a shield. The Sword of Night and Flame flashed free. Fire erupted in a searing mist, igniting wood, flesh, tapestries. Flames roared through the manor. The stench of charred meat filled his nostrils as he landed in the lobby, boots crunching on debris.
The narrow throne stood ahead. Beside it, a mountain of a man gripped a glaive, face grim. Flames wreathed the ceiling behind Throne, casting his silhouette in hellish light. For a heartbeat, Eamon hesitated. Gelmir had knights like this left? One man couldn't stop them—
Steel whistled. Instinct took over. Eamon kicked the halberd's shaft, crouching low. Rivers of Blood shrieked against metal, sparks spraying. A feint for his fingers? He released the weapon, driving a kick into Throne's ribs to force space, then hooked the halberd up with his foot.
His fingers closed around the shaft. A pivot—
The slash came faster than thought. Stone pillars split like wet parchment. Throne jerked back, the glaive's edge scoring a deep groove across his breastplate. This one fought like the Nights Cavalry's best. Stronger than the knight he'd faced a decade ago.
No time to dwell. Throne lunged, magic flaring from his blade—a beam of energy punched through walls in a line of destruction. The giant sidestepped, then surged forward. Glaive flicked upward. Giant Hunt. Brutal efficiency. Steel met steel. The impact rattled Throne's bones, launching him airborne.
As he fell, another upward slash followed. Damn, it's that cheese move. Recognition flashed—this was a combo designed to keep him airborne until death. Human form or not—