Bang! The ground heaved. A shallow crater, half a meter square, split the flagstone road. Throne knelt on one knee, his gaze shifting sideways. Golden particles shimmered, reforming—a scene too familiar.
"Oh," he muttered. "You know this move too."
A teleportation, swift as starlight, blending with an endless torrent of Golden Order incantations—another Boss, unmistakably. Fine. He'd help the Tarnished eliminate this lurking threat. Throne twisted at the waist, pivoted, and sprinted forward. The Carian Greatsword met the golden law blade in a clash of azure and gold. Both blades recoiled. Throne stepped back half a pace, raised his hand, and hurled the meteorite staff. Whir, whir, whir... It spun like a massive, hidden weapon.
If your magic resistance is high, then brute force will do. Meanwhile, the Bishop extended his left hand, clenched it into a fist. Golden Holy Shield. Clang! The meteorite staff struck the phantom shield and ricocheted skyward.
The Bishop staggered back from the impact, yet his face betrayed no hesitation—only unshakable faith in the Two Fingers' love. Wrath of Gold! Golden light erupted outward, a shockwave radiating from his core.
Throne watched as the stone slabs beneath him shattered, inch by inch, as if pressed by an unseen force. His charge halted abruptly, his toes digging into the ground. Looking up, he saw the Bishop glowing brilliantly, bathed in golden radiance. Blessing of the Erdtree! Golden Vow!
For a moment, the man seemed to wear the word 'Holy' on his forehead, yet his actions were utterly unhinged. Mace in one hand, light sword in the other, he charged headlong.
"I will carve the love of the Two Fingers into your soul!"
Damn it, a religious lunatic. The Three Fingers and Two Fingers—both cut from the same cloth.
Throne retreated again, his eyes catching the golden ripples flickering above the Bishop's head. Chains burst forth, spiraling toward him. A composite incantation? He didn't bother with Thops's Barrier—that was a Carian secret. Let the chains wrap around his waist, drag him forward. The golden holy sword loomed larger in his vision, but Throne smiled.
In all his years, this was the first time someone had sought him out for close combat. Sizzle—
The light blades clashed and sprang apart. The mace swung toward Throne's head. He gripped the hilt at his waist. Secret Sword: Isshin. Qiang!
A soft hum, then dozens of blood-red blades flickered, slicing through the golden glow on Hughs, shredding his ornate robes. His pupils shrank violently. Such a fast blade... and he truly is a Bloody Finger. Qiang! This time, the unsheathing of the long sword was heavier, sharper. Hughs reversed his grip on the mace just in time.
A spark flashed and vanished. Throne's wrist sank; the blade struck true. Sharp weapons grated against each other. Throne leaned forward, whispering, "Lord Mohg also desires to infuse you with love."
The words felt strange, but didn't this man love talking about 'love'? Mohg might be ugly, but a male lover was better than Two Fingers.
"Heretic, what are you craving?"
The Bishop's voice turned eerily calm, as if switching masks.
"Your blood, your great rune—once poured out, they will ignite the Formless Mother's love for us!"
Throne hurled him back with force and charged forward, frenzied, like a fellow fanatic. To an outsider, Throne might seem obsessed—but Hughs, as a kindred zealot, understood immediately.
Only a god could claim the right to love the world. The deity behind the Mohgwyn Dynasty hungered for the blood of demigods. It was no surprise, then, that intelligence reports confirmed their move against Radahn. But to him, this wasn't just shocking—it was infuriating.
"You… how dare you!"
The Golden Order was the only law, the Greater Will the only god. The Two Fingers, the Erdtree—they were mere spokesmen, vessels of divine will. And now, someone dared to propose the creation of a new god? It was the ultimate insult, a blasphemy too great to endure.
Golden light surged within him, erupting in violent waves that radiated outward, one after another. Throne wondered—did the power of a faith warrior grow with the intensity of their emotions? This Wrath of Gold was far more potent than before. The shockwave tore through houses and stone slabs as if they were rotten wood.
When the force struck him, his blood boiled. Blood Boil! His ankles sank deep into the earth. The hurricane pushed his body back, but he held firm after half a meter. Overflowing energy coalesced into a bright red coat, indistinguishable from a Blood Incantation.
"The love you receive is pitiful," Hughs sneered.
This Blood Incantation wasn't particularly powerful, but it didn't hinder the enemy's devastating force. So what? Could he possibly take on a hundred-man guard unit, including the Tree Sentinel? Crack. Throne lifted his foot and strode forward against the shockwave, his pupils glowing gold. Dragon Heart!
He crossed a threshold, his body becoming a sword that pierced through the golden shockwave. Gripping the blade with both hands, he slashed at the waist. Golden Holy Shield. Stacked! A series of phantom shields materialized, and the raised mace enlarged several times, hurtling toward Throne's head.
He didn't believe this man's blade could overcome his incantation, the supreme love granted by the Two Fingers.
"Fool."
Magic-Breaking Slash! The blood-red blade shimmered with a cyan hue. The shield, impervious to physical attacks, met the blade, and the incantation's power peeled away layer by layer.!? The sword moved too fast.
Shock flickered across his face as pain erupted in his right arm. A hand spun into the sky, and Throne leaped, delivering a mid-air kick. Get lost! His foot connected squarely with the chest.
The Bishop's robes offered no defense. His body flew backward, skidding across the ground like a skipping stone until a golden shield pressed against his back, halting him. He spat out a mouthful of blood laced with organ fragments, then quickly cast Great Heal.
"Are you alright?" Caerlus asked, his voice low.
He had rushed back upon realizing the rear was under attack. In that brief moment, the powerful Bishop of the Two Fingers had lost a hand.
"I do not fear evil. Be careful—this Bloody Finger is strong and strange!"
The Bishop was drenched in sweat, still unable to comprehend how that sword strike had shattered his incantation.
The Tree Sentinel looked up to see Throne approaching slowly, sword in hand. His face twisted in confusion.
"This is also a Bloody Finger?"
"I would never mistake the 'love' of that evil god. Remember, after dealing with the Haligtree, our next target is these blasphemers. They've allied with an evil god—a sin beyond description!"
Caerlus wanted to say there was no need to think so far ahead, but seeing the Bishop's grave expression, he nodded slightly. He was the Greatshield and Blade of the Erdtree. Whoever the higher-ups commanded him to fight, he would fight. At least now, an enemy both powerful and elusive had finally surfaced.
The fleeing Bloody Fingers never realized Throne was drawing fire for them. The Mohgwyn Dynasty had always wrapped itself in shadows—now, on this frozen plain, their true purpose and power spilled from Throne's lips like blood from a slit throat.
"Pointless. Go drown in the Formless Mother's embrace. Grovel for Lord Mohg's mercy."
Throne's laugh scraped like rusted metal.
"We're not the Golden Order's zealots. Let me take one limb—that's all it takes for your pathetic salvation."
Madness came easy to him. He'd worn it before like a second skin.
"Heretic!"
The word tore from the Bishop's throat. Every breath Throne took seemed to pollute the air.
The Tree Sentinel drove his charger forward, lance leveled.
"Die!"
Throne twisted midair, hurling a blade of crystallized blood. It shattered against the massive shield. His sword bit earth as he rolled beneath stomping hooves.
Two against one. Neither opponent was weak.
Throne grinned. Blaming Mohg meant holding back—no signature techniques. Let them think the Dynasty lurked safe in its underground den. Even if Mohg fell tomorrow, who'd know? Not enough.
He palm-sprang from the ground, lancing forward. The Tree Sentinel was secondary—this Bishop, this fool seeking Astel, had to die.
Throne accelerated. The Bishop's severed arm had crusted black. He looked up into the Bloody Finger's crazed eyes.
He's faster now. That desperate to kill me?
The Tree Sentinel wheeled his mount. Pure speed wasn't lacking, but agility? None. A hundred meters vanished in a heartbeat—just in time to see the Bishop drop his mace.
No incantation. Instead, he snatched up a gilded branch and roared:
"Know what repays a god's love? Casting off this flesh prison—even if it buys half a step closer to Him!"
Throne slowed. What's this madness?
The branch flared gold. Not just Golden Order aura—this was something deeper. The light intensified, coagulating into a mark. Smaller than the two he'd claimed, but unmistakable.
A shard of a Great Rune?
Throne braced for some cataclysmic technique. The ground trembled. Distant snow slid from pine boughs.
He ducked a halberd's sweep at his skull and lobbed a Comet Azur backward. Whatever trick this was, he'd reduce the Bishop to pulp first.
The azure meteor hadn't crossed half the distance when the Tree Sentinel vaulted from his saddle, intercepting the blast midair.
Bang—
Thud!
Two impacts. Throne didn't glance at the sentinel's crumpled form. His eyes locked on the swelling earth beneath the Bishop.
Something burst forth—a head like a centipede's nightmare. It seized both branch and man in its clacking mandibles. Purple light froze erupting debris in midair.
Throne exhaled softly.
Astel. Naturalborn of the Void.
Thud—
The sound of rock layers breaking echoed through the snowy mountains. A bald, gray-skinned head shouldered through fractured stone. Stiff bristles ringed its neck. Its mouth was twin pincers—a Fallingstar Beast's maw writ large.
The skull was withered, ancient, with a gaping hole in its forehead. An azure eyeball rolled within the cavity, unblinking, alien. Astel, Naturalborn of the Void—hurled like a meteorite, the destroyer of civilizations. To face it head-on was to feel sanity unravel. Disturbed from its slumber, it radiated a volatile, seething rage.
Its jaws clamped down on the Bishop who had roused it, biting him nearly in half. Yet the Bishop laughed, blood bubbling from his lips.
"Yes, yes, yes! Your messenger, your glory, your blade! I meant to speak with you, but merging directly—this is also fine!"
His mad words reached Throne, twisting his expression into grim resolve.
Carelessness wasn't the word for it. Who could have known the steps to awaken the Naturalborn of the Void? It had lain dormant beneath the town all along. That branch—clearly a tool, one only a high-ranking member of the Church of the Two Fingers could wield.
Throne was a prophet, but his visions were limited to what the Tarnished had seen. Godfrey's return had been a surprise. This? Utterly unpredictable. He'd have to improvise.
"Ranni, did you see that? Keep these zealots out of the Ainsel River at all costs."
"Stop rambling. What's your plan?"
Ranni's voice was sharp, urgent. Even she hadn't foreseen Astel's sudden emergence. Awakened and irritable, it hissed soundlessly at the sky, a vibration felt rather than heard.
Purple light erupted, pressing the icy mist into the ground with overwhelming force. Only by standing before it could one understand how it had annihilated the Eternal City. This was no force mortals could withstand—a power far beyond that of a demigod. Only the Greater Will's wrath could have cast such a monstrosity down.
"Don't panic. It's disoriented from being startled awake. It won't escape easily."
Throne's voice was calm. Ranni noticed Astel's head had only partially emerged from the ground. Its pale, withered arms clawed at the earth, struggling to pull its body free.
"Run. This thing's strength rivals a demigod's."
"What's there to fear? This is a rare chance. I want to see what a star-fallen killer is capable of—whether the Two Fingers can influence it."
Throne stood his ground.
The Tree Sentinel hadn't stopped him. Mohg was taking the blame. Sooner or later, he'd have to face monsters like this. Gathering intel was worth the risk. Besides, Astel only wielded demigod-level power. If he chose to leave, it couldn't stop him. First question: Did it possess intelligence, or was it driven by pure instinct?
Purple light was like overflowing electric currents. Stones and snow floated in the air, defying gravity with eerie ease. Its slender body emerged slowly, grotesquely. Soon, wings as thin as a cicada's—reminiscent of a dragonfly's—spread across the snow. By then, Throne had already reached the crown of its head.