Lucian set aside thoughts of the achievement system—for the panel offered no explanations, no scripture of rules, only silent results. No matter how long he puzzled over it, no answer could be found.
Instead, his mind returned to the duel with Mohg.
Of all the terrors he had faced, what lingered most was the Domain of Blood the Omen had conjured. In the game, Mohg had never wielded such a thing.
The ability to transmute into living blood—this at least could be excused, for Mohg had revealed such power in his entrance cutscene. But the crimson field that smothered the room, that bled into every surface and sent attacks from every direction—this was something monstrous, something beyond the scripts of any player's memory. It was not a mere battlefield effect, but an execution ground.
And that was only the power of cursed blood carried through the medium of the Reduvia. If Mohg were to fight from his true seat in the Mohgwyn Palace, with the unending reservoir of the accursed mire at his command, Lucian dared not imagine the carnage.
Even this vessel had been only a fragment—a simulacrum. How much of the Omen's strength did it truly bear? The Sacred Spear and its bond to the Formless Mother were absent; else, Mohg would never have perished without invoking them. And yet, even stripped of half his strength, his powers were dreadful.
The bloodflame especially.
In the game, it was little more than a thrown arc, flames lapping at the ground, obstructing one's steps. But what Mohg had wielded here was different: once it kissed blood, it sank inward, igniting flesh from within. In mere seconds it could reduce a man to ash, impossible to resist.
Lucian shuddered. If this had been Mohg's true form and not a shadow, he might well have seized command of Lucian's very veins.
He realized then he had gravely underestimated the Demigods.
The Great Runes they bore were not simple tokens of succession, not merely crowns awaiting a claimant. They were shards of the Elden Ring itself—fragments of the Golden Order's laws. Fragments of the world's very workings. To wield one was to command principles, not just strength of flesh.
The game had not shown this. But here, it was undeniable.
And Mohg's Rune bore within it a law alien to the Golden Order: the law of blood. He had never possessed such arts until his communion with the Formless Mother. She must have rewritten his Rune, carving into it a new edict, granting him dominion over crimson.
For that revelation, Lucian almost felt grateful. Mohg's sudden arrival had opened his eyes early. He could not afford to measure the Demigods by what he remembered of the game—they were greater, darker, far more terrible.
While Lucian lay brooding in pain upon his new bed, Melina sat quietly upon the wooden sofa, knees drawn to her chest. The timber was hard, but the blanket softened it, enough for her to rest.
She watched him in silence.
And the more she watched, the more foreign he seemed.
She had followed him since he first stumbled, weak and ignorant, into the Lands Between. She had witnessed his every stride, his struggles, his wounds. Yet the powers he had revealed in battle just now—powers that defied explanation—were utterly unfamiliar.
That impossible recovery, nerves burned and yet reborn, wounds erased as though rewritten. Melina had never once seen him learn such a craft, nor practice it, nor even hint of its price. It was as if the ability had come from nowhere.
Unless… unless it came from beyond the Lands Between.
She thought back to his earliest days. He had been fragile then, fumbling, and his ignorance of this world had been genuine. She had felt it. He had not been feigning. If he had possessed such might all along, those early struggles would have been needless.
And yet—what of the torrents of runes he sometimes gained? The inexplicable foresight that guided his steps? When had he ever earned them?
The more she remembered, the less it made sense.
Every time he moved, it was as though he already knew. Knew where the talismans lay, where the ruins sealed away a prisoner, where power might be found. At Castle Morne, he had spoken of learning knightly skill from the lord—a claim she had dismissed, until it proved true. At the Peninsula, he had declared that a strong talisman lay sealed within the gaol, though no one had ever told him so. Even the sealed witch beneath the ruins—he had known she was there, though the witch herself showed no sign of recognition.
Too strange. Too deliberate.
This was not the guidance of Grace. Grace pointed only toward thrones and crowns—it did not whisper secrets like a nursemaid.
Melina buried her face against her knees, curling small upon the sofa. Her chest ached with unease.
She no longer knew how to face him.
Should she keep her silence, as she had before, excusing it all as "everyone bears secrets," and continue their journey as if nothing had changed? After all, they were companions. A little secrecy could be forgiven.
Or should she speak plainly, demand truth of him, and in doing so prove true trust?
The fire in the hearth crackled softly. Lucian turned in restless pain upon the bed. And Melina, unseen in her turmoil, trembled.