Within the cavern, Lucian found a coffin left ajar. Inside lay nothing but a heap of ashes.
Beside it was a Twinsage Glintstone Crown—likely belonging to the deceased.
Lucian gathered the ashes into the sorcerer's own headpiece, setting it carefully aside. He would return for it after fully exploring the catacomb. Later, he thought, he would place this sorcerer alongside the Battlemage Hugues.
Both were sorcerers. Both had their remains stored within their own crowns. Surely, they would get along.
Upon the Erdtree root fused with countless corpses, Lucian also discovered something far more troubling: a Deathroot, thickly entwined with black thorns of death.
This one was far larger than usual—twice the size of the ones left behind by Tibia Mariners after death. Most Deathroots were the size of an apple. This one was the size of a grapefruit.
Eyes of the dead bulged along its surface, grown together with the root. Black blotches and thorny vines riddled it—signs it had lingered here for ages.
Lucian raised a Mantis Blade and cut the Deathroot free.
Then, invoking the Law of Regression, he sealed it thoroughly. As with the ashes, he set it down to collect later.
Retracing his steps, Lucian left the cavern and followed a different passage downward.
Curiously, though the Deathroot had been sealed, Deathborn skeletons continued to rise again and again.
This was unlike his past encounters. Normally, once a Tibia Mariner fell, its summons vanished along with it.
He frowned. Something didn't add up.
The Deathborn relied on death's miasma to remain animated. Without that fuel, they should have collapsed into piles of brittle bones.Yet here they were, rising again—even after being struck down by holy law.
In fact, when scoured by Law of Regression, they still revived, some even comically whirling their blades above their heads like helicopter rotors, launching themselves at him—only to slam into the walls and crash down in ridiculous heaps.
That was when Lucian noticed a strange figure among them: a living corpse, holding a candelabrum burning with Ghostflame.
Candelabra were common sentry gear across the Lands Between. But Ghostflame torches? He had never seen such before. And the flame seemed… different.
To test his suspicion, Lucian summoned a storm, snuffing out every other torch nearby—even his own starlight overhead.
Now, in the pitch-dark grave, only the glow of that Ghostflame candelabrum remained.
As he drew closer, slaying Deathborn along the way, he stepped into the flame's circle of light.
And at once, he understood.
The Ghostflame wasn't ordinary fire—it carried the aura of an ancient law, one that sanctified death itself.
Under its light, death was no longer an error to be corrected. Here, the Law of Regression lost its authority. Deathborn retained their miasma. Holy law inflicted wounds, but did not purge.
So this was the force served by the Death Rite Birds and their kind—the ancient god of death.
Lucian reignited his starlight, filling the tomb with glow. Then, sweeping up a storm, he snuffed out the Ghostflame candelabrum.
At once, the Deathborn collapsed into bone heaps, no longer sustained.
Now, clearing them out was simple: extinguish the flames, and the grave grew quiet.
—
At a corner of the catacomb, Lucian found a chamber sealed by an imp statue. He did not hesitate, driving in a Stonesword Key.
His stores at Stormveil were plentiful—there was no need to be stingy.
The chamber opened. Within, the Deathborn collapsed instantly, stripped of miasma without Deathroot to anchor them. A small mercy—saving him the trouble of fighting.
And there, propped against the wall, lay a weapon: Rosus' Axe.
Rosus, known as the Guide of the Dead, held a special place among death's keepers. Yet the axe itself seemed awkward, unwieldy.
Lucian set it aside. Not for use, but as part of his growing collection.
The catacomb was not large. Soon, Lucian reached its deepest chamber.
It dwarfed even the boss cavern before. Three massive guillotines operated ceaselessly within—raised slowly, then released to fall in thunderous arcs, smashing stone as they struck.
Each crash echoed power enough to behead even dragons.
And, of course, skeletal archers lined the hall, ready to obstruct.
Lucian wasted no time. He swept forth a storm, extinguishing every Ghostflame torch.
The Deathborn fell silent, collapsing into piles of white bone.
Only then did he step forward to study the guillotine traps.
Yes… he remembered. By riding the flat of the blades as they rose, one could reach the second floor. There, behind an illusory wall, a hidden foe waited: a Black Knife Assassin.
Lucian circled the hall, confirming the path. Between the second and third guillotines, he spotted the ascent.
But rather than risk the blades, he bent his knees, storm gathering around him. With one mighty leap, boosted by tempest and his own strength, he vaulted cleanly to the second floor.
The corridor above was narrow, statues of Watchdogs aligned neatly along the walls.
Lucian shook his head, chuckling.
"The assassin is clever enough to use a hidden wall… yet not clever enough to hide the entrance itself."
The passage formed an L-shape, sparsely guarded. After clearing a few Deathborn and their Ghostflame, he pressed on to its end.
There, a wall barred the way. To the unknowing, it was a dead end. But Lucian knew better.
He considered summoning a ring of Glintblades, then refrained. Negotiations should not begin with a drawn weapon.
Instead, he lifted his Mantis Blade and tapped the wall. The illusion shattered at once, revealing a small chamber beyond.
A lone figure stirred. Resting against the far wall, a Black Knife Assassin raised her head, eyes meeting his.
At Lucian's side, even Melina froze.
Her expression tightened. The Black Knives… those who once slew Godwyn the Golden.
Lucian opened his mouth to speak—yet before a word left his lips, the assassin sprang to her feet.
Low to the ground, swift as a shadow, she darted forward, blade gleaming.
Her dagger—unlit, not yet bearing the red glow of Destined Death. She did not wish to expose it. Not yet.
Its point drove straight for Lucian's chest.
"Wait—I'm not your enemy!" he called.
She gave no answer.
Lucian raised his Mantis Blade, parrying the thrust with perfect precision.
In the same instant, the assassin vaulted off the locked blades, flipping high overhead.
He spun, expecting a strike to his back, only to find her sprinting full-tilt for the exit.
"…What?"
They weren't fighting—she was fleeing.
Lucian blinked in surprise, then darted after her. "Wait! Don't run, I'm not here to hurt you!"
The assassin didn't look back. To her, he was nothing but a grave-robber intruder—dangerous, experienced, not to be trusted.
She had no time to risk injury here. If he had allies, she would be cornered. Better to escape, then ambush him outside, silence him before he could speak of her presence.
Ever since the Night of Black Knives, they had lived in hiding, never leaving trace or corpse behind. For even their bodies told secrets—especially their weapons, still marked forever with traces of the Death Rune.
No, she could not fall here. She had to live, to conceal that night's truth.
Lucian's steps closed the distance, his voice still pursuing. "I told you, I mean no harm!"
Her breath came sharp. His speed was too great. Soon he was upon her.
Reaching, Lucian caught her wrist.
At once, the assassin twisted. She planted her feet on the wall, using the grip as leverage, and spun midair.
Her captured hand locked onto his wrist, pulling herself close—dagger flashing toward his throat.
For a moment, Lucian felt the chill of death itself against his neck.
But the blade never landed.
With a sharp motion, he swung her like a hammer, slamming her body into the wall.
She tried to lessen the impact, coiling tight, legs wrapped around his torso for leverage—but still, the blow cracked stone and drove blood from her lips.
Her grip broke. She staggered back, injured.
Yet instead of retreating, she steadied, blade raised once more. Now, the dagger glowed—red-black flame sparking along its edge.
Destined Death.
Lucian's brows drew tight. So, she meant to fight seriously. If she would not listen, then he would have to subdue her—alive, if possible.
He drew both Mantis Blades, ready.
And then, her form vanished.
The chamber's floor was littered with bones. Lucian knew she couldn't move without disturbing them.
He stomped down, sending magic through the tiles, forcing her from cover. Storm-winds swept the hall, searching.
Yet nothing, until a streak of red-black flame struck from above.
He looked up. "The ceiling—!"
Lucian leapt aside, barely dodging the first thrust of Destined Death.
A second, a third followed. This couldn't continue.
He exhaled, releasing the last of his FP in a storm that filled the entire chamber.
Walls peeled. Bones powdered. The tempest scoured everything.
If she survived, he could heal her with his flask. If not… then he would claim her blade and the Black Knife insignia.
He layered storm upon storm, until the inner tempest spun tight, shredding everything within.
At last, blood mist seeped through the winds.
Even an Assassin of the Black Knives could not resist forever.
When her struggle finally waned, Lucian let the storm fade.
At the chamber's center, the assassin lay broken, bloodied, her armor shredded to rags.
Still, he did not rush forward. Assassins were masters of feigned weakness.
Only after long moments did he approach.
She lay unmoving. Too weak to strike.
And Lucian frowned. If he delayed any longer, she might truly die.
He sighed, kneeling at her side.
"It seems," he murmured, "I'll have to save you, whether you like it or not."