The figure wore a straw hat, an ogre mask, and wielded a blood-red longsword. An aura of menace clung to him, sharp and volatile, as if he might lunge at any moment and drive his blade through a chest. Most would flee at the sight. But to hunters and villains, he was an idol—an executioner incarnate.
The Old Man hadn't started as a Bloody Finger. He'd caught Mohg's eye after carving out a reputation for himself. They struck a deal for power, and he joined the ranks. His secrecy became legend. People whispered that he was powerful, bloodthirsty, and wielded a crimson katana. But no one knew where he lurked.
Even Elemer only knew fragments. The Old Man had been scouted by someone powerful to pursue dark strength. The tales spoke of his days as a Tarnished, when he'd turned The Lands Between into a slaughterground. As for whether he was alive or dead? Elemer shrugged.
"Why don't you ask Throne?"
The man who'd supposedly beheaded the Old Man remained calm.
Throne knew they'd mistaken him for someone else. But with no witnesses left alive from Caelid a month ago—no one to contradict him—the lie was easy to wear.
He hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding.
"To kill with such decisiveness, I'd guessed it was you."
Elemer's tone carried a trace of respect for the mysterious executioner.
On Leyndell's wanted list, the Old Man was a high-ranking threat. Identities could be forged, but not the raw strength or the aura of an executioner who killed without hesitation. And that cursed blade? Impossible to replicate.
"So what? Trying to pry into who I work for?"
Throne's voice was cold.
"Here's some advice: curiosity kills."
Elemer lowered his head.
"People like us all have secrets. I wouldn't dare pry into your lord."
His tone shifted.
"But if you're willing, my employer has a private job for you."
"Go on."
"It's better if you discuss it directly with them. They're a noble here in the Altus Plateau. Not as powerful as whoever backs you, but still influential."
"Who?"
Elemer paused.
"Count Hero. A member of the Leyndell Council of Six Houses."
The Council again. Why were they always in the way? Throne's jaw tightened beneath the mask. He considered drawing his blade and ending it here. But curiosity stayed his hand. When it came to Morgott, the nobles seemed both friend and foe.
"I've got business in Elphael. Don't have time to waste."
"A meeting wouldn't hurt. Regardless of your decision, the Count will provide a ship to take you there. Better than dealing with lowlifes."
Throne's eyes narrowed.
"Fine. Lead the way."
After collecting the corpses, they left the blood-soaked corridor behind.
Even though the fresh blood added a few more splashes of crimson to this slaughterhouse-like hallway, anyone even slightly normal would likely be unable to sleep through the night. They passed through narrow, winding alleys and entered The Shaded Castle.
When passing the green moat, Throne looked up at the drooping flag of House Marais on the wall, offered a silent, mocking smile, and then walked in brazenly. The defenses were tight, yet one could hardly find two suits of armor that were the same. The equipment of these desperadoes was all stolen, and there was plenty of it. Hundreds of Knight-tier combatants, no fewer than ten Hero-tier ones.
To actually build up such a powerful military force right under Morgott's nose. These people certainly couldn't defeat the Nights Cavalry, but they could definitely stall them. He was more curious about what high-end combat power the nobles possessed; after all, these people couldn't stop him, nor could they stop Morgott.
Elemer clearly held a very high position, as no one dared to come out and stop them. Throne withdrew his gaze—there was nothing worth looking at, just a bunch of desperadoes. Instead, he asked the Princess with great interest.
"Ranni, have you heard of Count Hero?"
Thousands of miles away, the doll girl in the corner of the treasure vault was startled. She hurriedly stuffed the ring in her hand back into the chest, then looked around guiltily, confirming that no one was nearby.
"Ranni?"
"Ahem, why did you suddenly think of me after several days?"
She was somewhat dissatisfied, and besides, she had been annoyed these past few days. Entering and leaving the treasure vault every day, the Dark Moon Ring was almost worn smooth from being handled, yet this idiot was out having a good time with Melina every day.
"Because nothing has happened these past few days. It's just been traveling and killing. Melina hasn't even had a chance to come out for air."
The first half of the sentence was meaningless, but the second half made Ranni chuckle softly. She warned him with feigned majesty:
"That's more like it. Anyway, her strength is lacking, so you should protect her well."
She emphasized the word "protect" heavily, immediately feeling refreshed. She simply sat on the chest and crossed her long legs.
"You were asking about Count Hero just now, right? He is a member of the Leyndell Council of Six Houses. He used to be a rather valiant old man, but the current head of the house should be his son."
"So, your seniority is quite high."
"Hmph, how many years do you think I've lived? For a demigod, lifespan has no meaning."
"Then, it wouldn't be out of line for me to call you an old hag, would it?"
Ranni froze, then shrieked: "How dare you!!!"
Throne, having just walked into the castle's main hall, steadied himself against the wall. The psychic shriek made his whole head buzz. Sure enough, teasing Ranni was a life-threatening endeavor.
"What's wrong with you?"
Elemer and the others turned around, looking puzzled. Throne slowly raised his head, his tone cold and stern: "It's nothing, just the backlash from a secret technique."
The group of hunters looked on with reverence, thinking to themselves that he was indeed a big shot among villains, training his evil techniques at all times. Throne spent quite a while sweet-talking and finally managed to calm Ranni down. Even though he promised everything, he was definitely going to keep teasing her.
Once she got used to it, Ranni wouldn't care about face anymore; if you take away the arrogance, isn't only affection left?
"The Council of Six Houses is an administrative body established by King Godfrey. Its main duty is to execute the administrative orders of the Elden Lord and convey them to the various provinces, towns, and noble domains. Their plans are reviewed by the Beast Regent, Serosh."
"Oh, I see. It's a cabinet, right? King Godfrey is only responsible for proposing the orders, and the specifics of how to implement them are decided by this council."
Throne suddenly understood. That made sense; governing territory was much harder than conquering through war. The Golden Order, as a feudal state, wasn't some amateur operation; of course, it had to have a rigorous ruling structure.
Godfrey was no ruler. A king enthroned too high without bridges to the people below? Just a castle in the air. And The Lands Between was a tangle of festering problems—without a proper government, Godfrey wouldn't even have time to bed Marika.
Take war. When Godfrey marched, he'd voice the idea once. Nobles mobilized. Supplies materialized. Others handled the machinery while he led the charge.
"So their power's immense," Throne mused. "With Radagon gone, Morgott can't keep them leashed."
He savored the implications like aged wine. Even a world of magic bled from power struggles.
"Every lord nurses their own schemes. A new king might rule with zeal, but he'll still need them to govern. The crown's just heavier now."
Throne tapped his chin.
"You mean the Tarnished."
No longer mere ants scuttling through ruins. They were nobility now. If a Tarnished took the throne, old allegiances might crumble.
Throne understood. Just another dance of wolves fighting over the same carcass. They didn't care whose ass warmed the throne—only if their families could keep boots on the necks of the people forever.
"Add Morgott's Omen blood to the mix, and they're restless as caged hounds. But for Caria? Advantage."
Ranni's voice cut like frostbite.
"Let them claw at each other. The more divided, the weaker. Morgott's no Elden Lord—just a regent. Our moment's coming."
No wonder Morgott coveted the Haligtree. To silence those snarling nobles, he'd need a blade at every throat. Throne nodded. The pieces fit.
"One thing gnaws at me. Why the kidnappings? The Shaded Castle's slave trade reeks of more than coin."
"Dig deeper."
Ranni's curiosity mirrored his own.
"Their lineage stretches back to Godfrey's era. There's blood in those roots."
A house that old wouldn't risk disgrace for mere perversion or runes.
"Convenient they mistook me for someone useful. I'll peel back their secrets."
The massive oak door loomed ahead. Two Leyndell Knights barred the way, armor gleaming. They didn't demand his weapons—just swung the doors wide with a groan of hinges.
Light spilled from a Glintstone Lamp, gilding a cavernous hall.
Crimson carpet unfurled like a tongue toward an iron throne, its frame jagged as a guillotine. Upon it sat a man draped in purple and gold, gemstones winking at his throat.
The middle-aged man had a handsome face and brilliant golden hair, the very portrait of nobility. But Throne had waded through too much aristocratic blood to care. His focus snapped to the figure beside the throne—plated in heavy steel, helm like an executioner's axe, one gauntlet resting on a weathered greatsword.
A Crucible Knight.
No Crucible Knight at Volcano Manor—but here one stood. Throne's gaze didn't flicker. The worldline had twisted too far for surprises. He understood why the Count dared to face him now. The Old Man was just a top-tier hero at best. With a Crucible Knight before him and Elemer at his back, the Count sat as steady as stone.
Hostility wouldn't matter.
"Long have I heard your name, Sir Old Man."
The middle-aged man rose, voice smooth as aged wine.
Throne, this is a mirror illusion. His true body hides nearby. Ranni's whisper coiled in his mind.
I know. And I'm not here to kill it.
A noble wouldn't stand beneath a crumbling wall. They cherished their necks too much.
Throne eyed the Crucible Knight and cut straight through the courtesy.
"Skip the flattery. Name the price. Name the target."
"As expected. Twelve church envoys cut down in a single stroke—such decisiveness is rare."
The Count's admiration was genuine.
"Join the Council of Six Houses as a guest general. Power. Wealth. Glory. Whatever you desire, I provide."
Twelve envoys? Had the Old Man really been that ruthless?
"Posturing fools. You're not fit to lick my Lord's boots."
Throne pinned a crimson badge to his chest. The room's focus snapped to it. That symbol—the mark of the force that had claimed the Old Man. The air thickened with the weight of something vast and vile.
By right, Golden nobles should've drawn steel to purge such corruption. Yet the Count's face lit with delight.
"My Lord and I have an understanding. If your target benefits us, I'll gut them. If they're our allies, I'll gut you."
Throne's tone could've frozen Caelid.
Even for a man versed in the crudeness of villains, the Count winced. The Old Man's tongue was filthier than a sewer.
But the power behind him demanded diplomacy. The Count forced a laugh.
"Rest easy. This death serves all. You'll leave satisfied."
"Spit it out. If they're weak, I walk."
"Weak?" The Count leaned forward, grin sharp. "'Fell Omen' Margit. Ring any bells? I want his head. And every Omen breathing near him."
Margit?
Throne's mind raced. Morgott's secret aside, Margit was Leyndell's general. What game were these snakes playing?
Cannon fodder to test if Margit and Morgott were one? A ploy to isolate Morgott and seize control? Or a grab for the Haligtree's forces?
The calculations crystallized into a single, flat question:
"Margit's Morgott's right hand. A pillar of your own camp. Without him, Leyndell would have fallen back then, and you'd be bones in the dirt."
"I know. I've thanked Margit for his service. Admired his courage. But times change."
The Count's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"For us—they have greater uses."
Greater uses?
Margit and the Night's Cavalry bled on the front lines to shield your worthless hides—was that not enough? Throne tasted confusion, then sorrow. No wound cut deeper than a blade from behind. Morgott deserved better. He'd turned the tide, saved Leyndell itself, yet they still spat on his shadow.
But why should the nobles thank him? If Leyndell fell, a new king would rise before the embers cooled. Let the streets run red. Let the city burn. To them, it meant only a change of masters.
Without the Frenzied Flame, they'd still clutch their power like starving dogs. Soon enough, they'd spin silk from the chaos and call it peace. Throne itched to ask what else they'd plotted—but some questions were knives best left sheathed.
"Killing him won't be easy. Hope your coffers match your ambition."
The Count flicked his wrist like shooing a fly.
"In the Lands Between, every price has a number. And my patience doesn't."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"He arrives soon. I've readied the fastest brigantine—wouldn't dream of delaying your… associate's affairs."
"Three days."
Throne adjusted his hat. No farewells. No wasted motion. The kind of man who'd carve through a crowd if they slowed his step.
The Count's smile hardened. He turned to the Crucible Knight looming at his flank.
"Cabine-Ivus. Can we wield him?"
"No."
The knight's voice grated like stone on stone.
"That blood badge reeks of power from beyond the stars."
"Pity." The Count sighed, slumping back into his chair. "Then allies we'll remain."
His fingers drummed the armrest.
"Tell me—Morgott and Margit. One flesh?"
"I don't know."
Boring. The Count eyed the knight's impassive helm and shook his head. These relic-worshippers played their own game. But his? Crystal clear.
"The Elden Ring lies in shards. The throne gapes empty. Those fools grope for the Frenzied Flame like children grabbing at knives."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"This ends now. Or our bloodline rots to madness, and every scrap of power turns to ash."
The Count muttered to himself, subconsciously clenching his fist.