Lucian had kept his distance until now. When he finally drew near, he realized just how massive the Leonine Misbegotten truly was.
Ordinary Misbegotten — and even the winged kind — were wiry and thin. When they stood fully upright, they barely reached the height of a man, though their habitual hunch made them seem smaller still. The largest of the Scaly Misbegotten were no greater in size than a normal man, their bodies only marginally bulkier, their skin armored with scattered scales.
But the Leonine before him — Singh, the Leonine of Morne — towered over Lucian even without standing straight. He must have been nearly two and a half meters tall. His frame was thick and powerful, his mane a vivid blaze of red-gold. It was hard to believe such a creature shared any bloodline with the grey, emaciated Misbegotten they had fought before.
With both hands, Singh raised the colossal Grafted Blade Greatsword high and brought it crashing down toward Edgar at the vanguard. The countless broken blades embedded along its length tore the air, their shriek like the wailing of a thousand restless dead.
Edgar dared not meet the blow head-on. With a sharp sidestep, he let the strike fall past him. The mound of corpses beneath was cleaved in two — not neatly severed, but crushed apart, as though brute force had pulverized the remains.
Edgar, seeing the opening in Singh's overextension, drove his halberd toward the Leonine's exposed ribs. The point struck true — yet his face darkened instantly. Singh's hide was far too resilient; it did not feel like flesh at all. The spearhead sank only shallowly before being gripped tight by the creature's knotted muscle.
Singh wrenched the Grafted Blade Greatsword from the flesh it had bitten into. Between its many jagged blades hung scraps of gore. Bathed in that blood, the black rust coating the weapon seemed to fade, revealing its old, cold luster — sharp and shadowed, as though regaining some ancient vitality.
Clamping the halberd fast in his side, Singh swung in a wide, murderous arc. A hit like that would cleave even Edgar's Banished Knight's Armor in two.
But before it could land, a cloud of orange powder burst before Singh's face. The perfumed dust ignited in a violent blast, setting his flame-red mane alight. The fire awoke something primal in the Leonine — a deep, inborn terror of flame. Singh dropped his assault, abandoning his hold on Edgar's halberd, and desperately slapped at his burning hair.
Indeed, in any world, the truth held: fur and flame do not mix.
Edgar tore his weapon free and stepped back. Lucian charged in to press the attack. This was the strategy they had agreed upon moments before — Lucian and Edgar alternating in close combat, with Evan, the perfumer, supporting from the rear.
Evan had explained that while Singh was a warrior among Misbegotten, his instincts could not be erased. Fire not only dealt great harm but also reduced him, if only briefly, to the fear of a common beast.
Lucian's greatsword hacked into Singh's sword arm, the blade biting deep into corded muscle until it nearly touched bone. He withdrew at once, wary of being caught in the creature's grip. The cut was grievous, yet not enough to rob Singh of his sword-arm.
Edgar followed with a sweeping strike of his glaive, the axe-blade biting into Singh's shoulder. A burst of wind erupted — one of the Banished Knights' Arts, the Storm Assault — tearing at the wound.
Roaring in fury, Singh smothered the last embers in his mane, then lunged forward on three limbs toward Lucian. The Grafted Blade Greatsword whirled in a deadly spin — a wide, sweeping slash that Lucian dared not parry. He leapt back just in time. Singh, sensing the miss, carried the spin into a great leap, driving the massive blade down from above.
Instead of retreating, Lucian surged forward beneath him, greatsword poised to impale him upon landing. But in midair, Singh proved startlingly agile — using his thick tail to pivot, planting the Grafted Blade Greatsword into the ground and vaulting over Lucian like a pole-vaulter.
Lucian was stunned. How could something so massive move with such grace?
Evan flung another measure of Spark Aromatic, but the effect was far weaker this time. Singh merely flinched at the blast, his focus breaking for a heartbeat — enough for Edgar's halberd, wreathed in a sudden windstorm, to crash into his back and hurl him to the ground.
Edgar planted a boot upon Singh's spine and drove down with a Storm Stomp, pinning him. Lucian hacked at the Leonine's sword hand, feeling three fingers sever beneath his blade. And yet Singh did not release his weapon. The detached fingers clung stubbornly to the hilt, bound to it by a thick, black miasma.
A shiver crept up Lucian's spine. This sword was wrong. Cursed, perhaps. He kept striking, carving fresh wounds into Singh's hide.
But Edgar's stamina waned, his storm pressing down with less and less force. Singh pushed through the assault, rising slowly to his feet. Edgar leapt clear before he could be thrown off.
Singh stood panting, bleeding from countless cuts. Then the Grafted Blade Greatsword exhaled — a surge of black vapor that enveloped him. The miasma seeped into his wounds, stanching the flow of blood. Yet the healing came at a cost — his frame seemed to wither, his fiery mane paling and shedding.
The three stood frozen, unwilling to rush in. "What in the lands between is that sword?" Lucian asked Edgar. 'It's nothing like the one in the game.' he thought to himself.
Edgar's face was grave. "The Grafted Blade Greatsword is a relic from a distant age, passed through many hands. Its true power is unknown — even to me. Its last wielder was a warrior of Castle Morne, before the fortress fell entirely to King Godfrey. In his final hour, he took up the blade and faced the king in vengeance. He fell — but was honored, his tale carved into the Stele of Swords. Afterward, the weapon was sealed away in the castle, never to be wielded again. I suspect… because its power is ill-omened."
As they spoke, Singh had recovered enough to charge again. Both hands gripped the Grafted Blade Greatsword, his strikes coming in a precise, disciplined rhythm — a true swordsman's form, unlike the wild flailing of common Misbegotten.
Lucian dodged two cuts, but the third came too swiftly. He braced his greatsword before him to parry, and Edgar stepped in, setting his halberd across Lucian's blade to help bear the force. Evan, too close for flame, cast a draught of Rousing Perfume to bolster them.
The collision rang out — but the impact was far less than they feared. Still heavy, but bearable. It seemed the Grafted Blade Greatsword's "healing" had drawn upon Singh's very life.