Lucian returned to his quarters and collapsed onto the bed—yet sleep refused to come.
It had been a long day. First, a fierce and exhilarating battle with Elyssa. Then, the rescue of Sorceress Sellen. Afterward, he had gone to the Roundtable Hold to repair his equipment, been summoned by the Two Fingers, and walked away with a hoard of runes and relics—enough to raise his strength considerably.
By all rights, exhaustion should have claimed him the moment his head touched the pillow. But Anogo's words still echoed in his mind.
Anogo was a strange, contradictory man. He had risked himself to aid Lucian, a stranger, when danger loomed—yet had also agreed, without much protest, to sell out the whereabouts of his old acquaintance, Patches.
It was clear to Lucian that the two were more than passing acquaintances; otherwise, Anogo would not have hesitated, nor asked whether Lucian sought vengeance.
Was this simply the way of his wandering folk? Perhaps not entirely.
If the Lands Between were a place where one could live without selling a friend's secrets, no sane man would choose to do so. But in this broken, war-ravaged realm, another handful of runes could mean the difference between survival and death.
Once, Lucian had not thought deeply about such matters. His goals had been framed by the logic of the game he once knew—seeking a perfect ending, setting himself the lofty aim of bringing peace to the world.
But meeting living, breathing souls—seeing their struggles, their small kindnesses and betrayals—had given him a sense of belonging here.
The massacre at Castle Morne had opened his eyes further. The Elden Ring was shattered, and the Shattering War had drowned the land in blood. Some had gone mad; others longed for death but could not find it. Ordinary folk lived in constant fear, unable to draw a single easy breath.
At first, he had merely wanted to "save the NPCs" as he knew them in the game—patch over the regrets of that other world. But now, Lucian truly wished to change the fate of all life in the Lands Between, to grant them genuine peace.
Once, he could excuse himself—claim his strength was too meager to make any real difference, and that he would act "later". But his power was growing. His wings had all but spread.
Perhaps it was time to do something—anything—for the people here. He could not yet reshape the world, but perhaps… he could bring a sliver of dawn, The Light Beyond Grace.
He did not know why this resolve had taken root, but no grand reason was required. It was not gratitude, nor pity. It was simply that he had looked upon this world and decided it must change.
Perhaps, once Godrick the Grafted was slain, he would begin.
With thoughts swirling and reforming like storm clouds, Lucian finally drifted into sleep.
—
The next day, Lucian accompanied Anogo to the Bridge of Sacrifice—the very place where soldiers had once barred his way to the Weeping Peninsula.
At their arrival, a soldier approached to perform a routine inspection. He seemed well-acquainted with Anogo, nodding to him before waving him through.
When his gaze shifted to Lucian, Lucian produced a token—given to him long ago by Edgar. The soldier's eyes widened with recognition; he stepped aside at once, bowing respectfully.
They crossed the bridge and galloped down the great road. Anogo's small donkey, unburdened by goods today, ran at a respectable pace—but to Torrent, it was a snail's crawl. The spectral steed kept close behind with lazy ease.
Following the marshy banks of Agheel Lake, Anogo led the way toward a hidden cave. Somewhere in this area, Patches had made his den. The merchant began to search in earnest; the cave, as Patches had boasted, was indeed well concealed.
Lucian joined the search, though Torrent seemed far more interested in stretching his legs than in finding a rogue merchant.
That was when Lucian noticed it—blood, dark and wet, crawling through the grass like something alive.
From it emerged a figure known to many but welcomed by none; Bloody Finger Nerijus. Once a man, now a zealot of the Blood. He had murdered his own maiden to join the Mohgwyn Dynasty, rising to the rank of the Sanguine Noble. Since then, he had stalked the Tarnished in Limgrave, leaving bodies in his wake and terror in the minds of the few survivors. His infamy had spread even to the Roundtable Hold.
Nerijus fixed his gaze on Lucian, studying him intently. Not a soldier of Godrick, but a Tarnished—one dressed in the mismatched gear that marked an inexperienced wanderer. Easy prey.
He licked his lips, already savoring the taste of blood. The fool hadn't even noticed his approach. Or had he?
In truth, Lucian had felt a faint killing intent brushing against him, but it was so weak he had mistaken it for the buzzing of the giant dragonflies nearby.
Strange. This isn't a game anymore—why do these pests keep coming after me? Godrick's men, Kaiden mercenaries—fine, they've got orders. But the dragonflies? What's their excuse?
A flash of crimson tore through the air toward him. Lucian didn't even bother to conjure a storm—he tilted his head, letting the projectile pass. The blood blade slammed into the rock behind him, splattering into a wet stain.
Ah. That's right. There's a Bloody Finger invasion here, isn't there?
He smiled faintly. A small-time killer who preyed on the weak of Limgrave—he'd teach him a lesson.
Still, how did these "invaders" even manage it here? There were no invasion signs, no summoning rituals like the game. Did they simply lie in wait? Pathetic.
Nerijus blinked, surprised that his prey had dodged the opening strike. But seeing Lucian still sitting motionless on Torrent, he concluded it must have been luck.
I've seen that before. Time to finish this.
The Bloody Finger surged forward, twin daggers dripping with bloodlust.
Lucian stepped calmly down from Torrent—best to keep the steed out of harm's way. He wanted to play a little.
Seeing his quarry dismount, Nerijus gave a cold smile. Fool. Fleeing on horseback was your only hope, and you've cast it aside. You really are terrified.
He closed the distance fast, the metallic tang of his weapons heavy in the air. Still, Lucian made no move to draw his blade.
Too frightened to even unsheathe your sword? Good. I'll carve you open slowly…
Nerijus raised his daggers, ready to paint Lucian with wounds that would bleed him dry.
But in the blink of an eye, Lucian's fist struck like a hammer. The Bloody Finger dropped to his knees, the world spinning, and at last understood—this was no ordinary Tarnished before him.