Lucian stood frozen, staring at the devastation before him. Whatever small village had once stood here was now unrecognizable—wiped away as though it had never existed.
Compared to the storm unleashed by the Ancient King, the Storm Stomp on his weapon's Ash of War felt like nothing more than a playful breeze. Was this paltry skill truly worthy of the name "storm"?
Such power, of course, did not come without a price. Every drop of magic in Lucian's body had been wrung dry.
He pulled out his Cerulean Flask and drank it down in one long swallow, feeling his energy return. He tried calling the Ancient King again, but this time the spirit ignored him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the sensation from moments before, attempting to guide his magic as the Ancient King had. But his control was clumsy—crude. The only way he could replicate the effect was to flood his weapon with raw magic until it burst out.
For now, he abandoned the thought of calling forth a true storm. Instead, he stamped his foot and released Storm Stomp again.
This time, he consciously mimicked the King's movements, tracing the wind's path in his mind. The skill's power leapt noticeably. He had no target to measure against, but he could feel the difference.
It was still a far cry from the King's overwhelming storm, but the improvement was undeniable. The magic cost had risen, yet he could still unleash it five or six times at full power before exhausting himself—and he could adjust the input to save energy. That flexibility alone made it a far more reliable tool.
Satisfied, he judged himself better prepared to face the hordes of misbegotten in Castle Morne.
The light of the Erdtree was already brightening, signaling the night's end. Time to head back.
Mounting Torrent, he rode down the slope toward the camp where he had rested the night before. By the time he arrived, daylight had fully claimed the land.
The wandering merchant was already awake. He gave Lucian a brief nod, asking no questions about his absence.
At the site of grace, Lucian took out his Sacred Flask. Melina sat beside him.
"How do I improve its healing effect?" he asked.
"There is nothing you need do."
"…Nothing?"
"Yes. Simply bring it back to a site of grace. The ritual that gathers the sacred dew shall strengthen of its own accord, and so will the flask's effect."
He set the flask in the soft golden glow of grace, then pulled out an empty one. Before his eyes, drop by drop, the liquid began to fill.
When it reached half, he took a sip—slightly sweeter than before. When it filled completely, he rose and walked over to where Irina still slept.
He didn't wake her. Once they entered the castle, rest would be scarce. Better to let her sleep a little longer.
Lucian sat by the fire, his gaze caught by the flickering flame butterflies circling above it. Their wings burned with fire, yet they danced unceasingly through the heat.
A sudden movement broke his trance—Irina sat up abruptly, wiping at the corner of her mouth before realizing that Lucian was no longer with her.
"Sir Lucian? Are you still here?" she asked nervously.
"I am," he replied calmly. "I woke a bit earlier, that's all."
Relieved, she smiled brightly. "Then… did you rest well last night?"
He felt a twinge of guilt—it almost felt like deceiving her. Still, the truth was undeniable. "Thanks to you, I slept very well."
"I am glad to have helped."
Her stomach growled loudly in protest. A blush crept over her face—she hadn't eaten or drunk anything since yesterday afternoon.
In the Lands Between, hunger would not kill you, but those who had not become undead still needed to eat.
Lucian cursed himself inwardly for forgetting. He dug through his pack, pulling out some dried meat and a waterskin.
"It's not much—tough meat and stale water—but it'll fill you up. Eat, then we'll head for Castle Morne."
Blushing, Irina accepted the food and nibbled at it like a small, shy squirrel.
From across the fire, the merchant kept glancing their way. Thinking he might also be hungry, Lucian offered, "I've got more. Want some? And—come to think of it—I never asked your name. I'm Lucian."
"Anogo," the man replied. "And no, keep your food. I'm a merchant; I've brought my own supplies."
He hesitated, studying Lucian. After a moment, he spoke. "You're heading to Castle Morne, aren't you?"
Lucian nodded. No reason to hide it.
"Then I have news you might find useful. There's a golem guarding the castle—it can spot and attack people from far away. Only those carrying a token can pass safely."
"I know one of the guards and, through his recommendation, met the castle's quartermaster. They sometimes ask me to carry supplies, so I have a token. But…"
He paused, eyes narrowing. "A few nights ago, I was camped on the sword monument hill outside the castle. I saw something strange. A group of four—dressed in black robes—approached. One was enormous. The golem didn't attack them, so I assumed they had tokens. But instead of using the gate, they went to the castle's left side. The large one climbed a tree, leapt onto the wall, and lowered a ladder for the others. That one wasn't human—I saw the thick hind legs and tail under the cloak. Red hair, too."
"The very next day, the uprising in Castle Morne began."
Irina's dried meat slipped from her fingers, forgotten. Someone had orchestrated the rebellion.
Lucian's expression hardened. Thick hind legs, a tail, red hair—without doubt, a Leonine misbegotten.
But the other three? Messengers from someone? Possibly. In the game, Misbegotten Warriors could fight alongside Crucible Knights—servants of the Erdtree's order. Being sent here on a mission wasn't impossible.
And yet… last night, he'd fought alongside winged misbegotten serving the Frenzied Flame. If the black-robed misbegotten were agents of the Two Fingers, why were others siding with the Three Fingers? The two factions would never cooperate.
Two separate misbegotten factions? Or was there some deeper, hidden cause?
Either way, the waters around Castle Morne were far murkier than he had expected.