"But... it's so high. I can't—" The timid girl's voice wavered, her fear palpable. Throne sighed, irritation mingling with amusement. He extended his palms. Rya hesitated, then leapt. The ground lay a hundred meters below, but Throne caught her effortlessly, her weight barely registering in his arms. Before he could set her down, a voice rasped from the shadows.
"Come..."
Tanith emerged from the severed corpse of the snake, her lower half gone, leaving a gruesome trail of blood. She crawled forward, her voice trembling yet insistent.
"Come to Mother."
Rya froze, fear gripping her, but she forced herself to look. Her fingers tightened around Throne's arm.
Throne scanned the area, alert for Crucible Knights. His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his blade.
"Rya," he said, his voice low, "Do you want to hear the rest?"
She nodded faintly. Tanith dragged herself a few meters before collapsing onto her back, her gaze fixed on Rya.
Her eyes held no malice, only desperate hope. Rya landed softly and rushed to kneel before Tanith.
"Mother, is there anything else you want to say?"
Tanith's voice was barely a whisper.
"Continue... my path. Become one with the true lord. Give... birth to a divine child..."
Her hand fell limp. Rya stared, stunned, then embraced the grotesque remains, weeping uncontrollably.
Whether it was love or something else, their bond had been real. Throne watched silently, then gestured to Melina with a tilt of his chin. She moved past him, her steps measured, her expression unreadable. Throne felt out of place here, an executioner in a scene of grief. Melina's sympathy was subtle but present, as though she saw in Rya what she herself sought to avoid.
Amid the sobs and quiet reassurances, Throne sighed and turned away. He strode forward, weary but resolute. The Dark Moon Greatsword armor repaired itself as he walked. He donned his helmet, cradled the shriveled head in his arms, and ascended the stone steps. The scorching heat of the volcano faded behind him as he passed through the ruined battlefield, finally stopping before the church entrance.
To the north, hundreds of dark figures slipped through the gap left by the retreating Nights Cavalry. They had regrouped, led by the Fell Omen, Margit. His strength partially restored, he halted with his forces, his gaze sharpening as he took in the scene.
Hundreds of eyes lifted in unison, locking onto the knight in magnificent, heavy armor. Throne raised the withered head high, his voice cold and commanding.
"Volcano Manor has been conquered by me!"
The declaration struck Margit like a slap. The demigod avatar faltered, stunned. It no longer mattered if Throne was the legendary Carian Knight or the one who had assaulted him with ancient magic. The battle was over, and Margit stood awkwardly, his purpose uncertain.
Rykard was dead. The realization hit Margit like a blow. Why had he suffered losses, why had he fled to Mt. Gelmir? The greatest hero of the Erdtree questioned his own reality. Behind him, the Nights Cavalry shifted uneasily, their confidence shaken. They had come for an easy victory, only to find the fight already finished.
"Your Highness, what should we do now?"
"Your Highness, shall we launch an attack, or shall I go and test him?"
Rykard's head was unmistakable, and Throne bore no visible injuries. Yet his calm, his mystery, made him seem untouchable. Margit hesitated, his voice low.
"Don't be hasty. If he truly killed Rykard, he must be at the end of his strength."
Margit raised his hand. His subordinates snapped into formation, shields locking into place as they advanced down the stairs. At the bottom, they halted. Margit stepped forward alone, cane in hand, and tilted his head up to study the knight above.
The man stood tall, unmoving, watching with a calm that prickled Margit's pride. His fists clenched, but he buried the irritation. Strategy demanded composure. At fifty meters apart, Margit paused.
"Who are you?"
The knight's aura felt unstable, weaker than his posture suggested. Margit remained wary, every muscle tense. The knight inclined his head slightly, the angle revealing only crimson eyes.
"Carian Knight. You may call me Madara."
His voice carried an edge.
"I've killed the man. I've conquered Mt. Gelmir. Why linger instead of returning to Leyndell?"
Margit's grip tightened on his cane. Arrogance. It had been too long since anyone dared speak to him like this.
"Mt. Gelmir falls under the Golden Order. And I suspect you're the Gelmir Knight who attacked us earlier."
Throne forced his breathing steady. He couldn't afford to show weakness. Retreat meant death. His only chance was to bluff strength, to push this weakened avatar of Morgott into retreat. His boots clicked against stone as he descended the stairs, Rykard's head gripped in one hand. His gaze remained icy.
"Does it matter? Every inch of The Lands Between falls under the Golden Order's jurisdiction. Yet Leyndell is all you control. I've claimed this land. Do you think you can take it back?"
The closer Throne came, the stronger his aura seemed. Margit hesitated, doubt creeping in. A Carian Knight with demigod strength? After facing Rykard, how could he still stand? Margit stepped forward, voice sharp.
"Since when does Caria produce demigods? Were you the one scheming behind the scenes?"
Throne's tone was flat, neither confirming nor denying.
"Don't blame your failures on others. I gave you the chance. You squandered it."
Margit's cane flared with golden light.
"Posturing! Even if you killed Rykard, you're spent."
Throne halted. The clang of his boots echoed as he drew his greatsword. Deep blue magic surged around him, sending sand and stones spiraling.
"Have you seen my full power?"
Margit's soldiers raised their weapons, tension coiled like a spring ready to snap. But then came the clash of metal on metal, loud and jarring. Margit turned, his expression darkening.
An ocean of silver flooded the entrance of Volcano Manor. Hundreds of soldiers marched in unison, shields and spears gleaming. At their forefront fluttered a deep blue banner—the Carian royal standard. Margit's breath caught. Since Queen Rennala and Radagon's union, that banner had been confined to private halls. Now it flew openly, a declaration of war.
Margit's voice turned to ice.
"Caria dares challenge Leyndell?"
Ever since the Queen of the Full Moon and Radagon were wed and Caria was absorbed into the Golden Order, the Carian banner had only been raised in secret. Today, it waved openly, a defiant challenge to the Golden Order's dominion. And those Carian Knights at the forefront—their strength was unmistakable. This was no skirmish. This was war.
Margit's voice still carried steel, but the force behind it had dulled. His forces were reduced to scraps while his opponent boasted fresh troops and a Glintstone Dragon circling overhead—the scales had tipped.
"You stand on Carian soil, land I conquered. On Carian land, you dare threaten me? Who here seeks war?"
Throne dragged his greatsword forward, the ground shrieking under its edge. His presence swelled like a stormfront.
"You failed to lead your men against Rykard, so I did. That abomination was kin—Caria had every right to deliver justice, and every right to claim victory's spoils."
Truth rang through the words. The failure belonged to Margit and his Nights Cavalry.
Some Gelmir Knight wielding legendary magic? Irrelevant. Unheard of. Not his concern. Margit's shadowed face flushed dark red, as if choking on old blood. Shameless. Without your interference, I would've won already. But the accusation died unspoken—he had no proof.
Reports placed this Carian knight at the volcano long before the assault. Entirely possible he'd lurked inside, waiting to strike the killing blow. Not that Morgott cared for petty notions of justice or evidence. But the knight's unfathomable strength and those elite Carian troops? Those mattered.
Could he risk killing him here? What if the fight dragged on? His army might be annihilated. Without forces, the battle was lost—and how then would he keep the Golden nobles in line? Margit's mind raced. Never had his own blade felt so much like an anchor.
Unless the knight was bluffing. One decisive strike might turn the tide. But the gamble? Even victory would bleed his forces dry. War with Caria now—which side would the Golden nobles choose? Margit's skull throbbed. This Gelmir campaign was already a disaster. Another misstep, and control would shatter completely.
Iron boots cracked against stone. Throne advanced again, the air thickening with violent magic.
"Have you decided? Will you wage war against Caria in this burning hell? Fight me to the death?"
He raised the Dark Moon Greatsword, its edge humming with cold light.
"Win, and this mineral-rich volcano is yours. Lose, and I'll march my army to Leyndell for a... conversation with you, dear Morgott."
Margit's pupils contracted. The secret name shouldn't be known—but that shock paled against Throne's words. They cut through the rage like ice water. What would hasty war gain him? Rykard was dead. Gelmir offered nothing but treacherous rock and monsters needing extermination. Defeat here would be catastrophic.
The Golden Army was stretched thin at the Mountaintops of the Giants. Leyndell's defenses stood empty. If Caria marched now, with the nobles' betrayal and the capital already whispering treason—
If Caria advances and the Golden nobles defect, even if he crushed the rebellion, Leyndell would be reduced to rubble. The tyranny in his stance faltered. Morgott lifted his foot—and stepped back.
As his heel struck earth, Throne's clenched nerves finally uncoiled. Retreat. Of course. 'Morgott's' wisdom was always his greatest weakness.
Godfrey would've hacked him to pieces without a second thought—no speeches, no hesitation. This wasn't Godfrey. Throne studied Morgott, recalling the Golden Order's "paperer" reputation. If Morgott hadn't swallowed his pride and played the long game, Leyndell's nobles would've been corpses a hundred times over.
"Do you wish to decide life and death with me?"
Morgott's voice was calm, though Throne's presence pressed down on him like a mountain. He was used to suppression—he'd spent years burying his rage, tolerating the very nobles who'd spat on him.
"I wish to. But Her Highness has given me no command, and you're merely an avatar. You're not worth defying her will."
Throne took another step forward, his sword biting into the cracked stone stairs. His aura was a storm, relentless and sharp.
"Choose, Morgott's avatar. Will you fight me like a warrior, abandoning everything for a glorious death? Or will you bear the crown, weighing every move like a king?"
For a heartbeat, Morgott wanted to throw it all away. His body was incomplete, but the urge to fight surged through him like wildfire. He felt dizzy, as if transported back to a time long past, to the presence of a towering figure—Godfrey, his father, a man he revered and felt unworthy to follow. But his foot, raised to charge, never landed.
He retreated. The humiliation burned, and he knew his men would be disappointed. But he had no choice. Years ago, when he emerged from the sewers and saw the Erdtree's light, he'd made a vow.
No matter the humiliation, no matter how they treated me, I will not take a wife, I will not have children. Rather than being loved, I choose to love others, to guard this Golden Order that once caused me such pain—until death.
"Retreat!"
Morgott turned without hesitation, striding toward the fissure in the ground. He didn't look back, though he could feel the contempt in some of his soldiers' eyes.
"Let's go!"
The Night's Cavalry followed, their faces heavy with sorrow but free of anger. They knew their king, understood his burden, and it pained them as much as it pained him. Throne didn't pursue, nor did he gloat. He watched Morgott's retreating figure, his expression hardening.
This Morgott was no ordinary foe. He was a true hero, a formidable enemy who demanded respect.
Drawing a sword and charging in was reckless idiocy. If Morgott had let his blood boil and attacked, he'd have walked straight into Throne's trap. Throne wasn't bluffing—his left hand gripped Ranni's doll the entire time, ready to unleash her power.
If the Fell Omen had charged, even in his weakened state, Margit's avatar would've overpowered Ranni's. But Throne wasn't stupid. All he needed was to stall Morgott, and the Night's Cavalry would've been doomed.
"I didn't expect him to retreat."
Ranni appeared beside Throne, her voice cool but her presence tense. She'd been ready to act.
"You wouldn't think Morgott is afraid of death, would you?"
"Of course not. This enemy is ten times harder to deal with than Rykard."
Ranni's expression was grave. She didn't underestimate reckless men, but a hero who could bend and stretch? That was a true threat.
Morgott was certainly not afraid of death; it was just that above that was magnanimity—the magnanimity of a king. A king wasn't a vanguard general. A king walked the path of death, yes, but he also weighed what was light and what was heavy. A moment of satisfaction at the cost of thousands suffering was not the way of a king.
"Why not kill him?"
"We could hold him here if we fight."
"I'm not courting disaster. It's just an avatar—not worth dying over. He's not ready for war. Neither are we."
Throne remained calm. When to charge forward needed no discussion. When to lie low, he wouldn't hesitate.
War crept closer while everyone slept. The key was moving first.
"Mt. Gelmir's cliffs make defense easy. Garrison troops here, and we bleed Leyndell's strength dry. This road leads straight to their capital—they'll have no choice but to defend it."
Throne tossed a pebble into the ravine. His voice cut through the mountain wind: "We won anyway. Drove a knife into Leyndell's ribs. Their Nights Cavalry bled out. Nobles will counterattack—just as planned. Let Morgott choke on that. Without them?" His fist clenched. "The capital falls in a single stroke."
Even Ranni's lips curved—a rare sight.
She'd seen Morgott now. Understood the truth. Leyndell stood only because this one man held it up. Demigods? Near-gods? Powerful fools clinging to the Erdtree's roots—none wore the crown.
"Sounds almost too good."
"There's always a catch. I never hoped that the enemy would be as step-by-step as a pig. Might be Morgott. Might be someone else."
"Two Fingers?"