"Trying to trap Torrent?"
Throne didn't hesitate. If the horse got tangled, their speed would plummet. But you won't catch us. He watched the whips coil toward him, freezing mid-air.
The icy mist couldn't halt the massive whips, thick as tree trunks, but it stopped the thinner ones, no thicker than an arm.
"Faster!"
Torrent surged forward, her breath sharp, hooves pounding the ground as she carried the knight through the chaos. Throne squinted through the rain, watching the last four whips crash down like a wall.
Red Wave wasn't blind. It saw Throne's plan. Freezing magic alone wouldn't stop it, but if it could halt his charge, it could surround him from both sides. Throne raised his staff, purple light erupting from its tip. Repulsive Barrier!
The shockwave surged forward, too weak to repel the massive whips but enough to slow them. Throne broke through the gap, dust swirling around him as he straightened and took in the scene ahead. A tangled mass, like a ball of yarn, sprouted whips far too large for its size—like a tree planted in a tiny flowerpot.
He'd killed a King of Rot before. These things were endless, their true form just a fragment of the whole.
"I told you—you can't stop me!"
Throne charged, his spear crackling with storm energy, its tip aimed at the defenseless core. Pfft—
They tore through it, the fragile structure obliterated.
Flesh splattered everywhere, but Throne didn't smile. Something's wrong. The main body is bigger than this. He glanced back, watching the massive whips stiffen momentarily before thrashing again. More underground. Clever.
"Torrent, double turn!"
He didn't hesitate.
The Spirit Steed leapt into the air, hooves creating ripples as if stepping on water, pivoting mid-air. Throne saw the flesh reforming above, roots stretching toward the ground—the real target below.
"Sorry, I'm faster."
Throne vanished from the horse's back, dropping his lance and staff. He drew his twin blades mid-air, twisting his body to slash horizontally. Clang—
Sparks flew. The impact shot up his arms. Throne's eyes widened as a blood-red trident appeared above the blade's edge.
A tall shadow rose from the ground, its voice smooth and cold.
"Sorry, I'm faster than you."
From the mountains, the chaos unfolded like a nightmare. The whips lashed out, each strike a death sentence for anyone caught in their path. Scarlet Rot clung to them, making them even deadlier.
But the monster wasn't attacking the mountain—it thrashed in the distance, as if locked in combat. Who would be foolish enough to charge into its heart?
"Teacher's made his move," Millicent said, pulling her katana from the chest of a Kindred of Rot. Her voice was calm, certain.
"No, he's been at it for a while," Melina corrected, her twin black blades carving through the enemy ranks. But the Kindred of Rot kept coming, drawn to Millicent like flies to decay.
"Retreat! Group up with him!"
Melina grabbed the girl's arm, dragging her away from the swarm.
"Who do you think the previous legendary magic belonged to?" Melina asked as they ran, her blades still weaving through the enemy.
"Not just anyone could wield it."
A Tarnished in battered heavy armor stood his ground against the siege. Three dragons harried him from all sides, yet none could land a killing blow. One reeled back, its foreclaw shattered by his great hammer. In the distance, 'Great Sage' Edred crouched among the Night Sorcerers—their panicked shouts carried on the wind.
"Fight and retreat! Our ally goes for the enemy general's head!"
Edred's voice rang out, squeezing every drop of usefulness from the Throne's forces. To the untrained eye, it might look like strategy. But the truth was simpler: too many enemies, too much strength. Warriors weren't machines.
Redmane Knights fell in pieces. Militia trembled. Even the Tarnished among the defenders knew when to cut losses—no one read a battlefield faster. The distant clash of steel acted like adrenaline, a single spark in the downpour of this doomed night.
If that light died, what remained worth fighting for? The armored Tarnished heaved his hammer onto his shoulder, breath ragged. Five dragon skulls had already cracked under his blows. Now they hunted him in earnest.
"Second wave already? Tough bastards."
He couldn't see the distant fight, but a warrior's instinct thrummed in his bones—someone was bleeding, killing, surviving. Staying here meant nothing. The leader had to fall. He shook gore from his pauldrons, ready to charge, then froze. Two girls retreated toward him.
"Why aren't you moving?"
Melina's face stayed cold as winter.
"His orders. Follow us back to town—lure some Rot Kin away instead of standing here like dragon bait."
Her voice dripped with disdain.
The Tarnished's grip tightened on his hammer.
"He fights alone, and you abandon him?"
"He can handle it."
Melina didn't blink.
"I believe in him."
She ducked low. A golden lance of light speared down from the heavens, impaling a diving dragon's skull.
The beast shrieked, wings flailing—until a shadow blocked its ascent. Boom. The hammer struck like a falling star. Bone crumpled. Tons of scaled flesh cratered into the earth.
Melina's eyes narrowed. She'd never seen a Tarnished hit that hard. Two more hammer blows silenced the dragon for good. She tugged Millicent forward.
"Change of plan?"
"Bad plan." The Tarnished spat, but the black void above offered no path to aid. A competition, then.
"Stick close. Sellia won't welcome us back easily."
The retreat turned desperate. No time for the wounded—the left behind would drown in teeth and flame. Dragons circled, eyes sharp. This hill's defenders had proven troublesome. Their roars shook the air, summoning reinforcements.
Melina ignored them. Her head snapped toward sudden silence. The distant battle's fury had cut off.
"Did Teacher win?" Millicent whispered.
"He will."
Melina whirled, sprinting after the Tarnished.
"Hey. What's your name?"
No answer came.
They had now stepped onto the highest point. Looking up, the sky seethed with wings. Twenty dragons, maybe more. Click. The Tarnished triggered a hidden mechanism.
The great hammer split down the middle like a cracked drumstick, revealing a blade three palms wide and two meters long. Melina froze, unable to comprehend the purpose of such a mechanism.
"Answering your question."
The Tarnished hunched low, his entire presence shifting in an instant.
"My name is Bernahl!"
One Tarnished hero had drawn steel. Another long-dormant demigod bared fangs.
Mohg?
Throne hadn't expected the Lord of Blood to come personally. This bastard should've been underground, obsessing over Miquella. Why crash this fight? Even as a clone, its strength was formidable—little Godrick wouldn't stand a chance. This thing packed the power of at least two Godricks.
"Let me introduce myself."
The blood-shadow clone dipped its head with mock courtesy.
"I am the Lord of Blood, Mohg. I admire you, Tarnished."
I know exactly who the hell you are.
Throne tilted his head, words scraping through his teeth.
"You want to talk?"
"This is called cherishing talent."
Before Mohg finished speaking, a dozen crimson spears stabbed through the air where Throne had stood. He'd already leapt back.
"Is this how you talk?"
"I apologize for my companion's recklessness."
Mohg turned to Red Wave, who radiated silent fury.
"Patience. Killing such talent is wasteful. Better to make him surrender."
He played peacemaker, then fixed Throne with a stare.
"Hand over what it wants. Drink my blood. You'll not only live—you'll step into a new world."
Throne said nothing. After years pretending to be a Bloody Finger, facing the real article left no room for stalling.
"What if I refuse?"
Roar—
A dragon's cry split the storm. Every head jerked up.
A mountain flew through the rain.
Its wings swallowed lightning. Its scales choked the sky. In the Lands Between, size meant power—and this beast was invincible. Mother of Dragons, Greyoll... Throne's gut twisted. Her presence meant despair. Meant the end.
Even near death, a healthy Greyoll stood at demigod tier. She wasn't some crippled toy waiting to die.
"It seems my friend has a temper."
Mohg raised his trident, polite madness glinting in his eyes.
"Refusing now only proves you're a fool. And no matter how strong a fool is..."
He stepped back.
"Red Wave, proceed. I'm done speaking."
Red Wave tensed to strike—
Roar—
A second cry answered, older, weathered. It rolled from Sellia's northern peaks.
Greyoll froze mid-air, head snapping toward the sound. Even at this height, she saw her—pink hair plastered by rain, that feral grin. Lansseax.
The dragon-woman crooked a finger, then vanished into the forest.
Greyoll dove without hesitation, like a mountain peak falling, not even bothering to summon her brood. Her enemy was wounded. Miss this chance, and death would come for her instead.
But before she could strike, something smashed into her skull. A cloaked werewolf dropped from the trees, greatsword cleaving straight for her brow.
Blaidd kept retreating, eyes locked on the giant tail—dozens of meters long, reducing entire forests to splinters. He wiped sweat from his brow. At least he hadn't gotten lost this time. The battlefield convulsed with new chaos. Mohg and Red Wave turned north, where thunderous echoes rolled across the land.
Sellia in flames. The north under siege. How many powerhouses had descended? Please, let Radahn not be among them.
"Who did you just call stupid?"
Throne's voice cut through the air like a blade. The two whirled back to face him. That arrogance burned. Mohg's face darkened as he scanned the sky—no meteor. No deliverance.
Miscalculation. The Ancient Dragon hadn't fled. It had charged straight into the fray, covering their retreat.
"Didn't expect you to have ties to one of those relics," Mohg spat.
"Luring Greyoll with bait she couldn't refuse. But how long do you think that overgrown lizard can last?"
Without Blaidd, Lansseax stood no chance. But that directionally challenged werewolf? Third strongest in Caria. Throne didn't bother explaining. He tore off his tattered cloak, revealing armor beneath.
"Doesn't matter. Radahn will be here soon."
No bluff. Radahn's temper was legendary—he'd abandon his legion and come alone. By dawn, without question. If this were a card game, Throne still held a trump. Let them gather their strength. Let them try.
"You won't live to see it," Mohg said.
Failure stung, but the loss meant nothing. Just pride. Just underestimating this man. Without him, Sellia would've fallen. They could've waited, swarmed Radahn when he arrived—could even the Starscourge withstand that? But now? Sellia burned in street fights. Greyoll lured north.
Just Mohg and Red Wave left. Against Radahn? Doubtful.
Kill him. Try. Those bugs—perfect for Radahn. Might even crack his restraint, let the rot consume him.
"Do it!"
Red Wave snarled.
"Last chance!"
These bastards were really wasting time; it still had to hurry up and kill this person to go find Her Highness.