"What should we do? Should I go down and take a look first?"
The spirit maiden's voice was steady, her movements sharp, unbothered by the darkness. But Throne shook his head.
"Rykard won't play hide-and-seek with me. He's waiting down there, I'm sure of it."
"Can he even fight in that state?"
"Don't underestimate the Ancient Great Serpent. Legends say it's immortal. All I'm doing is making the fight fair."
"Fair?"
Melina's brow furrowed. The man who'd orchestrated this entire trap—this predator stalking its prey—was talking about fairness?
"Of course. Fairness isn't given; it's fought for. I want to kill him. He wants to devour me. No one else interfering—that's fair and reasonable, isn't it?"
Throne's lips twisted into a grimace. He slammed his helmet onto his head and stepped into the void. Gravity seized him immediately, pulling him down.
"Wait a moment," he called out, his voice echoing. "I'll be there shortly to end your suffering."
Thud.
The sound was soft, almost delicate. Throne had lightened his weight with magic, landing gently on the cavern floor. He spread his hands, and starlight bloomed around him, illuminating the space.
The cavern was massive, the faint churn of magma echoing in the distance. Serpentine statues loomed around them—some winged, some coiled, others gaping wide as if swallowing the sun. Throne's expression twisted in disgust as he surveyed the scene.
The rock walls were draped in spiderweb-like strands of white silk, thick patches of mucus clinging to them. Scattered among the webs were translucent membranes, their surfaces veined with blood vessels. Inside, bloated white maggots writhed and breathed. Few remained intact; most had already burst.
The ground was slick with foul-smelling amniotic fluid, the remnants of whatever had once been inside long gone.
"Snake amniotic sacs," Throne muttered, his eye twitching as he picked up a ruptured membrane.
"How does a grown man like Rykard even think of self-production? Self-consumption?"
He turned the membrane over in his hands.
"These things were eaten. The serpent's offspring—useful for war, and apparently, emergency rations."
Melina stood on her tiptoes, refusing to let her feet touch the mucus.
"It's a good thing we didn't bring Rya. She'd probably have a mental breakdown if she saw this."
Though Rya was a serpent-man, her consciousness was human—and humans couldn't stomach this kind of sight.
"As expected," Throne said, tossing the membrane aside. He burned it clean with his Sword of Night and Flame.
"The truth behind the truth is always the cruelest."
He turned, scanning the cavern. The rock walls were riddled with caves of all sizes, like the heart of a beehive, each leading to some unknown area.
"Which way?"
"No rush. We'll search slowly."
Throne waved a hand. This was part of his plan. Volcano Manor had nothing left to eat. Without replenishment, the Ancient Great Serpent's recovery would be limited. If the Nights Cavalry had come in, it would've been counterproductive. They'd have split up to search, only to be swallowed one by one by the ghost-like serpent. By the time they found the main body, it might've grown even stronger.
Throne crouched, examining the faint friction marks on the ground.
"To deal with this thing, you have to cut off its food supply first. Don't even think about relying on numbers to court death."
"What if it hides and doesn't come out?"
Melina crouched beside him, lifting her skirt slightly to avoid the filth. She squinted at the subtle marks.
With a serpent that massive, as long as it obeyed the laws of physics, there'd be traces.
"It's on the left," Throne said. "And don't worry. Rykard is more desperate to eat me than I am to kill him."
He looked up at the cave in the rock wall, about ten meters wide. He didn't bother explaining further. It wasn't about greed. It was something deeper, something primal.
Margit waited outside. If Rykard wanted to turn the tables, he'd need to consume Throne first—then hunt for more food. Did he plan to cower underground until someone came to slit his throat? Throne bent his knees and launched upward, a trail of starlight clinging to his ascent.
The cave floor glistened with foul mucus. Serpent-man larvae twitched in half-devoured heaps—Rykard's feeding had been desperate, sloppy. Further in, the corpses piled higher. Human bones. Demi-human carcasses. Magma Wyrm segments hacked apart.
But the deeper he went, the cleaner the kills became. An Abductor Virgin's severed head stared up with hollow eyes.
"Starving enough to eat machines now?"
Throne understood true depravity. This had to be where Rykard fused with the Ancient Great Serpent before dragging himself outward—a trail of corruption, a path of blasphemy.
Scales whispered against stone. A wet, rattling breath. Throne froze.
"Rykard's ahead. Melina, ready yourself."
He drained a flask; iridescence shimmered across his skin.
One by one, he armed himself. Dark Moon Greatsword. Sword of Night and Flame. Moonveil. Rivers of Blood. Finally, the two-meter Nights Cavalry Glaive. Its shaft struck the ground with a metallic clang. Fully armored, he turned to see Melina buckling a plain greatsword across her back, six black knives sheathed at her waist.
True, Bernahl had cost him one greatsword—but Throne had spares, each humming with Destined Death.
"Ready?"
"Yes. Why not summon the Lunar Princess?"
Melina's question hung oddly in the air.
"Save Ranni's strength for worse fights."
Not critical yet? Fine. I'd rather not fight beside that witch anyway.
Melina inhaled sharply. Unseen Form veiled her silhouette.
"Move."
"Understood."
A hundred meters ahead, a gaping entrance beckoned. Throne wasn't stupid enough to walk through it. He raised one foot—golden pupils flaring—and channeled all his power into the sole.
BANG.
Rock shattered beneath his stomp. Gravity yanked him downward—
—into a stench so thick it burned. Below, a maw lined with needle-teeth gaped wide. Rykard had been waiting.
Throne vanished.
The serpent's jaws snapped empty air. He reappeared—just as a massive tail whipped toward him.
The Glaive crossed his chest. Impact shuddered through his wrists, hurling him backward.
SCREECH—
Iron boots carved furrows in stone, sparks flying. He drove the Glaive deep to halt his momentum and looked up.
Magma oozed from ceiling holes like infected wounds. Melted weapons and bones littered the cavern. Throne lifted his foot—crushed skull fragments stuck to his boot.
At the magma's heart, the coiled serpent swayed, tongue flicking between dagger-fangs.
"A real charmer," Throne muttered.
Throne looked around. Although there were many weapons, none resembled the Serpent-Hunter spear. His mouth twisted. Rykard had wits now. Even if that spear existed here, it'd be buried in some forgotten corner. What fool left their one weakness on display?
But you're not at full strength either. Throne studied Rykard's emaciated flanks. The fight would be ugly.
The serpent's body was a ruin of wounds, gaping and raw, its flesh torn open to the bone in places, especially at the neck. Margit had clearly held nothing back. The people of Volcano Manor had scattered, leaving only a handful behind—too few to mend the beast's injuries. The serpent shifted, its massive head turning, and Rykard's face emerged from its grotesque form.
"So, you're waiting for me?"
Throne's voice was calm, almost mocking.
"Am I alone enough to balance the scales against the entire Nights Cavalry?"
Rykard's face was not what Throne expected. There was no hunger, no greed—just a strange, unsettling calm. His expression was almost benevolent, as if he carried the weight of the world's suffering. If not for the monstrous body beneath him, he might have seemed human again.
"I am disappointed," Rykard said, his voice low and measured. "If you are an enemy of the Erdtree, why must you oppose me?"
Throne laughed, sharp and bitter. "Bullshit. You expect me to volunteer my hands for you to devour?"
"You should."
Rykard's arms spread wide. In one hand, he clutched a greatsword, its surface crawling with fleshy buds. In the other, he held a scepter—a serpent coiled around a staff, its jaws stretched wide, biting toward a sphere at its center. It looked like a twisted mural, a depiction of a serpent devouring a star.
"For a noble goal, anything can be sacrificed," Rykard continued. "As a lord, I have already set an example. I've endured death and agony countless times, all to forge a path for those who oppose the golden order. And I've found it: the way to unite everything, to approach the Greater Will!"
Throne stared, stunned, then spat out a reply.
"Should I thank you for that? Join the pile of victims in your wake?"
"You should be grateful," Rykard said, his voice rising. "How could the short-sighted understand the ideals of a lord? The Greater Will is beyond comprehension. To achieve true freedom, what must be done?"
"Kill it," Throne shot back.
"And if it's overwhelmingly powerful?"
"Then you fight with your life."
"Foolish!"
Rykard's voice boomed, his scepter striking the ground with a resonant thud.
"There are countless warriors who don't fear death, who endure pain willingly. But some things cannot be achieved by sacrifice alone. If the path is wrong, everything is in vain. That's why I found this way."
He leaned forward, his gaze piercing.
"Do you know why the Tarnished are feared? Their power comes from uniting everything—killing others to strengthen themselves. But their path was given to them, their essence tied to the Erdtree's blessings. My path is one I forged myself. I take what I need, without relying on anyone's favor."
Throne listened, grudgingly impressed. Rykard's words held weight. Aside from him, killing was pointless, and training too slow. The Tarnished thrived on the accumulated strength of The Lands Between, turning life into Runes, transforming those Runes into power. From demigods to common soldiers, all were fuel for their ascent.
But Rykard had seen deeper. He'd turned himself from prey into a hunter. You could kill him for his Runes, but he could just as easily devour you. It was a brutal symmetry.
"Lord Rykard," Throne said slowly, "I understand you now. The Tarnished are like you, but their limit is lower. Their power comes from blessings—they can't devour the Erdtree itself."
Rykard tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You are indeed very smart."
"Lord Rykard, I somewhat understand you now. Indeed, the Tarnished are essentially the same as you, but their limit is not as high as yours. Their abilities come from blessings, so they cannot devour the Erdtree itself." Throne admitted it, reluctantly but honestly. He was a reasonable man, after all.
"Hmm," Rykard murmured, his smile widening. "You are indeed very smart."
Even if a Tarnished ascends as Elden Lord, it's not enough. The Erdtree holds the greatest energy in this world. At best, they can burn it. But if they do that—if they kill Marika and Radagon—what will they use to challenge the Greater Will? Rykard's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He'd found someone who understood.
"You're not Morgott. Like me, you're an enemy of the golden order. Merge with me."
"Your offer is tempting, but I must decline."
Throne's head shook, firm and final. Rykard frowned, baffled.
"Do you judge by appearances alone?"
"Of course not. The Erdtree, for all its holiness, has done filthier things than you."
"Then you fear death. Don't worry—I'm the dominant consciousness here. Everyone lives."
He swung the blasphemous blade, its flesh buds swaying like the arms of the swallowed.
"From the moment I chose this path, I left life and death behind."
Throne's voice was solemn.
"Then why?" Rykard demanded, bewildered.
He admitted the ugliness, acknowledged the path's effectiveness, and didn't fear death. What other reason could there be?
"It's simple."
Throne kicked the butt of his spear, spreading his legs into a sprinting stance.
"This world doesn't need two devourers."
Rykard froze. None of the reasons he'd expected. Two devourers? Before he could process it, a muffled bang echoed. Throne charged, hostility radiating.
"Stubborn!"
Rykard snarled, anger flaring.
Why oppose him? They understood each other. Fear wasn't the issue. But this was their second fight, and Rykard had learned. When this knight charged—he was unstoppable. Retreat first.
Rykard's massive body moved with surprising agility, backing away swiftly. At the same time, he plunged the blasphemous blade into the magma and yanked it upward. Scorching lava gathered into a beam, forming a giant, red-hot sword. Slash! The magma slammed down like a wall.
Throne paused mid-charge, dropping low and rolling to the side. Thunderous explosions followed. Rumble—The magma greatsword carved a deep gash into the rock wall. Droplets of lava hissed as they landed on Throne's armor, the heat invigorating him.
He looked up. The giant serpent erupted violently, a volcano sprouting from its head. Can't get close. Throne dodged backward, his footwork a blur. The Tarnished had suffered for a reason—this monster was a living artillery platform.
As he ran, the scorching aura loomed overhead again. Throne glanced up to see the magma greatblade descending. He spread his legs, thrusting his Glaive upward with a gust of wind. Storm! Woo—Boom! The wind blade collided with the magma, exploding mid-air in a shower of bright red sparks.
Scorching lava splattered everywhere. Throne's body sank under the force, his legs cracking the ground beneath him. But it wasn't over. A magma fireball sped toward him—a combo, a sneak attack while he was pinned.
Throne gripped his sword one-handed and released a Thopss Barrier just as the pressure bore down. The magma fireball collided with it and was deflected directly into the air, nearly striking Rykard himself.
"You've got strange abilities. You must taste delicious."