Throne muttered "Malenia's Flow" again. His Bloodhound's Step closed the distance in an instant—one hand snatching Melina's hood, yanking her backward.
Swish—
Sword energy exploded against his breastplate in a shower of sparks. Throne glanced at the frost forming on his armor, then looked up with a teacher's proud smile.
"Millicent. Stronger again."
Even without the Black Knife, Melina couldn't match Millicent in direct combat now. The wooden maiden carried at least two seals—her strength frozen in the past.
"Thank you for the praise, Teacher."
Millicent flicked her red ponytail, sweet smile belying the humility in her voice.
"Sister Melina held back. Had she used the Black Knife just now, Destined Death's pain would've changed everything."
"The blade means nothing. In pure skill, you surpass me."
Melina's face stayed blank, but no anger colored her words. She cared little for pride—if anything, she felt glad for Millicent.
Such terrifying talent. Almost enviable. Throne watched his disciple, thoughts turning. Not necessarily a blessing though. That Waterfowl Dance carried three parts of Malenia's essence.
Every teacher loves a gifted student. He cherished this relentless disciple—which was why his face hardened as he spoke.
"Don't grow arrogant. Your swordwork remains lacking."
He tapped his greatsword's hilt.
"Know why I favor this now?"
"Armor breaking?"
"One reason."
Throne's hand dropped to his waist.
"When strength reaches a certain point, a greatsword swings nearly as fast as a katana—with crushing force behind it. But if I used this—"
Clang!
The draw came faster than sight—a silver flash, a dragon's roar of steel, then the blade seated back in its scabbard. A heartbeat later—
Swishswishswishswish—
Dense blade-lights shredded the air. The armored swordsman straightened, finishing his thought.
"—It'd be faster."
With his apprentice progressing so rapidly, Throne allowed himself this moment of showmanship. No need to hold back certain techniques now.
Secret Sword: Isshin.
Essence, energy, spirit—all drawn into a single line. Draw and sheathe. Only the afterimage remained, threads of crimson light lingering from Rivers of Blood's cursed edge.
Melina didn't react. Nothing Throne did could surprise her now—she remained her usual dazed self. But Millicent's pupils contracted. She seized his arm.
"Teacher! Teach me that!"
Forget it was a killing art—she looked like a child begging for sweets. Throne had planned to instruct her anyway, but her shaking nearly ruined his composed demeanor.
"Alright, alright. Melina? Want to learn? I've got variations."
"No blades. No point practicing."
She turned away, pulling a curious Rya along.
"We're getting dinner from the Carian camp. Don't stare—you can't learn this. Probably shouldn't."
She also heard the man behind her telling Millicent something like Don't copy that fool, it's harder than it looks. Annoyed, she flung a dagger without looking. The complaints cut off abruptly.
"Why?"
Rya glanced back, watching Throne guide Millicent's hands through each motion with painstaking care.
"Picking up a blade is easy. Putting it down is hard. You don't have the talent for it. Better to focus on history, philosophy, poetry—things that'll serve you eventually."
Melina yanked her away from the ruins, their path blocked by a forest of iron spears.
She smiled bitterly at her own words, spoken in the shadow of killing tools. In this fractured Lands Between, even bards were nearly extinct. Poetry couldn't compare to steel. Only a decade since The Shattering, and already the embers of another great war smoldered.
Her gaze drifted to the volcano, its silhouette glowing under the setting sun. She traced the scar over her left eye. Perhaps it would end—ended by his hands.
"Why are you zoning out again?"
Rya tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"You're softer than you seem."
Am I? Melina blinked, still processing the throwing dagger she'd just hurled at Throne.
The words didn't feel wrong. Aside from that damned dragon and the Lunar Princess, she got along with most. She reached out, flicking Rya's golden hair.
"Study hard in Caria. Don't get too close to the Lunar Princess, but don't fear her either. She's all dignity on the outside, but a fraud at heart..."
They walked among Carian soldiers, the young girl casually disparaging royalty. The golden light of sunset stretched their shadows long across the mountain pass. The war was far from over; every stolen moment of peace was a treasure for Throne and Melina alike.
"Your Highness, we've lost this battle."
Outside Mt. Gelmir, on the Road of Iniquity, Erickson stepped forward, his arm in a sling. He bowed to Morgott, who stood atop a crumbling wall. This was a half-abandoned camp, once the starting point of the Blasphemous War. Years later, he'd returned with similar forces, only to meet the same defeat.
Mt. Gelmir—a thorn in my side. Morgott surveyed the ruined road, shaking his head.
"We failed. No excuses."
The remaining twelve Nights Cavalry nodded. The legion had lost a third of its strength, a blow to his prestige. How could they claim victory?
"But it was Caria's treachery! Without them, the volcano would've fallen long ago!"
"Enough, Enrique."
Morgott's voice cut through the grumbling. His tone was self-mocking, but not defeated.
"There are no fools in this world. Those wiser than us are strong, and when the strong clash, outcomes are uncertain."
He didn't bother defending the loss, yet his spirit burned bright.
"But we're alive. As long as we breathe, we fight. We learn from the pain. Next time, I won't make the same mistake."
He wasn't here to soothe his men with empty words. If he'd wallowed in pain, he'd still be in the sewers. If failure crushed him, he'd never have lasted these ten years.
"Yes."
The cavalrymen bowed, their heads low. They'd seen how he handled defeat firsthand. Back in Leyndell, who'd follow a royal of dubious birth?
And no matter how noble the bloodline, how could one compete with those battle-hardened knight heroes? It was battle after battle, defeat after defeat, stumbling and blood-soaked, that an Omen crawling out of a sewer became a ruler.
Morgott's path wasn't about being some unstoppable hero. It was clawed from a sea of blood, carved from raw pain. At least this time I see the real enemy. Caria had grown too fast, too strong—first vassal to claim two regions. Now it was a beast too large to strangle.
The thought gnawed at him.
Even in the sewer wars, fighting for scraps in the dark, he'd always scraped value from defeat. That knight—something's off. And Caria's military swells like a plague. A thousand elites, fielded at once.
Rykard's death burned. No answers left about the Death Eater.
A gaping wound in his plans. The Death Eater reeked of Rykard's stink, of the Great Serpent's coils—but who else slithered in the shadows? He couldn't see.
One mercy: Caria had butchered Rykard and the Serpent. That meant blood between them and the Death Eater. Maybe it'd slow Caria down. But that knight—who is he? Not Tarnished. Not anything I know.
A fighter like that doesn't just appear. The mystery kept his hands still. No tearing off masks yet.
"Enrique. Ride for Leyndell. Tell the Two Fingers Caria's grown fangs. If they're hiding secrets, it ends now."
The order left his lips like a blade drawn.
"Yes."
The Nights Cavalry knelt, cloak tattered as old scars. Hooves hammered the earth, then faded. But the storm wasn't over.
Another problem, worse than the last. The Nights Cavalry bled numbers. The Fell Omen's name took another hit. And those golden-blooded nobles? They'd be sharpening knives by now.
"Your Highness. The nobles trouble you?"
Erickson stepped close, voice a live wire.
"Forgive me—but you're too soft. Gut every Count and above. Their crimes warrant death ten times—"
"Enough."
Morgott's hand cut the air. The old argument grated.
Easy words. Hard truth: those nobles weren't weak. And him? Protector of the dynasty. Could he butcher the Golden Order's pillars?
Even with the Tarnished crawling back, even with the rot spreading—he couldn't. The Golden Order wasn't just the Elden Ring. It needed a King. Nobles beneath. Common folk like soil. Uproot it all, and what was left? A man alone in a wasteland.
Erickson's mouth opened. He wanted to say it: Roots can be replanted. The world's full of men hungry for titles.
But Morgott didn't want to be King. That killed the dream before it breathed.
"We bypass Leyndell. Straight to the Haligtree. Let Caria gnaw on Mt. Gelmir—what matters is the Haligtree's power."
The decision landed like a guillotine.
"Understood. But Lord Miles nears Ordina. We won't beat him there."
"You think Miles would side with the nobles?"
Morgott's glance was a dagger's edge.
"No. The Golden Guardians kneel only to the Elden Lord. But their knights? Harder to trust."
Gelmir to Caria; what's important is the power of the Haligt...
"Even a fraction of the Haligtree's military strength would cause problems."
Morgott rubbed his throbbing head, frustration boiling hotter the longer he thought about it. He'd risked everything to defend the Golden Order, yet here he was, constantly hindered. Did they truly believe these were the glory days of his father's reign, when the Golden Order stood unshaken? With enemies circling like jackals, they still wasted time on petty squabbles.
"Select twenty men. We ride north to The Shaded Castle, then take a boat to the Haligtree. The rest fall back to the Grand Lift. Keep a close eye on Caria—they can't move a large force north through side paths alone."
Morgott spoke sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. There were two roads to the volcano, two to the Haligtree. Erickson hesitated for a moment before nodding.
"Understood. I'll arrange it at once. Word is the Lord of The Shaded Castle is a guest at the Haligtree. There shouldn't be any threat there."
"That Marais family—pathetic, all of them."
Morgott started to dismiss them with a wave but froze mid-gesture. His head snapped toward the ruined road. A knight stood there, clad in dark crimson armor, his helmet shaped like a blade. Erickson growled, low and wary.
"A Crucible Knight? What's he doing here?"
His hand moved to signal the camp to stand ready. Those knights were unpredictable, prone to violence without reason.
"Wait."
Morgott's voice halted him, calm but firm. He stared at the knight, a flicker of emotion passing through him. These were his father's personal guard, loyal to the bone. They rarely showed themselves to anyone else. The knight raised his hand, a long spear gripped tightly. Erickson's shield came up instinctively, but no attack came.
The spear shot forward with a deafening bang, embedding itself into the wooden wall mere feet from Morgott. The camp erupted into chaos, bugles blaring. Morgott didn't flinch. His eyes locked onto the envelope fastened to the spear. He reached out, plucked it free, and unfolded the parchment. His body went rigid, as if struck by lightning.
The words scrawled across the page were bold, wild, unrestrained.
"Morgott, you make me proud, and you also make me disappointed!"
Morgott stared, unblinking, the words searing into his mind. When he finally looked up, his eyes searched the road frantically. The knight was gone.
---
Early morning light crept over Mt. Gelmir as Throne descended the rugged path, the jagged terrain gradually flattening ahead. Throne was a man who lived by his own rules, leaving corpses where they fell. After claiming Volcano Manor, he'd rested only two days before hearing the news: Morgott had vanished. Immediately, he'd set out.
The volcano was a ruin now, unbearably hot. Staying meant suffering. He'd left Rya in Moongrum's care and taken Millicent and Melina with him. The three rode Torrent, the Spirit Steed snorting irritably the entire way. Throne tossed rowa fruit to placate him. Torrent's complaints ceased the moment food was involved.
"What a view," Throne murmured halfway down, pulling the reins to slow Torrent. He gestured toward the rolling mountains ahead, the deep gullies and sheer cliffs framing the Altus Plateau.
As long as there was food, this Spirit Steed was extremely well-behaved, not even bothering to grumble.
Autumn had settled in, but the peaks still wore their crowns of snow. Beyond them stretched vast fields, dotted with villages and towns like scattered stars across a chessboard earth. From this height, he might have been a god leaning over the game.
Throne's cloak snapped in the wind, black against the pale sky. Melina shifted on his back, peering out with the hunger of a homesick ghost. This was where her journey began. After all her wandering, she'd circled back to the start.
The Erdtree loomed ahead, its light staining the horizon. Yet Throne showed no interest in Leyndell's gates. Melina's nails dug into his shoulders.
"You're really not going to the capital?"
"Not yet."
His smile was a blade turned inward.
"I'd rather not die today."
Without the Crucible Knight's interference, he might've considered it.
"Our deal—"
"See those walls? That's Leyndell. Close enough."
Melina's teeth ground loud enough to hear. He was skirting the edge like a cat avoiding bathwater, and it infuriated her.
Millicent sighed. "Teacher, stop tormenting her. The Haligtree lies north through Leyndell. A quick look wouldn't kill you."
Throne chuckled. How cozy they'd grown. No wonder Ranni had sulked when he left—Melina had a gift for uniting people against him. The girl was a magnet for sympathy, all wide eyes and misplaced kindness. At Volcano Manor, Millicent shadowed him daily while Ranni, spared public humiliation, still played the aloof doll.
"If I come, it will be like the coalition of monarchs back then, bringing thousands of troops to the city walls. That damn place, going once is enough."