Lucian emerged from the side of the Church of Pilgrimage , where a lonely graveyard stretched into the mist. Among the crumbling stones, the Deathtouched wandered in silence.
He knew this place well—back in his "previous life," it had been a favored farming spot for equipment. Now, however, he had come with a different goal: to pick up two spare weapons.
The Bandit's Curved Sword were fine short-curved blades. Even if they were unlikely to be as strong here as they had been in the game, they would still diversify his arsenal. In the game, Lucian had often relied on dual Blood-infused short curves or paired them with the greatsword to slaughter bosses with overwhelming speed.
Suddenly, he smacked himself on the forehead.
"Ah—damn, I forgot."
"What is it? What did you forget?" came Melina's soft voice in his mind.
"I forgot to grab those weapons earlier. I'll just pick them up when I come back."
In the end, Lucian wrested two curved swords from the cold, stiffened hands of a bandit who had long since become one of the Deathtouched.
Through his monocular, he confirmed the location of the Sealed Evergaol, then urged Torrent forward at a gallop. On the way, he passed the Tombsward Ruins and decided to sweep through them. Outside, he gathered five Trina's Lilies—rare and valuable.
After clearing the enemies, he opened two chests guarded by loyal attendant Page in the underground chamber. Inside one lay a great scythe of pale, wing-like design. For a weapon meant to reap lives, it carried a strange air of sanctity.
Its name was Winged Scythe.
[ Attack ]
Phy 87
Mag 0
Fire 0
Ligt 0
Holy 104
Crit 100
Lucian had never used this weapon before, yet when he took it in hand and swung, it felt natural—its requirements well within his abilities.
He tried to unleash its skill; Angel's Wings, but midway through the motion, his vision was clouded by a hazy apparition: a maiden with white, angelic wings. Her image was indistinct, and her presence severed the flow of magic into the weapon. The attack ended in nothing more than a mundane leaping slash.
Puzzled, he tried again. The same apparition appeared, and once again, the skill failed.
Unable to make sense of it, he turned to Melina. "Melina, when I tried to use the weapon's skill, a vague, winged figure appeared. Every time she does, I can't channel magic into it. Do you know why?"
In the soul-realm, Melina leaned close, studying the great scythe. "This seems to be a weapon of heretics. I believe only the devout can wield it fully."
Lucian felt a twinge of disappointment—it was a Faith-based weapon, then. The winged maiden's blurred visage must have been a sign of his lack of devotion, preventing the skill from manifesting.
[ Requires ]
Str 16
Dex 16
Fai 24
The scythe was striking in appearance, but without its skill, it was half a blade. A trophy more than a weapon.
"I suggest you keep it,"Melina said again.
He blinked in surprise. For her to urge him to keep a weapon was unusual. "Is there something special about it?"
"I am not certain. But it seems to reduce the restorative power of Crimson Tears. Against other Tarnished, it could prove... effective."
Lucian nodded. In the game, there had been items—like the Albinauric Pot—that impede flask healing, but he hadn't expected a weapon to have such an effect.
"Fitting for a heretic's weapon, I suppose."
He stowed the scythe away. One day, paired with the Albinauric Pot, it might make for a deadly strategy against fellow Tarnished.
Soon, he arrived before the Sealed Evergaol. Upon a stone dais, two imp statues were stacked one atop the other—one kneeling below, the other perched above. In the upper imp's mouth, an orange flame glowed faintly.
The lower imp's forehead held a Stone Sword Key, and above it, a matching empty socket. Lucian drew a key from his pack and fitted it into the upper statue's brow.
With a metallic click, the firelight in the upper imp's mouth died, and violet ghostflame shimmered upon the ground before the Evergaol.
He checked his gear one last time, then touched the seal and stepped forward.
The world blurred. In an instant, he stood in a dim, mist-veiled space, much like the feeling of being drawn by Melina's teleportation. Through the haze, nothing beyond could be seen—this was another realm entirely.
Lucian drew both the Grafted Blade Greatsword and his Lion's Claw–imbued Greatsword, one in each hand. This was training, and training meant going all out. There was a particular move he could only perform with dual greatswords.
And there, across the space, he saw her.
The Ancient Hero of Zamor.
Her long hair was a pallid silver, withered like frost-burnt grass. She was tall and slender—Lucian would barely reach her waist. One hand rested lightly upon the gauzy wall of her prison, eyes fixed on the false horizon beyond.
The thin veil seemed close enough to touch, yet for her, it was an unbreakable cage. For one with her long, cursed life, this was torment without end.
His sudden arrival broke her stillness. She turned from the wall and picked up her distinctively Zamor Curved Sword. The opening of the seal did not mean freedom—it meant her executioner had arrived.
But she would not go quietly. She would make her foe taste the wrath of Zamor.
She swept forward, her blade carving the air, her movement like a gliding shadow across the ground. The slash rose from low to high, aimed to cut him down.
Lucian crossed his swords in defense, catching the blow, then retaliated with a sweeping strike from both blades. But she was swifter than he had expected; with a single light kick, she slid backward several paces.
It was his first time facing an opponent so agile. Even from a single exchange, he could feel her refined mastery of the sword. Her initial charge had been reminiscent of a Bloodhound Knight's strike—yet lighter, almost ethereal. Perhaps the knights had once studied the style of the Zamor heroes.
Lucian's focus sharpened. This opponent was worthy.
He pressed forward, seeking to corner her. She met him without retreat, swinging her Zamor Curved Sword. He parried the blow, but her movements never faltered—her waist twisting like a dancer's, feet fluttering as if on the wind.
From the deflected strike, she spun into another, faster and heavier. Blow followed blow in a storm of spinning steel.
Lucian weathered the flurry, feeling each strike grow heavier, until he leapt back, avoiding the whirlwind entirely.
The Ancient Hero stilled, not pursuing. Instead, she brought her left hand before the mask that covered her face, tilting her head in a graceful crouch.
Then she exhaled.
A wave of frost-laden breath rolled toward him, sharp and cold enough to bite the bone.