"Ugh, Yelough Anix doesn't seem to have any noble clubs. No noble would set foot in this godforsaken place even if you handed it to them for free."
Throne slumped at the front desk, ordered the strongest liquor they had, and tossed a Rune at the approaching prostitute to shoo her away.
The dignified Chief Knight of Caria didn't need a disguise to blend into this ragtag crowd. Suppressed moans hung in the air. On the long benches draped with animal skins, some patrons had already lost control, making Ranni, watching from thousands of miles away, blush furiously and avert her gaze.
"Stop looking around. Don't provoke those women. Get your information and leave. Immediately."
"It's late. I've got nowhere else to sleep. Thought I'd stay here tonight."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Fine, fine, I'll do as you say."
Throne chuckled, seeing Ranni's reaction, and quickly backed down.
He took a sip of the liquor, feeling the last traces of cold leave his body, and turned his attention to the tavern owner. The man was a cripple, his left sleeve hanging empty—battle wounds. Noticing the gaze, the owner approached.
"Tarnished, what do you want to know? Old Roy's intelligence is honest for all customers. I can also help procure supplies."
Damn, he's sharp. Throne was taken aback. In all his travels, this was the first time someone had proactively sought out business. His eyes darted around as he lowered his voice.
"I want to know what that group just asked you about."
"I know, but I can't say. Protecting customers' secrets is my code."
"I can pay more."
"Forget it. Those who break the rules on the Mountaintops don't live long."
The owner wiped a glass, acting as if he hadn't heard anything, and repeated himself.
"Tarnished, what do you want to know? Old Roy's intelligence is honest for all customers, and I can also help procure various supplies."
It was a complete reset. Throne couldn't help but laugh. The Mountaintops of the Giants were indeed high-level in every aspect—even a bar owner was this shrewd. Throne changed tactics.
"I want to know the current state of the conflict between the Golden Army and the Haligtree Army."
The owner paused, then held up Two Fingers. Seeing the two bags of Runes on the table, he smiled. This was clearly a seasoned adventurer.
"Ten days ago, the Golden Army reached Ordina. The Haligtree Army is led by Finlay. Both sides are negotiating, but in this freezing weather, the knights are suffering and demanding an attack."
"Is the intelligence reliable?"
"Hmph, I said I'm honest with everyone. The snowstorm's worsening. I've counted Leyndell's supply convoys—they're dwindling. If they don't attack, they'll have to retreat. You think those Leyndell lords would slink back with their tails between their legs?"
Throne nodded and placed another bag of Runes on the table.
"This is my apology."
"Very savvy, young man. I'll throw in a free piece of intelligence. I count every supply convoy and calculate the Golden Army's size. There'll be a result within five days."
This was crucial. The Mountaintops of the Giants didn't allow foraging.
"The storm's heavy, but could someone be cutting supplies to force their hand?"
"I only provide intelligence. Analysis isn't my concern." Old Roy replied flatly, sticking to the Mountaintops' rules.
"If I were you, I wouldn't step into these murky waters. Head east—more power, more wealth. I've got travel notes. Ten thousand Runes, and they're yours."
"No thanks. Those eastern monsters don't interest me. But the Consecrated Snowfield? That's another story."
Old Roy studied the silver-masked mage, a deep sigh escaping him.
"You people always chase danger."
He pulled out a thin pamphlet, hand extended.
"Same price. Ten thousand Runes."
Throne handed them over without hesitation. With his little rich lady backing him, the cost meant nothing.
He took a swig of liquor, then turned his attention to the pamphlet. The first entry caught his eye. A legend spoke of a pitch-black bird roaming the Consecrated Snowfield—an envoy of death. Once it spread its wings, no one returned.
A Deathbird? No, a Death Rite Bird. He'd dealt with them in Limgrave. Though both were birds, they were worlds apart. The Death Rite Bird was the true envoy.
"As expected of the Mountaintops of the Giants, where the Erdtree's grip is weakest. Hidden in the snowstorm, even finding it would be a feat."
He flipped the page, eyes narrowing. The next entry detailed a nearby mine, its depths hiding a terrifying monster. Those who ventured too far left no trace.
A terrifying monster? Near Yelough Anix? Throne's fingers paused. He remembered—there was an Astel lurking underground. Astel, Naturalborn of the Void. Then that meant…
Throne skimmed the pages until he found it. Confessors of the Church had been spotted in Yelough Anix. Stay quiet, it warned. No analysis, but the message was clear.
The Bishop of the Two Fingers was coming for Astel. They'd kidnap him, drag him to the Mohgwyn Dynasty, and turn him into a human showerhead. The pieces clicked. He slammed the table and stood. No wonder a Bloody Finger had appeared.
Once they snatched someone, they'd vanish through a portal, reappearing in Mohgwyn beneath Caelid. Even if the Golden Army raged, what could they do? Insidious. Typical of them. But their luck ran thin—running into him was their mistake. If Godfrey's phantom hadn't appeared, he'd have missed this entirely.
Damn, is it my bad luck or theirs? Throne was almost amused. After a moment, he decided it was good fortune. If Mohg stirred up trouble, how could he, already stretched thin by the Erdtree, compete?
Throne shredded the pamphlet with a Storm Art and tossed a handful of Runes onto the table.
"The wine's good. Here's some advice: leave Yelough Anix. Run far."
Old Roy stared at him, surprise and doubt flickering across his face. Finally, he nodded.
"I'll pack tonight, leave at dawn."
Throne grinned. This little character had some wit. Who said the weak were foolish? The only difference was the scale of their power. He said nothing more and strode out.
The cold wind slapped his face, but it couldn't cool the fire in his chest. The Consecrated Snowfield wasn't as pure as it seemed. From the Church of the Two Fingers to the Golden Army, from the Bloody Fingers to the Haligtree, factions schemed against each other, each with their own twisted motives.
And just then—
"I'm here!"
The wind cut like a blade, snow swallowing every sound. Smoke curled black from chimneys—the town's only sign of life. Beneath the stillness, currents stirred. On the frozen fields, a carriage lumbered south, pulled by hulking Trolls. Their steps sank deep into the snow, iron chains straining against the weight. Behind them, the heavy carriage carved trenches into the white expanse.
Up close, the carriage shimmered dark gold, its surface etched with intricate murals. Gods granting wisdom to mortals, the birth of civilization itself—the centerpiece was the Two Fingers, gift of the gods. Fingers that could grasp, craft, write. Tools and words, the foundations of order.
"Civilization and savagery," Bishop Hughs murmured, lowering the thick tome in his lap. His hair was silver and precise, his face sharp and elegant.
"After millennia, The Lands Between has embraced civilization. Even the barbarian kings kneel before the Erdtree. A righteous war corrects the flaws within civilization."
Across the carriage, a knight in golden armor leaned forward. His shield, propped against the wall, bore the Erdtree's emblem.
"What makes a war righteous?"
His voice was deep, edged with curiosity.
Hughs smiled faintly. "To preserve the Order. Without it, there is chaos. Humans are prone to folly, to self-destruction. A god must dictate what is permissible, a king to enforce it."
The knight chuckled, his laughter low and resonant.
"Bishop, you're not subtle. Are you speaking of Caria's laws?"
"Indeed. The Lunar Princess brought order to Liurnia, but her vision serves no purpose for The Lands Between."
The knight's tone sharpened.
"If her Order could replace the golden one, would it matter?"
Hughs adjusted his monocle, his gaze steady.
"Impossible. Neither she nor Miquella can craft an Order capable of governing The Lands Between. A return to ancient strife is unthinkable."
The Two Fingers care only for civilization's progress, Hughs thought. Kings and gods are interchangeable tools. He spread his arms wide, then clutched them tight against his chest, as if embracing some unseen force. His composure shattered, replaced by fervor.
"It is love! Mercy! The Greater Will's compassion for us—ants crawling in the dirt! Ah, what a noble lord, to pity creatures so beneath Him!"
Tears streamed down his face, soaking his fingers as he pressed them to his eyes. The knight stared, unnerved. He was devout, but this—this was madness.
Faith, Hughs had once said, is the antithesis of reason. Only by abandoning logic, surrendering body and soul, can one become a fanatic.
The knight shifted uncomfortably.
"Apologies, Bishop. I didn't mean to—"
Hughs wiped his tears, his demeanor calm once more.
"No need. This topic moves me deeply."
He adjusted his glasses, his voice steady.
"I understand your concern."
They do not need to train their bodies; as long as this will remains unchanged, they can receive feedback from the Erdtree. True fanatics transcend emotion, their devotion unshakable.
The Tree Sentinel waved his hand dismissively, leaned forward, and his expression hardened.
"I didn't bring my troops here to listen to your nonsense. How much longer do you expect us to wander in this god-awful weather?"
Outside the carriage, the world was frozen, temperatures plunging dozens of degrees below zero. Marching through this was torture. He was supposed to be stationed in Limgrave, guarding against disobedient Tarnished.
"Caerlus, you must remain patient. Morgott can't come. To resolve the Haligtree without bloodshed, we need additional power."
"What additional power?"
The Bishop fell silent, his gaze piercing, like a purge. It made the Tree Sentinel's blood boil.
"If you don't want to say it, forget it."
"Not at all, just a professional habit. Truth is, there's an envoy of the Greater Will nearby—His most powerful weapon. My job is to awaken it."
The Tree Sentinel stiffened.
"And then make its power work for us?"
"Not make it work. Request it."
"The best way is to see it personally, then establish a bridge with the Two Fingers for communication. It shouldn't be a problem. As for the bridge, use this—" The Bishop pulled something from his robe and shook it—a brilliant branch. A main branch of the Erdtree? Caerlus recognized it immediately. Of course, cutting the Erdtree now was impossible.
There were other ways, like the Golden Seeds scattered everywhere. Cutting them as they sprouted would work, but it would waste a precious Minor Erdtree and be a heinous crime.
"This item is too precious; it must be used to its full potential. Are there other ways?"
"Yes, startle it from its slumber and use me as a sacrifice to let it connect directly with the Two Fingers. The efficiency would be slower."
Hughs tucked the Erdtree branch away, his face a mix of longing and rationality.
"But I prefer the second option. In a sense, I'd merge with the envoy of the Greater Will."
"But you'd die."
"If I can get half a step closer to the Greater Will, what does it matter if I discard this body?"
The Tree Sentinel looked away, thinking the Church of the Two Fingers only had three Archbishops. Why didn't they send Shimlei, known for his calm wisdom, to the north? Or Cross, who was generous.
But then again, looking at Hughs, Shimlei and Cross probably weren't much better.
"You should still cherish your life."
He offered the flat advice, indifferent to whether it was heard, and shifted the topic.
"Regardless, you need to hurry. Soldiers are freezing to death, and the Leyndell Knights grow restless."
For half a month, an army of thousands had camped on the snowfield. No one could endure eating bread as hard as stone in the freezing snow every day, especially with an elegant town in plain sight. Terrifying rumors spread through the ranks—Morgott wanted to use the ice and snow to kill them all. The Bishop remained silent as the carriage slowed.
The curtain was pulled aside, and a snow-covered Confessor knelt on one knee.
"Excellency, we've arrived at Yelough Anix."
"I see."
The Bishop nodded gently and turned to the Tree Sentinel.
"We'll rest here for a while. Once the storm subsides slightly, we'll head to our destination."
Caerlus glanced at the heavy snow outside, skeptical.
"Can this god-awful weather really quiet down?"
"Don't worry. Meteorology is a mandatory course for every cleric."
The Bishop left those words behind, lifted the curtain, and studied the town he'd once passed through. The morning was still peaceful. The streets were quiet, devoid of people.
The Confessors fanned out to investigate while the soldiers stretched their stiff limbs. Merchants began clustering around the carriage—the storm would break by afternoon, and the Confessors would have their target by then. The northern business could finally be settled. The Bishop allowed himself a satisfied breath.
His gaze snagged on a figure moving down the street: gray cloak, silver mask, unhurried steps. Nothing unusual—the carriage marked his status, and Two Fingers believers often crossed paths with them. But when he flicked a glance at the soldiers bartering for supplies, his spine tightened. That prickle up his neck—killing intent.
"Stop him!"
The Bishop's hand went to his mace before the order finished leaving his lips. Too slow. The cloaked figure was already hurling two pots through the air. They shattered against the cobblestones with twin cracks. A black cloud erupted—flies, thousands of them, a seething mass that surged into the guards' faces, their mouths, their eyes. Swarm Pots. And worse was coming.
The person who had just thrown the Swarm Pots pulled out a staff. The air split with a whistle as a Cannon of Haima tore toward them.