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Glory to my bum ass proofreader: Solare.
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John stared at his right hand for a long moment, opening and closing it in front of his face like it belonged to someone else. The skin along his knuckles still tingled faintly, as if the crimson lightning from moments ago had left invisible burns beneath the surface. The veins there pulsed with a faint warmth that slowly, reluctantly faded.
Marika's presence stirred at the edge of his thoughts, thoughtful and faintly reproving. "Thou wert… especially cruel to him."
John's fingers slowed. He knew exactly who she meant.
"Yeah." He rolled his wrist once, watching the last shimmer of warmth disappear beneath the skin. "I was."
She waited, regal and silent, and he could feel the question beneath it all the same.
John exhaled through his nose.
"It's not just me being a dick for fun, you know." His eyes stayed on his hand, but his voice lost some of its flippancy.
"Well, not only that." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth before fading. "That guy's the type to swallow every ugly thing he feels and call it duty. Rage, shame, self-loathing, all of it. Packs it down so hard it starts ruling him from the inside."
Marika said nothing, yet her attention sharpened.
"So sometimes, being nice doesn't do shit." John went on, flexing his hand once more. "Some people need to be dragged out of their own head kicking and screaming. They need someone to poke every sore spot until they stop bottling it up and actually react like a person instead of a sermon."
He finally lowered his hand and stared out toward the sea, expression unreadable for a beat. "If I ever run into him again, I'm not just gonna beat him. I'm gonna make him bark back."
That earned him the faintest shift from her, something between disapproval and reluctant curiosity.
"Hm." Marika murmured. "A rather vicious method…"
John's mouth twitched. "Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm wrong."
"Hoo~..." He sighed deeply after a moment, finally letting go of his remaining tension and muttering to himself incredulously. "The hell was that…?"
Footsteps approached from behind, the echo of boots against stone cutting through the soft roar of the distant sea. He turned just as Melina and Millicent emerged from the tunnel, orange light from the torches behind them painting their silhouettes in a blazing halo, despite the sunlight.
Millicent got to him first.
"That was AWESOME!" She blurted, practically vibrating as she rushed up, eyes bright. "You threw a giant sword at his face! And then did that cool golden chain thingy on him! And then almost fell off a cliff and still came back swinging! That was insane!"
Melina followed at a steadier pace, though her eye was tight with worry. "It was reckless," she said quietly, her gaze scanning him from head to toe. "You are hurt. Again. And that… man. Margit. He simply left. That is not the behavior of a foe dead-set on protecting a Demigod. Why would a projection like that retreat?"
John rolled his shoulders, forcing his grin back into place. "Ah, you know. Classic case of talking big, swinging hard, getting bonked in the ribs and emotionally compromised, then ragequitting the session."
Millicent snorted. "So… cowardice?"
"One might say." John said, pointing at her with a sly wink. "He saw the writing on the wall. Took one look at my handsome face, realized this would not end well for him, and dipped."
Millicent cupped her hand around her mouth and then comically booed up at the nearby empty tower. "BOOO~! Coward Guard! Get back here and die properly!"
John pointed at the sky in solidarity. "Yeah, you tell him!"
Melina pinched the bridge of her nose with a soft sigh. "That is enough, both of you." Her voice was calm but edged with the unmistakable cadence of someone accustomed to dealing with idiots. "Whether he fled from fear or obligation, he is gone. Wasting your breath will not bring him back."
"Hah~... Sadly…" John muttered.
Millicent laughed and bumped her shoulder against Melina's. "Come on, you gotta admit, he tried to kill Johnny, he kinda deserved it."
Melina's lips trembled at the corners but conceded. "I am… not entirely unsympathetic to the sentiment, but I would still prefer that my… companion not tempt fate by screaming challenges at Demigods and their proxies."
John gave her an innocent look. "Oh please. Fate loves me."
"In the way fire loves dry wood." She replied dryly.
He snorted. "...Fair."
He turned toward the glowing Site of Grace near the tunnel wall and knelt, extending his hand. The familiar warmth washed over him as his fingers brushed the golden light. It rose like a tide, smoothing out the bruises across his ribs, dulling the ache in his muscles, easing the harsh sting in his lungs.
When the light settled, he exhaled slowly and rose to his feet once more with a small, happy grin. 'To be honest, I did surprisingly well for my first time. Then again, I must be entirely over leveled for this by now. He only got me down to about 46% HP, and I didn't even need to use my flasks once!'
Millicent watched him for a moment with her arms folded, unaware of his inner excited revelry, then frowned. "Okay," she said, brows furrowing. "Serious question now. What was that red lightning thing?"
John blinked. "What?"
She jabbed a thumb at his chest. "That thing. Right before you started pushing Margit back. Your whole body lit up with that weird red electricity. I thought I was seeing things, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't just my imagination."
Melina nodded once, gaze thoughtful. "I noticed as well. Your eyes glowed brighter than before, and your veins… shimmered. With light. It was… different than Grace or any Incantation I've ever seen. It seemed… wild, untamed." Her fingers twitched at her side, as if resisting the urge to reach out and check his pulse.
John opened his mouth, then closed it for a moment to think, then he shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, so… unfortunately? I have no idea."
He lifted his hand again, flexing it like maybe the answer would suddenly appear in his palm. Nothing did. "Felt like someone shoved a live generator into my spine and hit 'on', but beyond that? Not a clue."
He turned his head slightly, looking where he expected his patron Goddess to manifest herself. "Alright, Your Holiness. Any ideas? Cause' I am fresh out."
"Well, now…" Marika's voice replied, and he could hear the relief in it at being handed a new topic. "If thou insist upon dragging mine attention away from mine… more vexing memories, I suppose I can oblige."
Her spectral form stepped into view just a few meters away from where he looked, perched casually upon a half-cracked boulder on the causeway.
"I scarce recall that thou didst generate similar crimson lightning once before. When thou wert lodged in the jaw of that dragon near the Bestial Sanctum. Greyll, I believe." The Goddess mused as she flicked a strand of pale hair back over her shoulder with delicate fingers and regarded him with a thoughtful tilt of the head.
"I thought it to be a trick of the eyes at the time and didn't think much of it on account of your insane behavior, but clearly that was an oversight on my part." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "On both occasions thou wert under tremendous physical strain and on the precipice of collapse."
John thought back. Greyll's maw snapping shut. The frantic panic. That same burning heat, the same crackling surge in his veins. "Yeah," he muttered aloud. "You're right. It did feel like that."
Melina glanced at him sideways, catching the half-conversation. She stayed quiet, letting him speak with the goddess she could not yet hear, but her eye stayed on his face, tracking every subtle shift.
Marika nodded slowly, golden gaze distant as she continued her thought process. "If I were to hypothesize, I would say 'tis some latent power within thy altered flesh. A reservoir thy body can tap into only when pressed beyond its limits. A reflex of survival, rather than intention."
"So… a panic-mode turbo form?" John asked, it was mostly a rhetorical question, but one he would have accepted any input to.
"A charmingly crude phrasing, as usual." She said, clearly amused. "But not entirely inaccurate."
He hummed under his breath. "Any idea what it actually is?"
"From the color and nature of it?" Marika's eyes narrowed further, studying the echoes of light still coiled faintly beneath his skin. "It resembles the lightning of the Ancient Dragons more than any Golden Order sorcery. Their power was always crimson, wild, and ruinous. A cousin to Grace, perhaps, but never its sibling."
John blinked. "So you're saying I might have… Ancient Dragon lightning inside me? I just can't tap into it on command yet?"
"Thou did devour the Heart of Greyoll," she reminded him. "And by now, the draconic imprint upon thy form runs deep. Yet this… feels older. Different. I suspect it is not only the dragon still living on within you, but something more innate woven through thy new race, Dracúl Aeternum, taking form under pressure."
They began to walk as they talked, boots echoing steadily on stone. The tunnel gave way to open air as they emerged fully from the castleward passage, stepping out beneath the looming shadow of Stormveil's outer walls. Ahead of them, the first of the storm-battered gates waited like a yawning stone mouth.
"So what she basically said is…" John said slowly, making sure his voice was loud enough for both of them to hear clearly as they walked. "...Is that I've got a built-in emergency power-up that only kicks in when I nearly die."
Millicent perked up. "Like a last-stand buff?"
Melina frowned faintly. "That is… not reassuring."
Marika's voice remained calm. "At present, yes. It is a reaction, not a tool. But reactions can be trained, harnessed."
John tilted his head. 'You got ideas?'
"Several." Her tone sharpened, drifting into that mix of teacher and schemer he had come to recognize. "Thy body already holds the essence of several lesser dragons. If thou wert to devour the Heart of a true Ancient Dragon, or otherwise a Dragon of Greyoll's calibere, 'tis possible the resonance between their lightning and thine own could deepen thy connection. Grant thee greater control. Perhaps even allow thee to call upon it at will."
He smirked with a mixture of amusement, excitement and slight, unconscious hunger. "So, your suggestion for learning to control the scary unknown power is to eat an even bigger dragon?"
"Of course," she replied sweetly. "How else does one master a storm but by standing within it?"
"Hehe~... Me likey~!"
Millicent glanced between him and Melina, clearly catching enough fragments of his side of the conversation to guess the rest. "You planning on hunting any more dragons?" she asked, half-curious, half-excited.
John scratched his cheek, eyes flicking toward the dark fringe of clouds crackling faintly above Stormveil's tallest spires. "Exactly! But… Right now, I've got a certain graft-obsessed runt to put down."
Melina's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, searching his face. "Whatever that power is," she said quietly, "be careful with it. Even if it is yours, that does not mean it is kind."
He met her eye, offered a small, crooked smile. "Hey, I'm sure it'll be fine. And even if not? I've got you, I've got Millicent, and I've got a backseat Goddess with opinions. Between the three of you, nothing dangerous is going to go unchecked."
Millicent grinned. "Damn right."
In his mind, Marika chuckled softly. "A most unlikely council, yet I find myself… oddly reassured."
The three of them passed under the weather-worn arch of Stormveil's first gate, the stones towering above them like the ribs of some ancient beast. Wind whistled through broken crenels, and somewhere in the distance, the caw of a stormcrow echoed against the cliffside. Ahead lay the main approach to the castle proper, and all the horrors it housed.
John flexed his fingers once more, feeling only the faintest ghost of that earlier power.
"Alright," he murmured, eyes narrowing as he took in the looming fortress. "Let's see what Godrick's got for us."
The main gate towered before them, a massive slab of iron and oak sealed shut with rusted teeth. Several corpses lay slumped on the ground beyond the bars, their armor punctured and split open at odd angles.
Millicent stepped closer, squinting. "Those are… Ballista shots."
John nodded. "Yep. Godrick's welcome mat."
Melina's expression softened with faint sorrow as she whispered a prayer beneath her breath.
John knelt beside the small Site of Grace nestled in the stone by the gate, allowing its soft glow to wash over him and cleanse the lingering ache from the fight with Margit. He exhaled slowly as he rose to his feet.
"...Uh, John?" Millicent murmured from behind, nudging him in the side to get his attention.
He followed her gaze to the left, where a narrow side path curved around the outer wall. At the mouth of it stood a tall, lanky man with sunken cheeks, pale skin, and eyes just a little too wide. He had the stance of someone who had spent the majority of his life trying not to be noticed, and failing.
Gowry-long-limbs meets rat-mage chic.
John blinked once.
It was Gostoc.
"Oh, it's this guy…" he muttered under his breath.
The man lifted a hand and pssst'd sharply, far too loudly to qualify as stealth, beckoning them closer.
"Oi! Over here!" Gostoc hissed, waving them over while hiding most of his body behind the arched doorway.
Melina stiffened immediately. "...No."
Millicent tilted her head skeptically. "Why does he look like he collects people's fingernails for fun?"
John winced. As mean as it was. It was still a fair comment, he looked exactly like the kind of man your mother would warn you to stay away from
Still, he gestured for them to follow and approached casually, he knew that Gostoc was nothing but a push over rat that was no real threat.
Gostoc leaned in, hands fidgeting. "If ye want into the castle proper, yer best bet is through here. Secret entrance. Don't use the main gate, even if ye get it open, ye'll be pincushioned before ye get past the threshold."
Melina crossed her arms, icy suspicion in her gaze. "And why…" she said slowly, "would you be helping us?"
Gostoc looked offended that she'd even ask.
"Well… Gods forgive me for sayin' so… But Godrick, well… he's a tyrant, miss. Beats his servants. Screams at us for breathing too loud. Half the soldiers here pray for a swift death over his damn voice. The other day, he grafted a servant for bringing him cold chicken! No one likes him and no one respects him. And anyone using this path? Far as we're concerned, they ain't our problem."
There was a beat of utter silence.
Millicent blinked. Melina blinked. Even Marika's spectral form froze beside John, her eyes widening faintly.
They all turned to John.
The black haired man looked down and began smiling.
Millicent immediately cracked. "Oh my god- Why are you tryin' not to laugh? That's disrespectful as fuck!"
Melina's hand snapped out and smacked Millicent lightly on the back of the head. "Mind your language."
Millicent rubbed the spot, still snickering.
Beside him, Marika released a long, slow sigh. It was one of amused disappointment that matched Melina's almost perfectly.
"So, if thou deemest Godrick 'the runt', and Morgott himself found it necessary to guard him with a projection… and now even his own retainers despise him so openly…" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "This so-called Demigod must truly be even more wretched a disappointment than I anticipated."
John snorted. 'You have no idea.'
Gostoc, oblivious to the goddess judging Godrick from ten steps to the left, cleared his throat nervously.
"Er… If n' ye don't mind me askin'… how did you lot get through the front approach? There's… well… a monster, an Omen, there. The big bastard guards the bridge."
"Ah." John jerked a thumb to point at himself blankly. "I kicked his ass."
Millicent puffed her chest proudly. "He flattened him."
Gostoc's jaw dropped. "B-By the Erdtree… that was the racket I heard! Thought he'd torn apart a band of invaders again!"
Melina pointed delicately toward the corpses behind the main gate. "And those bodies?"
Gostoc flinched. "A-Ah. Godrick ordered 'em left there. Been rotting weeks, they have. A warning, he calls it. To anyone who dared get this far."
Melina's lips tightened, her expression darkening. "He leaves corpses on his front lawn to rot like trophies…"
John rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sounds about right."
He reached into his inventory and pulled out Margit's Shackle, letting it rest in his palm. With a flick, he pushed mana into it, watching the faint amber glow pulse once, as if answering.
Marika's brows arched. "And pray tell, what exactly is that for?"
John shrugged. 'If there's even a chance I can annoy Morgott more, I consider that time well spent.'
There was a long, resigned pause in his mind.
"…Of course thou dost."
"Anyway," he said aloud, turning back to Gostoc, "we'll take the side path."
As Gostoc guided them toward the broken wall, John considered, seriously considered, kicking the man in the balls on principle. Just a preventative measure. Gostoc was famous for betraying the Tarnished. In the game, he would steal their runes after death, and lock them in a room with a Banished Knight.
He pictured it. The satisfying squeak. The tasteful arc. The poetic justice.
Buuut, he decided against it.
Though, he did mentally add: 'I swear to God, if you try anything, I'm kicking your teeth in myself.'
With that very pleasant thought, he and the girls stepped through the cracked wall to the left.
Beyond it lay the outer cliffs of Stormveil, the path ahead rising steeply along a narrow, jagged ridge. The wind hit them hard immediately, salty and cold, carrying the distant cries of hawks and the rhythmic groan of old stone under the weight of an ancient fortress.
Millicent grabbed a handhold. "Welp. Guess we're climbing."
John cracked his knuckles and nodded. "Up we go."
John walked at the front, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he tested each patch of ground before committing his weight. Loose pebbles skittered down the sheer drop beside them, vanishing into the void without a sound.
'Man…' he thought, eyeing the slope, 'this was so much less terrifying when it was just thumbsticks and a respawn button. Granted, I can still respawn, but my point stands.'
Marika hummed faintly in the back of his mind. "Welcome to reality, mine Champion. Gravity remains a most impartial foe."
Behind him, Millicent stretched her arm high, enjoying the wind tugging at her red hair. "You know, for a path that looks like certain death if you misstep once, this is actually kind of peaceful."
"I would not go that far." Melina replied, though her tone was more thoughtful than tense. Her cloak fluttered behind her, the maroon fabric flickering like a branch of flame in the wind. "But it is… quiet. For a Demigod's domain, it is rather 'peaceful', yes."
"Well, to be fair, we haven't really entered the castle proper."
He got 2 agreeing hums in response.
They climbed in a slow, steady rhythm until the path widened at last, leveling out into a stone narrow ledge that met the base of a wooden scaffold bolted into the castle's rear wall. Weather-beaten planks, hastily reinforced beams, the whole thing looked like it had been built more to keep the castle from collapsing than to keep people out.
Two soldiers stood on guard at the scaffolded rear entrance.
Or rather, they were only physically present.
One leaned against a crate, a hand of cards fanned out in his grip, while the other sat on an overturned barrel, tankard at his boots, eyes narrowed at the cards on the box between them. They were mid-game, breath misting in the cold air, dice scattered near their feet.
The moment John, Melina, and Millicent stepped into view, both men froze.
For three heartbeats, the five of them stared at one another in silence.
Then the nearer soldier blinked once, glanced at their weapons, their armor, and the way they carried themselves, then looked back at his cards.
"Your bet…" he muttered to his friend.
The other grunted, picked up a die, and rolled it.
Not a single hand reached for a weapon.
After another second, one of them jerked his thumb lazily over his shoulder toward the open doorway leading into the castle, never taking his eyes off the game. It was as if he was wordlessly telling the three of them: "Go ahead, knock yourselves out."
The three travelers just stared.
Millicent was the first to break. "...No way," she whispered. "No. Way."
Melina's lips parted just slightly, her expression somewhere between disbelief and reluctant horror. "Are they… simply ignoring us?"
'Yup,' John thought, fighting a shit-eating grin. 'This tracks. The absolute state of Godrick's forces.'
Aloud, he just shrugged. "Well. Wouldn't want to interrupt their very important work." He walked past them, as casually as a man entering his own kitchen.
The soldiers did not even look up.
Inside the rear entrance, Stormveil's guts opened around them.
Dusty storage corridors stretched out in both directions, stacked with barrels and crates, bundles of rope, and neglected equipment. The air smelled of old wood, stale ale, and damp stone. Voices echoed from deeper in, but not in alarm: idle chatter, tired laughter, someone cursing at a dropped crate.
'You seeing this, Marika?' He thought as he walked, sidestepping a sagging shelf as two servants trudged past, carrying a crate between them.
The pair glanced at John's group, blinked once, then continued walking with all the urgency of men moving chairs before a feast.
"Oh, I see." Marika replied, her tone flat. "And I am… displeased."
They passed two more guards slumped on benches, helmets off, arguing about whose turn it was to run kitchen duty. One of them gave John a half-hearted nod of acknowledgment, as if he were just another overworked mercenary passing through.
Millicent leaned closer, voice pitched low. "Do they even… care that we're here?"
"It seems…" Melina answered with a sweat drop falling down her forehead, gaze sweeping the hall. "That discipline is not one of Godrick's priorities."
"Or effort." John muttered, almost impressed at how shittily led and maintained this place was.
They ascended a short flight of stairs, the wood cooling beneath their feet. The hallway had a shadowed open door to a dark wine cellar. Up ahead was a rusted iron gate that led upwards into the rest of the castle.
In another life, John knew, this was where the Tarnished would need the rusted key. And when entering the wine cellar to get it, he'd be betrayed and locked in with a Banished Knight by Gustoc.
Here, the gate was wide open.
A soldier sat beside it with his back against the wall, arms folded, head lolling forward. His snores were soft and regular, a faint whistle sounding at the end of every breath.
John stopped and stared for a long beat.
Millicent followed his gaze. "…He's actually asleep."
Melina's brows knitted in quiet disbelief. "In a passage connected to the main keep…"
John watched the man's head tilt, then jerk as he snored louder. "…Yep. Fast asleep." He stepped over the guard's outstretched leg without breaking stride. 'Welp. Curved Sword Talisman isn't worth it this time, if that Banished Knight in there actually cares for this place, I'd rather avoid the headache.'
Melina and Millicent shared another look, then they followed with a shrug.
Marika manifested at his shoulder as they climbed the staircase beyond, her golden form pacing him in perfect step, expression dark.
"This… is a Demigod's domain..?" She asked darkly, each word thick with disdain. "A nest of slackened curs and idle wretches? This 'Godrick' is not worthy to be called Demigod, nor to lay eyes upon even a shard of my Ring."
'Agreed,' John thought, lips quirking. 'And this is me being generous. I call him 'the runt' for a reason. He's a fraud. Did you know Malenia made him get on his knees and lick her feet?'
Marika actually froze mid-stride beside him, her golden brows lifting in a rare display of unfiltered bewilderment. "...Malenia did what to him?"
John smirked. 'Yeah. Crushed him so hard she made him grovel. Full-on boot-licker.'
Marika blinked slowly, processing this, then let out the softest, most incredulous laugh, it was a single exhale colored with disdain.
"I see." Her expression cooled into regal disgust, the kind that could curdle gold. "Then he is not merely a disgrace to the title of Demigod… he is unworthy even to look upon a shard of my Ring."
She tilted her chin slightly, voice sharpening. "For my daughter to humiliate him so thoroughly… Truly, he must be the most pitiful creature ever to bear the name of the Golden Lineage."
John snorted. 'Oh, just wait until you actually see him.'
Marika sighed, long-suffering and deeply offended on a spiritual level. "Apparently, mine expectations were far too high."
Up ahead, the hallway ended at the base of a tall, rusted ladder mounted into the stone wall, its top disappearing into a square of dim light.
John came to a stop beneath it, craning his neck. "Huh. Ladder time."
He glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "Ladies first."
Millicent grinned and stepped forward without hesitation. "Don't mind if I do." She grabbed the rungs and began climbing.
Melina hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the ladder. She glanced back at him, a faint pink dusting her cheeks. "Do not peek." she muttered, voice quiet but firm.
He gave her an utterly untrustworthy grin. "No promises."
Her eye narrowed dangerously. She flicked her fingers, then smacked him lightly on the back of the head with the flat of her hand.
"If you do, I will kill you." she said calmly, then lifted her skirts slightly and started climbing after Millicent, cloak and fabric swaying with each step.
John rubbed the back of his head, still smirking. 'Worth it.'
He waited until she was a few rungs up, then followed. Curiosity nipped at him, and he stole a single glance upward, eyes flicking just long enough to see the hem of her cloak, the edge of her skirt… and silk shorts, neat and secure beneath.
He sighed internally. '...Of course she's practical.'
"Disappointed?" Marika's voice purred at the edges of his thoughts, amused.
'Morally? No.' He replied dryly. 'Emotionally? A little bit.'
The goddess chuckled, the sound warm and annoyingly knowing.
They emerged one by one onto a small stone platform jutting from the castle's exterior wall. The sea spread out before them in a vast expanse, sunlight glimmering brightly across its restless surface. The wind was stronger here, tugging at cloaks and hair, carrying the smell of salt and distant rain.
Ahead, a long staircase hugged the outside of the castle, carved directly into the stone. It climbed at an angle along the wall, vanishing into an upper entrance that led into the Rampart Tower proper.
John stepped aside to let the others up, then turned his eyes upward, following the line of the stairs. From this vantage, he could see portions of the lower courtyards, watchtowers, and broken battlements. It was not a complete view, not yet, but he could already piece together the structure in his mind.
Millicent whistled low. "That's… a lot of castle."
Melina's gaze was more thoughtful. "From up there," she murmured, glancing toward the Rampart Tower entrance, "we should be able to see most of the interior. Patrol routes, choke points, the location of key structures."
John nodded. "Exactly." He started forward, boots ringing against the stone as he took the first step. "Once we're up in the Rampart Tower, we'll get a proper bird's-eye view of the place. From there, we can chart the fastest route to Godrick."
Millicent folded her arms, walking at his side. "Fastest route to cut his head off, you mean."
"Preferably before any of his actually loyal men have time to swarm him," John added. "We take the high ground, figure out where he is, isolate him, then hit hard and fast. No grand siege. Just surgical removal of one very unfortunate 'Demigod'."
Marika hummed, approval shading her tone as she drifted along the outer edge of his vision. "At last~." she said, faintly impressed. "A plan befitting a Lord and not a rampaging beast. Thou learns."
'Careful,' John thought with a crooked smile. 'Keep praising me like that, and I might get used to it.'
"Do not." She replied smoothly, but he could hear the faint note of pride beneath it.
At the top, they reached a wide stone landing and an open archway that led into the base of the rampart tower. John glanced back once, making sure the path behind them was still clear, then stepped through.
Inside, the tower opened into a tall circular chamber. A massive wooden lift shaft dominated the center, its platform currently far above them, unseen beyond the ring of beams and chains. Around the walls, crates and barrels were stacked beside racks of spare shields, broken barricades, and bundled spears. It looked less like a bastion of a Demigod and more like a cluttered storage hub that had long since stopped caring about order.
They barely made it three steps inside before steel barred their path.
A Banished Knight in full storm-gray plate stepped out from behind a stack of crates, his spear levelled with precise, practiced ease. The plume of his helm was old and ragged, his armor scarred from battles that clearly had not involved polish for a long time. He stared at them, shock flickering across the slits of his visor before it settled into an exhausted kind of annoyance.
"Stop there," he snapped, spear aimed dead center at John's chest. "How, in all the forsaken hells, did you make it this far without anyone raising the alarm?"
The four of them, mortal and divine, stared at him in silence.
Then John glanced at Melina. Melina glanced at Millicent. All three slowly looked back at the knight.
John lifted one hand in a half-hearted shrug, his mouth quirking into a crooked smirk. "Talent?"
Millicent's shoulders shook. She had to bite her lip to stop herself bursting out laughing.
The knight stared at them for a long, painful heartbeat. Then he sighed, long and miserable, lowering his spear slightly. "Let me guess…" he muttered. "The idiots on the cliffside patrol just let you walk through, did they not?"
John turned his head and nodded with a weary sort of sympathy. "In their defense, none of them seemed to think Godrick was worth dying over." He tilted his head. "Do you?"
Millicent perked up. "And, for all you know, we are here for very normal, very legal, definitely non suspicious reasons," she added cheerfully, "that totally do not involve the brutal murder of a certain grabby, hand-collecting Demigod."
The Banished Knight stared at her.
Then at John.
Then at Melina.
Then he made a sound that was either a low groan or a prayer for death and turned away, armor creaking. "Fine… Have at it. Just… when they catch you, lie and say you got in another way. I do not wish to endure my lord's next tantrum."
John chuckled. "Deal."
Melina inclined her head politely. Millicent gave the knight a jaunty little salute as he walked past them, heading off into the storage halls with a stiff, purposeful stride, clearly attempting to look busy enough to have a plausible alibi.
They watched him go, then looked at each other.
John shrugged first. "Well, that was easy."
"Pathetic." Marika murmured in his mind, her tone carrying equal parts disdain and cold amusement.
'Agreed.' John thought, lips twitching.
They left it at that and headed for the staircase spiralling up along the tower's interior wall. The climb was short, and soon they emerged into the rampart tower proper. The upper level felt strangely empty. Rows of armaments, armor stands, and collapsed barricades lined the walls, but there were few actual soldiers to wear any of it.
They crossed into a large hall whose long tables and scattered tankards marked it as a mess hall. A cold hearth sat at one end of the room. Several soldiers dozed nearby with cloaks pulled over their faces, boots still on, snoring softly like men who no longer had enough fear left in them to stand a proper watch.
On the far side, an archway opened out toward the external ramparts, where the night wind drifted through like a second presence.
John's eyes caught the familiar glow of Grace at the side of the hall. He stepped over and knelt briefly, reaching out a hand to the small, radiant glyph on the floor. The light flared once in acknowledgement.
"Just in case this goes sideways later…" He muttered, rising.
He turned back to the others. "Two more things I want to do before we play spot the trash-king. Come on."
Melina simply nodded and followed. Millicent shrugged and fell into step behind them, curious.
They returned to the lift shaft. The platform was still above, hidden somewhere in the tower's height, but a large, circular pressure plate sat inset into the floor at the center. John stepped onto it.
Chains rattled above. The groan of ancient gears echoed through the stone. The floor beneath them lurched once, then began to descend, carrying them down, down past the level of the mess hall, past storerooms and forgotten alcoves, into the dim underbelly of the castle.
Melina glanced at him. "Where are we going?"
He just smiled. "You'll see."
The ride felt longer than it probably was, every clank marking another drop deeper into the castle's foundations. At last the lift shuddered to a stop and the doors opened to a low, stone chamber that opened outward into a narrow, jagged path along the cliffside.
The air here was cooler, damp, thick with moss and old stone. The path ahead had been swallowed by overgrowth and neglect, tufts of grass pushing through cracked rocks, roots curling along the wall.
"This place has not seen use in a very long time." Melina murmured.
"Yeah." John said, stepping out onto the path. "That is what I am counting on."
They followed him, boots crunching on gravel as the narrow trail wound its way toward a broad, overgrown platform at the edge of the castle's root. The ocean stretched out beyond, black and silver under the moon, the spray below a distant hiss against the rock.
They heard the footsteps before they saw him.
They were heavy and deliberate, like steel dragging across a scorched battlefield. The sound echoed softly off the old stone, measured and patient rather than hurried.
They passed beneath a broken archway choked with ivy and hanging moss.
On the other side, waiting upon the grassy, ruined platform, was a figure in ancient bronze armor, dull gold and dark rust, shaped in a style older than the castles that crowned the modern age.
The Crucible Knight stood with his back half-turned to them at first, sword at his hip, shield resting against the ground. His armor was thick, almost organic in its design, embossed with swirling, rooted patterns that resembled scales and feathers both.
The breastplate bulged with a strange, almost draconic curve, and faint engravings of great, ancient wings spread along his pauldrons. His helmet was smooth and faceless, a narrow slit the only break in the bronze.
The knight turned toward them, the movement deliberate, sword hand flexing once against the hilt, shield angling slightly upward. There was no surprise in the way he poised himself, only the quiet, unshakable readiness of someone who had been waiting for this moment since before they were born.
Marika's presence jolted sharp in John's mind.
"A Crucible Knight?" she breathed, genuinely taken aback. "Here, of all places…"
The shock in her tone was real, as old memories began stirring beneath it. "These were the sworn blades of the primordial age, when the Erdtree was yet young and the Crucible of life untempered. And then, they were my Old Lord Godfrey's sworn comrades and allies. What is one of them doing in this mockery of a castle?"
John's fingers twitched around his hilt as the knight fully faced him, the weight of that ancient gaze settling on him even through the metal.
He smirked faintly, heart starting to beat faster again. "Guess we are about to find out."
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Author's Note:
I'm gonna have quite a lot of fun with the next chapter~
Mehehehe~... The PR campaign begins…
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Next Chapter Title: A Tale of Love and Duty.
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