His arm swung down—only spirit particles scattered. The horse beneath him stiffened as he clenched his jaw.
"It dodged."
The violence had been swift as a passing shadow, but the fields told the truth. Even with the fires dead, the air clung to the stench of burning. Black-armored riders approached in a silent column.
At the sight of ravaged earth, their leader raised a gauntlet.
"Halt."
The troop froze. Margit twisted in his saddle, brow furrowing. They rode north in secret, yet Throne had outpaced them.
"Battle scars. Pellegrini, confirm if Calico's people did this."
"At once."
A Nights Cavalry peeled away. Margit sat motionless. Their covert journey north had soured days ago—nobles slaughtered in Calico Village. Justice demanded retribution, but the villagers' words had sent him away ashamed.
The rot had festered under his watch. Reports ignored. Worries drowning duty. Those faces twisted with hate made him wish the swordswoman had finished the job.
"If I can't serve justice, I'll avert my eyes."
Beyond the rift, emptiness gnawed at him. Village after village abandoned, families vanished into the wind. His grip tightened on the reins as Pellegrini returned, dismounting to kneel in the dust.
"Your Highness, combat marks confirmed."
"Tarnished weapons litter the field. No bodies."
Margit's frown deepened. Monsters prowled the Altus Plateau now? Two hundred miles from Leyndell's gates.
"I'll inspect it myself."
"Shield the prince!"
They swarmed around him. The earth bore wounds—craters, blade scars sunk deep. He traced the attacker's path in his mind. Powerful. Fifty meters between footprints, each pressed a hand's depth into the soil. A charge, then a slash thin as a whisper. Katana work.
Why did every rising blade in the Lands Between now curve like the east? Margit's thoughts scattered as his horse stumbled to a stop. He sat frozen, disbelief etching his face.
"Your Highness?"
The Nights Cavalry watched him. Margit said nothing.
He spurred forward, crossing the field in a rush. Dismounting, he stared at the scorched ground. His voice cracked.
"This can't be. The Altus seal was secure."
The cavalry closed in, exchanging glances before their eyes dropped to the blackened sigil beneath Margit's boots. From horseback, the mark burned clear—three twisted fingers.
"Your Highness—?"
Margit turned. His face was stone.
A clear look of pain and unwillingness flashed across his face, as if he were questioning himself about what he had been doing all these years. The harder he tried to repair things, the faster the ship of the Golden Order sank.
The revival of Caria was one thing. He couldn't be bothered to dwell on the mysterious Death Eater. But the Frenzied Flame—how could something so forbidden, so utterly intolerable, take root and grow right under his nose? The irony was bitter, undeniable. This mark wasn't the work of a handful of zealots. It reeked of something far larger, far darker.
Lost in thought for a moment, he glanced at his subordinates, their faces etched with concern. He took a deep breath, steadied himself.
"Who governs the villages in this vicinity?"
"The Shaded Castle, my lord. But its ruler, Marais, hasn't returned in years. No one knows the state of things now," the Nights Cavalry replied.
The answer offered Margit a sliver of relief. The Shaded Castle belonged to Malenia's faction. Since The Shattering, it had been in open hostility with Leyndell. With its lord absent, it made sense that it had slipped under his radar.
"How far is The Shaded Castle from here? What do we know of it?"
"Less than fifty miles. It's fallen into chaos—criminals, thieves, hunters, deserters, slavers. They've turned it into a smuggling hub for the north. Some even whisper ties to the Council of Six Houses. They call it the 'City of Sin.'"
City of Sin. Here, on the Altus Plateau, where the Erdtree's light shone brightest? Margit clenched his fists, but anger didn't rise. Instead, a memory surfaced—reports of this place had reached him long ago. The Council of Six Houses had fiercely opposed intervention, and The Shaded Castle, nominally Malenia's ally, had been left unchecked.
"So the flower of sin bloomed because of me?" He smiled bitterly, self-reproach sharp in his tone.
Some evils he could tolerate. But the Frenzied Flame? Never.
"We head straight to The Shaded Castle. Cleanse it."
"My lord, you said to return quickly, avoid stirring trouble. And if we take The Shaded Castle, what of Marais at the Haligtree?"
"I can't concern myself with that now. I know the city's significance, who shields it. But some things—"
Margit pulled his hood low, his eyes blazing with lethal intent.
"Not even a single spark can remain."
Throne rode north, oblivious to Margit's pursuit. Logically, the Fell Omen had no reason to venture here—far from his domain, far from his interests. Even a king knew better than to linger beneath a crumbling wall.
Half a day's ride brought him to the northern edge of the Altus Plateau. The city loomed ahead, its reputation already etched into his mind.
"What kind of hellhole is this? How many waves of scum today?"
Throne sat astride his horse, calmly wiping his blade with a rag. Around him lay several headless corpses. In just a few dozen miles, he'd been ambushed repeatedly—poisoned, lured, jumped from bushes. Each wave tried a new trick, each more desperate than the last.
Throne's response was simple: his blade, swift and final. Playing the fool wasn't his style. These weren't tigers to outwit—they were bedbugs, crushed without thought.
"City of Sin? Apt. By the time the Tarnished arrives, The Shaded Castle will be a playground for the Loathsome, its master replaced by the Bell Bearing Hunter."
His thoughts were interrupted by a burly man kowtowing before his horse, spewing a sob story. Throne's voice cut through the groveling.
"Enough. Who controls The Shaded Castle?"
The scarred brute's face glistened with tears and snot, the mess clashing with the vicious welt across his brow. He sniffed, wiping his nose as he eyed the monster who'd just cleaved a man—and his iron shield—in two.
"No single ruler. The Six House Lords hold sway, along with the Bell Bearing Hunters and outlaw Tarnished gangs."
"Any demigods pulling strings?" Throne asked. The man's blank stare answered for him.
"Thought not."
The blade flashed. A head hit the dirt with a wet thud. Throne didn't glance back. Loose ends bred complications, and he'd never been one for half-measures. Just how deep did the Shaded Castle's rot go?
Dawn bled across the horizon. Throne lacked Millicent's righteous fire—he just needed passage to the Haligtree. But like the Frenzied Flame or those preening nobles, anyone blocking his path would learn how little patience he carried in his scabbard. That stubborn woman trailing him demanded protection anyway.
Millicent fought like a cornered wolf, but he could carve through the Lands Between blindfolded. He settled the conical hat lower, layering the red mask over it. The double visage turned his profile sharper, colder—a fitting guise for the Castle ahead. Torrent's hooves whispered against the road as they pressed northward.
The walls heaved into view, House Marais' banner sagging like a hanged man. Below, stagnant moat water gleamed poison-green, bubbles popping fetid waves of rot across the surface. Throne's gaze tracked the fortifications. No wonder the Marais bred arrogance—this cesspool would choke any conventional assault.
The city itself was small, another wart of a fortress clinging to the Plateau's edge. Beyond its gates slumped a shantytown of splintered wood and cracked mortar, the kind of tinderbox that begged for a spark.
To the north, waves gnawed at a crumbling pier—one of the last working docks in the Lands Between. Once a thriving port, now a bloated carcass of its former glory.
Bodies bobbed in the moat's neon broth. Outside the walls, auction blocks hosted a menagerie of chained men, women, and twisted things—Demi-humans, Misbegotten, Pot Folk—while vendors barked prices like this was some damn fish market.
"I hate this place."
Melina's voice cut through the stink.
"Sane people do. But shattered kingdoms breed this rot."
Throne nudged Torrent forward along the ridgeline.
"Close your eyes if it stings. We're just passing through."
"Passing through? You attract Frenzied Flame like shit draws flies."
"Luck's never been my ally."
He shrugged.
"Anyway, Millicent's due within days. Best scout ahead—that idealistic fool'll start swinging at the first whiff of injustice."
A scream ripped through the air. Throne watched thugs drown some wretch in a runoff ditch. Yep. Millicent's blade was already singing from its sheath.
"But it doesn't matter. If she can handle the trouble, she will solve it herself. If she can't, I'll step in."
Melina stayed quiet a beat too long.
"Didn't peg you for the doting type."
"Innocence deserves shielding. What, you jealous?"
"Of her? Please. Better this than you simpering over the Lunar Princess."
Melina unleashed a string of curses before silence swallowed her voice. Ranni doesn't need me to coddle her, Throne corrected himself mentally, especially not in front of others. Just then, he noticed the men approaching, their hands still dripping with foul water. They grinned, fingers tightening around their sword hilts, though they hadn't spoken yet. The clatter of metal broke the tension.
A bag of Runes landed at their feet. Throne's preemptive move left the men exchanging uneasy glances.
"Split these among the five of you," he said. "Take me around The Shaded Castle. I also need to reach the pier and secure a boat. Help me with that, and I'll pay more."
Practical, direct.
The leader picked up the bag, weighing it in his hand, his grin twisting into something uglier.
"This isn't enough. Hand over everything you've got—"
The blade flashed once, a blur of light. By the time the others registered what had happened, a thin red line appeared across their leader's neck. His body, nearly two meters tall, toppled backward.
The head rolled, bouncing along the uneven ground before splashing into the sewer ditch. It bubbled briefly, then vanished. Before the remaining men could react—fight or flee—the bloodied money bag flipped through the air and landed in the second man's palm.
"The local gangs have no respect for rules," Throne said. "Now split it among four. Agreed?" A collective gulp answered him.
They had no choice. From the start, they'd been powerless. This man wasn't some naive adventurer; even in their world, he was a monster. Follow the rules, and you'd prosper. Break them, and you'd die.
These men had been skulking around The Shaded Castle long enough to know the difference. Hot-blooded warriors were easy to handle, but ruthless sinners? One misstep, and you were dead.
"My lord, this way," the newly promoted leader gestured. Life here was cheap, grudges pointless. He led the way without hesitation.
Throne rode his horse, scanning the surroundings. No fools dared to challenge him. Even as they walked, one of the group disappeared. It didn't matter. If they were reporting his presence or calling for reinforcements, he'd cut them down. For sinners like these, brutality worked best.
The streets were narrow, choked with filth—garbage, feces, the stench of the poison-filled moat. The air was thick, unlike any town he'd ever encountered. Besides the squalor, guillotines dotted the landscape. Throne recalled the tale of House Marais:
Volcano Manor was the prison; The Shaded Castle at the mountain's base handled the executions.
It made sense. Throne glanced at the slave traders.
"What's their deal?" he asked. "Refugees caught from all over. The Lands Between is in chaos. Don't let their weakness fool you—the high-end goods aren't displayed openly."
"For pleasure?"
"Sure, do whatever you want with them. When you're bored, just buy new ones. Sometimes you can recycle them. Heh, strap gunpowder barrels to their backs, and boom—send your enemies sky-high."
"They obey?"
Throne studied the figures in the iron cages, their faces blank, eyes unfocused like puppets.
"Some have dementia. Others? Their minds were shattered by incantations. I don't know the details. These traders have powerful backers. We don't mess with them."
Throne nodded faintly. Just another symptom of the chaos in The Lands Between. He spotted ballistae, puppets, and other war machines—smuggled by someone, no doubt.
"Who's the most vicious here?"
"Everyone's vicious."
"If you're looking for the worst of the worst—" The burly man hesitated, his face paling.
"There's a madman who ties people down and guts them alive. Doesn't need a reason. Makes those hunters look tame."
A butchering lunatic?
Throne's gaze swept over the scene. Slave traders barked with reddened faces, veins bulging, hawking their wares. Men stumbled into stinking alleys, already tearing at clothes to inspect their purchases. In the street's center, a thief writhed, arm severed, eyes gouged out before the crowd.
Madness. But in this cesspit called The Lands Between, who wasn't mad? The place was rotting from the inside out. When even the enforcers of order lost their minds, this sickness would spread until nothing remained but crumbling walls and choking weeds. Throne's eyes darkened.
He had no intention of being compassionate; it was just that no sane person could stomach such chaos. Another block passed. Ahead, a row of shops slumped in decay. Blood stained the steps, buckets of water sloshing as figures scrubbed at the crimson streaks.
"What happened here?"
"New management. Looks like the hunters made their move."
"Hunters?"