The man's gaze fell upon a message etched into the ground beside a vertical drop into a cavern.
Cave of Knowledge.
Below the title was a brief footnote, explaining that this place served as a trial for those returning to the Lands Between—a place to re-acclimate to the rigors of combat.
"Useful, perhaps. But not for me. I've already finished my warm-up." The man gripped his right hand and rotated his left wrist, a series of satisfying cracks echoing in the silence. The Grafted Scion had been a wretched thing, but it had served its purpose: it had stirred his long-stagnant blood.
"Though I truly wonder what manner of beast conceived of a technique like 'Grafting'." He frowned slightly. It was a heretical, twisted path.
He pushed open the heavy doors ahead and continued. Inside the structure, golden motes of light swirled like a slow-motion hurricane, converging into a central point where a fragment of Gold pulsed with the rhythm of a beating heart.
"Oh? A Site of Grace?"
He approached and gave the light a sharp flick of his fingers. As if answering a summons, the surrounding golden dust was instantly drawn into the center. A ripple of gold undulated outward like a stone cast into a still pond, and the previously flickering, ethereal Site of Grace began to solidify into a steady glow.
"What is this...? Why is this Grace so much smaller than in my era?"
The man felt a pang of bewilderment. In the age he remembered, Sites of Grace were towering beacons, as tall as a man and radiating a brilliance that could blind. Now, it looked withered—shrunken and frail.
Suppressing his unease, he reached his hand into the core of the light. "At least the fundamental functions remain." Storage and the ability to travel between Sites were intact. However, a deeper question troubled him: why was this Site severed from the rest of the network?
There were only two reasons why the connection between Graces would fail.
One: a specific Site had been physically destroyed.
Two: something was fundamentally wrong with the Elden Ring itself.
"Marika... did you truly...?" Even in this fractured age, the intentional destruction of a Site of Grace was a supreme sacrilege. For the network to be this fragmented, it could only be the latter. A dark realization took root in his mind.
"If that is the case, then let us see just how ruined this world has become."
He deposited the two spirit ash jars into the storage of the Grace, keeping only the twin golden straight swords at his hip.
"I hope this thing doesn't swallow my gear," he muttered, poking the light. The gold rippled under his touch. To his right, a massive barrier of grey mist blocked the path.
"Imp statues." He noted the small, gargoyle-like carvings flanking the fog. They were a type of seal; by channeling essence through them, a barrier was formed. These were notoriously resilient; attempting to shatter them with brute force was a fool's errand. One needed a specific catalyst: a Stonesword Key.
This particular statue was more complex than usual—a stacked mechanism requiring two keys to unlock.
"And here I am, empty-handed." He looked down at his near-naked form, clad only in a loincloth, and felt a surge of silent irritation. To have been a conqueror in life, only to be resurrected and find himself a victim of petty grave robbery... it was insulting.
But dwelling on it was useless. He would find a key eventually. He cast one final look at the mist-veiled door. His intuition—the sharp, predatory instinct of a survivor—told him that while danger lurked within, so did a treasure of significant value. Risk and reward, as always, were two sides of the same coin.
Finding nothing else of note, he stepped onto the lift and ascended to the surface. He pushed open the final set of massive iron doors, and for a moment, the sheer scale of the world stole his breath.
Gold bathed the earth. Above the pale golden clouds lay a sky of deep, bruised emerald. Countless trees dotted the landscape, their leaves shimmering with a metallic yellow luster. And dominating the horizon was a tree so vast it defied logic—a pillar reaching into the heavens, the absolute symbol of this world and its current age.
The Erdtree. The living incarnation of the Golden Order.
"So... the Ring is shattered. It seems you made your choice, Marika." His eyes sharpened. As a veteran of the Erdtree's earliest days, he recognized how much had changed. In his time, the Tree was far more glorious, its light a constant, roaring presence.
The Erdtree did not wither without cause. The only power capable of such a feat was the destruction of the Elden Ring itself, the source of the world's Law. And only one person had the authority to touch the Ring: the Vessel of the Greater Will, Queen Marika the Eternal.
"Oh... you there."
A voice, oily and high-pitched, broke his reverie. The man turned his gaze to the speaker. It was a figure in white robes wearing a clinical, expressionless white mask. The robes were stained with the brownish-black of dried blood, but one particular smudge was still a vivid, wet crimson. That fresh stain set off an alarm in the man's mind.
"A Tarnished, I take it... drawn to the Lands Between by the lure of the Elden Ring."
"But alas, how tragic. You are maidenless. You lack guidance, you cannot tap into the power of Runes, and you are forbidden from the Roundtable Hold."
"You are destined to die in obscurity, a nameless speck in the dirt."
"But fear not. Being maidenless is no great loss—for you have encountered me. Varré."
"?" The man stared at the babbling figure named Varré with utter incomprehension.
"Who the hell are you? You just started talking and you haven't stopped since I looked at you."
"Ah, poor, wretched Tarnished. I am—" Varré continued in his condescending, pitying tone, but the man cut him off mid-sentence.
"You're a real piece of work, aren't you? What's with that tone? Did no one ever teach you to mind your tongue in the company of strangers?"
Varré made him uncomfortable. The man felt like a vulture waiting for a carcass. Having spent a lifetime on the battlefield, the man could sense the weight of lives taken; Varré had plenty of blood on his hands.
But Varré didn't feel like a warrior. He lacked the crushing pressure of a true powerhouse. He felt more like a scavenger—the kind who prowls the edges of a slaughter to pick over the dying. The man had seen his type a thousand times before.
Furthermore, Varré's arrogance felt manufactured. It was a thin veneer of nobility and self-importance plastered over a hollow, oily interior. It was, frankly, a bit pathetic.
"Oh...?" Varré rubbed his hands together. Even behind the mask, one could feel the complexity of his gaze. "There is no need for such tension. I am here to guide you."
"You? Guide me?" The man let out a short, dry laugh.
"Indeed. I feel a certain... destiny between us. I can sense that you are not like the other dregs. You will find my guidance invaluable."
"Is that so? Then I have a question I'd 'kindly' like you to answer."
The man's eyes lidded halfway. In the blink of an eye, a golden straight sword was pressed firmly against Varré's throat.
"Wha—What are you doing!?" Varré stammered, his composure shattering instantly. He clearly hadn't expected the naked man to be so explosive.
"You see, when I first arrived in the Lands Between, I passed through a certain chapel."
"I found a dead woman there. Judging by her clothes, she was a Finger Maiden."
"I... I don't know what you're implying," Varré's voice trembled as the cold steel bit into his skin.
"And then, the moment I step out here, I find you. You're quite the Good Samaritan, aren't you? Waiting here for every wayward Tarnished. Do you tell everyone you meet that you have a 'destiny' together?"
"How ungrateful! I am simply offering my assistance!" Varré's voice rose in agitation.
"Shut your mouth. I didn't tell you to speak. Point two."
"How did you know I didn't have a maiden? For all you know, she could be resting inside the building behind me. You seemed very certain."
"You... you suspect me of murdering your maiden? Ridiculous! Where is your proof!?"
"I never said I suspected you. I'm just having a chat. Isn't your job to guide me?" The man lowered the sword slightly. "But speaking of that chapel... those multi-armed spiders are a real nuisance, aren't they?"
"Wouldn't you agree?" the man asked casually.
"Indeed... they have those horrid human faces—Wait!"
Varré realized too late that his panic had led him into a trap. He tried to scramble back, but the golden blade was back at his throat before he could draw breath.
The pressure the man exerted was suffocating. In all his years of proselytizing, Varré had never encountered a Tarnished this volatile, this dangerous.
"There it is. I only mentioned a spider, yet you knew it had a human face. Strange. That place is isolated. Why would you have been there to see it?" The man leaned in, a terrifying, blood-chilling smile spreading across his face as he backed Varré against a rock.
"Oh, and one more thing. I have a very keen nose for the scent of blood."
The man stared into Varré's eyes. Within the man's faded pupils, Varré saw a flicker of something primal—a carnivorous, blood-red light.
"You lowly Tarnished! Do you have any idea who you are threatening!? Do you think I am some common peasant? I am a noble servant of the Mohgwyn Dynasty!" Varré dropped the act, attempting to intimidate his captor. But...
"Are you stupid? You knew I was a Tarnished who just arrived. You banked on my ignorance to manipulate me. And now you're trying to use a name I've never heard of to scare me?"
"People these days are so naive." The man slammed his foot into Varré's chest, pinning him down.
"You...!" Varré gasped for air, before wheezing out a sneer. "A wretched Tarnished could never understand the greatness of our Dynasty!"
"Mark my words! Our sovereign is the Great Mohg! A Lord and a Demigod!"
Varré felt a surge of triumph. Surely even a stray Tarnished knew the terror of a Demigod's name. A disgraced wretch wouldn't dare defy a god; he would be easy to break once he realized his insignificance.
"Mohg?" The man's eyebrows twitched. A memory of a child covered in golden horns flashed through his mind.
So, my little nephew actually made something of himself... and this is the source of your arrogance?
"He's certainly come up in the world... and this is your trump card?"
"You! Blasphemer! How dare you speak of Lord Mohg in such a way!!" Varré erupted in fury, but the man's foot pressed down harder, crushing the breath from his lungs.
"Don't try to hide behind his name. And a word of advice: that name isn't something you should throw around so casually. It's a good way to lose your head." The man made a 'hush' gesture.
"Who... who are you...!?" Terror finally took root in Varré's heart. Lord Mohg was reclusive, and he strictly forbade his servants from drawing undue attention. His name was supposed to be a secret.
"You don't need to know. You seem pious enough toward Mohg. I imagine you killed that girl to leave me isolated so you could recruit me into your little cult."
"Unfortunately for you, your master Mohg isn't worthy of me..." the man chuckled.
"You—!!"
"I'm not a 'good' man by any stretch. I didn't even know that girl's name. But I'll say this: I liked her a hell of a lot more than I like you."
"At the very least..."
"She was more pleasant to look at. Your tone, your voice, and your motives... I find them all repulsive."
With a single, fluid motion, the sword flashed. Varré's head rolled.
"Fool. In this world, a single misplaced word carries a heavy price. Don't adopt a tone your strength can't back up. Provoking people... truly is a death sentence."
"Causing me trouble and then trying to recruit me... My mercy is the only reason you lived this long. A shame I'm not feeling merciful today."
The man gave Varré's corpse a contemptuous kick. As the body rolled, a blood-red medallion tumbled from the robes. It bore the insignia of a great trident.
"Well done, Mohg... quite the ambitious one, aren't you? To have such calculating vermin in your employ."
Feeling the frantic, throbbing pulse of accursed blood radiating from the medal, the man's voice turned ice-cold. "I'll settle the score with you soon enough, my dear nephew."
He approached the nearby Site of Grace and reached into the light once more. As expected, the connection was restored. "Being able to travel between these will make things much easier."
He then withdrew two items he had recovered earlier: a Tarnished's Furled Finger and a Finger Severer.
One was for carving a sign; when another touched it, the carver would be summoned to aid them. The other was to sever that very connection.
"The designs have changed, but the function remains the same as the old summoning rites." Back during the Great Crusade, the army had issued similar tools to ensure mutual support and minimize casualties.
The summoned would manifest as a spirit, their physical body entering a deep slumber.
"Nostalgic," he murmured. A small smile touched his lips as he recalled the comrades he had fought alongside. He had known some truly interesting characters in those days.
"We shall see if our paths cross again."
The man sat by the Grace and looked out into the distance. A massive figure clad in golden armor, mounted upon a heavy warhorse, came into view.
"A Tree Sentinel?"