Mohg had only just awoken from his slumber beside Miquella's cocoon. Today, like every other day, Miquella remained unmoved.
But Mohg was not disheartened. Miquella was only dreaming, after all.
He had already filled the cocoon in accursed blood, pouring it into the nascent god within. The cursed blood would twist Miquella's growth, changing him forever.
When the cocoon was fully saturated—when the cursed blood had seeped into every fiber of his being—Miquella would emerge not as a child of the Erdtree, but as the god of a new dynasty.
And on that day, Mohg would stand at his side—not as servant, but as consort. God and king. Together they would overthrow the cursed Golden Order, which had brought him nothing but suffering, and in its place raise up the glorious Dynasty of Mogh and Miquella.
The thought alone intoxicated him.
Now, it was time for him to indulge in his fantasies.
Yet he had not forgotten his duties.
Even as he clung to Miquella's cocoon, he felt it—the sudden death of a noble who bore his cursed blood.
The death of a common Blood Finger was nothing unusual. Ordinary invaders were weak; it was no surprise if they were slain by Tarnished prey. Mohg thought of them as fodder, nothing more. Expendable.
But the named ones (nobles)… that was different.
They were the Dynasty's face. He had promised them they would stand witness to the rise of his empire. If they were to die, it would be by his own hand—gutted and hung upon the swamps of blood, their lifeblood offered up to enrich his dominion.
To fall in the wilderness like dogs? An insult. An affront to the Mohgwyn name.
And beyond that, the nobles had been strengthened by the maidens, armed with weapons and incantations he himself had bestowed. Even against overwhelming odds, they should have been able to escape. Their death was no simple matter.
Through the cursed blood bound to his blades, Mohg opened his sight to the culprit.
A Tarnished. Young, perhaps, but his power surged like a storm.
Among all the Tarnished, only two he knew were stronger—Eleanora, Violet Bloody Finger, and the one they called the Old Man.
Both of them were his treasures, beloved vassals destined to hold high office when the Dynasty was born.
Yet—no. There was one other Tarnished.
The thought of him stirred rage and loathing. That presence, that stench, was hateful. It reminded him of her—his cold, unfeeling mother—and of the magic that had once bound him in the sewers beneath Leyndell.
Mohg brooded for a moment, then his lips curled into a cruel smile.
He hated this Tarnished.
"I was going to send someone else," he whispered. "But I've changed my mind."
This insect he would crush himself.
He raised his Sacred Spear. Deep in the lowest reaches of the Dynasty's blood marshes, a shape began to rise—his own likeness, born of cursed blood and rune.
It had been a long time since he last created such a double. The technique was one he had learned from his brother Morgott, though he had rarely put it to use. The doppelgänger bore his own will, and when it died, its memories would return to him.
This one would carry half of his strength.
Even the Sacred Spear it held was only an imitation, lacking the true weapon's power. But half the might of a Demigod was more than enough to crush a Tarnished.
Then, with a gesture, Mohg lifted his Spear high, the tip shimmering with ripples in the air. Through that distortion, he reached out—communing with the Outer God he called the Formless Mother.
A bloody ring flared across his flesh. His Great Rune, once merely a shard of the Elden Ring, had been reshaped by the Formless Mother's power. Its laws twisted, its essence now a reflection of his own soul.
It granted him dominion over blood itself.
But to wield it fully, he had to invoke it alongside his god. Only then could he channel its complete power.
Together, they sent the avatar away. It dissolved into the blood and vanished.
Far away, in a quiet chamber, blood spilled from a ceramic jar, pooling on the floor. Slowly, silently, a tall figure emerged from the crimson mire.
Mohg's double had arrived.
Satisfied, the Lord of Blood lowered his spear. Soon the doppelgänger would return to him, bringing word of the Tarnished's death.
And with that, he sank back into blood, returning to Miquella's side.
Crushing an insect was a trifle. His true joy was here—dreaming of his god and their coming dynasty.
"Lucian!"
Melina's sharp voice pierced his ears.
At the same instant, Lucian felt it too—the murderous intent filling the room.
He hurled himself forward, rolling across the floor as a massive spear swept past, shattering the air where he had stood. He came up against the wall, hands grasping his two blades.
He turned—and froze.
The towering black figure, crowned with horned growths, clad in dark robes traced with crimson and gold. And in his hands, that golden trident.
A Demigod.
The Lord of Blood, Mohg.
'What the hell? Why is Mohg just—appearing in my room?!'
Cold sweat streamed down Lucian's back. Without Melina's warning, he wouldn't have sensed a thing.
Even she had not noticed at first—until the double fully manifested, and then came that strange familiarity. A presence like the witch who had once given him the spirit-calling bell.
Too close. Far too close.
"Oh? You evaded me. Remarkable," Mohg said, faintly amused.
Lujcian didn't answer. He bolted for the door instead.
He wore no armor—only his two blades were at hand. To face Mohg head-on now would be suicide. Even if this was only a double, its power was immense.
He needed to call Elyssa for aid. Warn the others to flee. A battle of this scale would consume them all.
But blood spread like a web, sealing the walls and the door alike.
A cruel laugh echoed in the chamber.
"You misunderstand, little Tarnished. I did not give leave for you to go."