Alistair asked, and the masked man gave a slow shake of his head, the flicker of deep crimson briefly surfacing behind the white porcelain.
"You don't know?" Alistair tilted his head, voice dry. "Guess I'll go ask someone else."
Without another word, he turned and started down the slope, his eyes fixed on the gold-clad knight stationed at the base near the church ruins.
From behind, White Mask—Varé—watched him go. The corners of his mouth twitched, the subtle crimson glimmer in his gaze intensifying. He looked entertained, almost hopeful for disaster.
The Tree Sentinel stood as a bastion of the Erdtree's judgment, tasked with enforcing the Golden Order's will. Its duty was clear: to hunt the Tarnished. As soon as Alistair wandered into its range, the knight reacted on instinct. The great steed stomped once, and the halberd lowered like a falling star.
Varé narrowed his eyes.
He fully expected this bizarre Faded One to be crushed on impact. Perhaps flung like a ragdoll across the grass. Or maybe he'd turn tail, shrieking for mercy like so many others before him.
This realm was governed by the Erdtree, by the Golden Order. Even as an envoy wearing a borrowed mask, Varé had no illusions about confronting the Tree Sentinel himself. Avoidance was wisdom. Bravado was death.
But the stranger—this ash-scorched warrior—didn't run.
He stood there.
Watching.
Like he was waiting for something.
Longing for it.
Then, casually, Alistair pulled a weathered wooden club from his belt, armor barely held together from looted Greathorn footsoldiers, and walked directly into the Tree Sentinel's charge.
Varé blinked.
Then Alistair rolled.
He tumbled beneath the horse's hooves with uncanny precision, the ground cracking in the wake of the knight's swing. Then he rolled again. And again.
Not a frantic scramble. This was calculated. Familiar.
After a few exchanges, Alistair began slipping in short counters between the Sentinel's recovery frames, tapping the enormous golden knight with what amounted to a wooden stick.
Varé watched, slack-jawed behind his mask. The deep crimson glow in his eyes dimmed in confusion.
What was he doing?
That club shouldn't have been able to even bruise the Sentinel's polished armor. Yet slowly, piece by piece, swing by swing, the golden knight was weakening.
No wounds showed. But its movement faltered. Its timing lost fluidity. With a final swing of the club, the Tree Sentinel froze mid-strike, then toppled over.
Its armor crumbled. The beast beneath it turned to ash. And with one last breath, it vanished into glimmering dust.
Everything—the Runes, the soul, the very presence of the knight—was gone. Burned away. Consumed.
Varé's gaze narrowed. The scarlet light returned. But it was wary now.
Mad Flame was a problem.
But this?
This was worse.
He had hoped the new fire would act as a counterbalance to the existing madness. Perhaps even devour it. Bring stability to the imbalance plaguing the Lands Between.
But now he realized he had underestimated the madness in this one.
Even more dangerous than chaos was control forged in its heart.
Let the Golden Order handle this.
He wanted no part of it.
---
Elsewhere, Alistair stood silently, staring at the patch of earth where the Tree Sentinel had fallen.
He didn't feel triumphant. Only tired.
He had approached the knight hoping, maybe, to parley. To test if this was a world where things could be solved through reason, through conversation.
Instead, the knight had rushed him with a halberd.
New world. New skins. Same behavior.
Every creature still wanted him dead.
The fight itself had been manageable. For someone forged in the fires of simulated torment, large enemies like Golem Elders or the Nameless King were familiar foes. Roll first, test patterns, learn the rhythm. Then chip away.
Simple. Brutal. Efficient.
Still, it had taken time. More than it should have.
And he had taken hits. Bad ones.
Opening his inventory, Alistair frowned at the empty item slot.
No flasks?
That felt... unfair.
As if on cue, Alice appeared beside him.
"I thought you didn't need them," she said softly, pressing two glass bottles into his hand. One glowed crimson. The other shimmered azure.
He glanced at her, unimpressed.
No doubt she had held them back on purpose.
Still, he accepted them without complaint and tucked the flask-shaped bottles—'Flasks of Crimson and Cerulean Tears'—into his pouch. Skins over mechanics. That much was unchanged.
He entered the church.
Inside, a figure sat beside a fire. Cloaked in a red cowl and heavy travel-worn garb, the man looked up with calm eyes. Behind him stood a mount—horse-like, but leaner, shrouded in spectral threads.
Alistair froze.
Pointed red hat. Firelight. A jolly silhouette.
"...Santa?"
***
No. Not Santa. A merchant.
After a brief conversation, the man introduced himself.
"Kale," he said. "Of the nomadic tribes. A humble purveyor of goods."
Alistair had expected deception. Like the Shrines in Lordran or the Mausoleums of Lothric, merchants in these lands usually charged absurd prices or offered cryptic wares of dubious value.
But when Alistair casually asked for a recommendation, Kale pulled out a tool pouch.
"If you've got the Runes, this crafting kit might serve you well. Lets you gather materials and make supplies on your own."
Alistair raised an eyebrow.
The crafting kit was priced at 300 Runes. For reference, a spyglass—just a telescope with a new name—was 500.
And he'd earned thousands from clearing the Gatefront and slaying the Tree Sentinel.
He bought it immediately.
Then he browsed Kale's stock.
Crafting kit, cracked pots, torch, throwing knives, large leather shield, and two cookbooks.
With no Maiden to help him level, spending his Runes here seemed the best investment.
As he made his purchases, Kale smiled.
"I try to keep prices reasonable. A little less profit, but I prefer my customers to survive."
He bowed politely.
"Thank you for trusting me."
Alistair stared at him, genuinely stunned.
No scams. No insults. Just help.
He couldn't believe it.
"...You're not going to vanish later while fetching supplies, only to die in a royal ambush, are you?"
Kale tilted his head. "Pardon?"
Alistair shook his head. "Forget it. Just... be careful out there."
He didn't trust easily. But he remembered every NPC he'd ever met in the old worlds. The ones who were kind always died first.
Kale, it seemed, was one of the rare good ones.
And good people were a luxury.
Alistair would protect what few he found.
---
With his new gear secured and knowledge gleaned, Alistair followed the path of Grace.
Along the way, he encountered more foot soldiers—similar to the ones near the tutorial cave.
During his conversation with Kale, he'd learned their name: Godrick Soldiers. Men loyal to one of the Shardbearers.
Godrick the Grafted.
The Golden King. The Limbed Tyrant. A demigod. One of those who held a fragment of the shattered Elden Ring.
Alistair frowned as he recalled the details.
Varé had hinted at it. Kale confirmed it.
All Tarnished had returned to contest the throne. To gather Great Runes and become Elden Lord.
Godrick, then, was a stepping stone on that path.
Alistair glanced at Alice.
She said nothing, but her mere presence suggested awareness far beyond what she shared.
He didn't doubt she could level cities if provoked.
Which made Godrick's looming presence even more concerning.
If he was truly a demigod... how strong would he be?
The Tree Sentinel alone took ages to down with a club. Godrick would not be so merciful.
Still, that was a battle for another day.
For now, Alistair focused on the soldiers ahead.
He cleared a small encampment, slaying every last one. Inside a chest beneath the ruins, he discovered a new item: a Whetstone Knife.
The description spoke of imbuing armaments with Ashes of War.
Alistair raised a brow.
He didn't know what an Ash of War was yet.
But that could wait.
For now, the Blessing called.
He followed it.
Sat beside it.
And this time, as his hand touched the golden light, something changed.
Two figures appeared before him.
His eyes narrowed.
"...Wait. Two?"
They stared at each other in silence.
And the world shifted again.
***
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