Margit's expression remained calm. It was merely one gambit that failed—if not this, then the next.
These Tarnished before him were unlike any he had faced before. The sorcerer and the warrior bore strength beyond the ordinary; of the countless who had perished at his hand, only a few had ever displayed such prowess. Three others were weaker, yet their coordination with the sorcerer and warrior was seamless.
But those five were not the true threat. The Tarnished clad in the Banished Knight's garb, and the one from Zamor—those two were far more dangerous than the rest combined.
Margit pondered how best to annihilate them. This vessel of his was already in poor condition. It was but a projection, bereft of the power of the Great Rune, and had no true weapon of its own. Worse still, his foot was wounded, hampering his movement—a grave disadvantage.
Yet, the Tarnished who wielded storm had caged him together with his foes, enclosing him in the tempest. The sword-rain had been checked, true—but what of it? Wolves among sheep, indeed. In so confined a space, even hindered movement mattered little.
"Thou art not so easily cast aside, Tarnished. As kin of warriors, I did thee slight in folly."
"Now… prepare to taste the terror of the Fell Omen."
Margit's left hand conjured the golden phantom of a great spear. The second round of the slaughter began.
He charged toward Lucian. His wounded foot left a trail of bloody prints upon the ground, yet his stride did not falter, nor did his face betray pain. It was as though that foot belonged to another.
Seeing Margit rush forward, Lucian had no thought of retreat. If Margit dared to press the attack even while wounded, why should he yield? Lucian judged himself no weaker than this avatar of Morgott.
Though the phantom's flesh was stronger even than Mohg's vessel, it lacked the Lord of Blood's twisted sorceries. Here was an enemy of pure strength and skill, wielding arms in open contest. This was the kind of foe Lucian relished.
War!
The spear's thrust lunged, but Lucian slipped aside, planting a foot upon the phantom weapon. It was a counter he had learned from the shinobi of Ashina—perfect against such long-thrust attacks.
Margit dissolved the phantom before it could be pinned. His right hand's staff drove forward, while his left summoned the phantom of a straight sword, swinging across.
Lucian raised his left-hand blade, guiding the staff along its edge. Golden motes scattered like shavings where the weapons scraped. From this, Lucian realized Morgott's phantom was like Mohg's own; incapable of channeling true weapon power.
The straight sword clashed with Lucian's two blades, a fleeting contest of equals. Yet soon Lucian gave ground, outmatched in raw might. Margit's flesh was too strong, his strikes inexorable. The phantom blade pressed closer, while the staff bore down from the opposite side.
Two weapons, two directions—Lucian was moments away from being cut down.
What to do? Lucian chose his answer. He stomped on Margit's wounded foot.
Margit had not expected such a move. The sudden pain, unguarded, stole his focus for an instant. Lucian seized the chance and broke free.
"Had you thought to wear shoes, you might not be so pitiful now."
"Enough prattle!"
From then, Lucian refused to contest Margit's raw strength. Each strike he turned, parrying just enough to deflect, then flowing into swift ripostes. He never locked blades with brute force again.
Around them, the others pressed in. Blades, spells, and axes bit into Margit's hide, while his tail lashed to keep them at bay. His eyes never left Lucian.
If Lucian fell, the storm would dissipate, and the sword-rain would butcher the others. Then the Zamor warrior could be dealt with at leisure.
Margit's techniques were clean, refined to mastery. Dagger, hammer, straight sword, spear—phantoms of every weapon cycled through his left hand, each expertly wielded. The varying lengths and rhythms made his offense unpredictable.
For Lucian, this was torment—and revelation. The game-like thinking of his past life had led him never to try dual-wielding disparate weapons. Now, facing Margit, he saw the deadly potential firsthand. His armor bore many cuts and dents from the phantom arms, yet his battle spirit only grew. To cross blades with Margit was to learn. This was the adversary he craved.
Despite the unrelenting storm of battle, Margit could not slay Lucian before the Tarnished's sorcery was spent. His phantom vessel, battered and broken, leaned upon its staff, eyes fixed upon the foe.
He had failed this time. But not without cost.
The first Tarnished he struck had been hurled aside at the onset. Another, the hammer-bearer, had been cast beyond the storm's boundary, shredded into pulp by sword-rain. A third lay hewn in half, entrails strewn upon the ground. Three lives extinguished.
Nepheli and Rogier were sorely wounded, though still clinging to life. Lucian's armor was battered, his figure disheveled, but his wounds were shallow. Only Elyssa had escaped with hardly a scratch—her agility made her a poor target for Margit's efforts.
Margit let the phantom sword-rain fade. He struck his chest, light blazing from his form. He meant to detonate the remnant of his magic, to annihilate both Tarnished and the road to Stormveil with him.
At the very least, he would deny this accursed Tarnished entry to the castle. This one stirred in him a rare disquiet. With Godrick's strength as it was, he might be slain.
Lucian saw the change at once. He drew forth the fragment of the Shackle, pouring magic into it, and slammed it against the ground. Golden chains burst forth, binding Margit tight, sealing the flow of his sorcery.
The light sputtered. The self-detonation failed.
Margit collapsed forward, glaring coldly upward.
"I shall remember thee, Tarnished."
"Smouldering with thy meagre flame.… Cower in Fear. Of the Night."
"The hands of the Fell Omen shall brook thee no quarter."
Only when his words were finished did Lucian drive his greatsword into Margit's heart.
[Ding!]
Rune Gain Multiplier x5 (Time Remaining: 60 minutes).