The Centipede Cursemark, a testament to the death of the first demigod, represents the defeat of Eternity. Though it contains vestigial power, ordinary people cannot drive it; however, those possessing powers related to death might be able to tap into its potential.
Currently, the Tarnished wields the Black Flame of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, the ancient deity of death. Although the Cursemark was carved by Maliketh's Destined Death, it shares a common source with the Queen's power. The moment the Tarnished applied the Black Flame to the Cursemark, the mark itself ignited. It was a pale, grey-white flame—distinct from the Queen's Black Flame—seeming to possess no raw power other than the act of consuming itself. Perhaps it had a special effect on those living in death?
Leaving Ranni's Divine Tower, the Tarnished planned to head to the Weeping Peninsula to fulfill Sellen's request. But just as the two were about to set off, the Tarnished inadvertently caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the distance.
A great jar... he stood with his hands crossed over his chest. Although one could not see a Living Jar's facial expression, it was clear he was gazing at something.
(Alexander? What is he doing here?) The Tarnished didn't move; he watched Alexander from afar. The jar seemed lost in thought, clenching his hands from time to time only to release them shortly after.
It seemed the battle against the Starscourge had indeed dealt a significant blow to his confidence. Before long, Alexander ceased his idle standing; his spirited, booming voice echoed from the distance as he stopped hesitating, left the cliffside, and marched northward. However, his path did not align with that of the Tarnished and Millicent.
"What was that sound just now?" The sheer volume of the shout startled Millicent, who had been patiently tending to her blade. This world of sudden shocks was not particularly friendly to a young maiden newly experiencing the world, but everyone matures from a state of innocence—and besides, Millicent's mental fortitude far surpassed that of her peers.
"Millicent, how old are you?"
"Eh??" The Tarnished's abrupt, random question left Millicent a bit dazed. Leaving aside the state of her memories, given the chaotic flow of time in the Lands Between, even she couldn't figure out her exact age.
"Don't mind me, I was just asking."
"Ha... I see." She had grown somewhat accustomed to the Tarnished's occasionally nonsensical remarks. Perhaps this was his way of relieving boredom?
Shortly after Alexander left, the Tarnished and Millicent arrived at the spot where he had stood, looking out at the endless ocean.
"Tarnished, look down there." At the same time, Millicent noticed large stone slabs protruding from the mountain wall below. There were bloodstains on them; they seemed to be platforms someone had built to link the upper and lower levels.
There were many slabs, and a careless step could easily lead to a fatal fall.
"Shall we go down and see?" The Tarnished was curious about what lay beneath.
"Yes, alright." Thus, under the power of the versatile Aspect of the Crucible: Tail, they reached the bottom without any danger or suspense. It was a small village... filled with wooden huts, yet they were not dilapidated.
What surprised the Tarnished and Millicent even more was that the village had no human inhabitants. Instead, there was a group of jars just like Alexander. These jars came in all sizes: some lay motionless on the ground, while others—small jars resembling human children—swung their arms back and forth as they waddled about.
The atmosphere in the village was peaceful. Even though they sensed the Tarnished's arrival, the great jars did not attack without a word like those in the outside world. However, they did not seem capable of speech like Alexander.
"So many jars... what exactly is this place..." Millicent had only seen one jar in Caelid—the fortress-sized Great-Jar at the Colosseum. She only knew a little about the origins of Living Jars.
"Big brother, big sister, why have you come here? This is a place only jars are supposed to know about." As Millicent wondered, a child's voice came from behind. Turning around, she saw a small jar sitting outside a nearby house, swinging its legs as if in a very good mood.
"Big brother, big sister, you mustn't let anyone else know about this place!" The little jar stood up and walked toward them.
Facing the little jar, the Tarnished explained how they had arrived. When the jar heard the name "Alexander," it became very excited.
"Ohhh! Big brother, you know Uncle Alexander! I see, so Uncle did come back to see his hometown." The little jar spun around in excitement. From the little jar's mouth, they learned that this place was called Jarburg.
It was Alexander's hometown. Long ago, Alexander had left his home to become the strongest warrior, embarking on a path to grow more powerful. The village regarded Alexander as their pride; he was a rare, wise Great Jar.
Among their kind, a "Chosen Jar" would be born every so often. They were stronger than ordinary jars and could speak human tongues. Alexander was one of these chosen ones. However, being a Chosen Jar did not guarantee one could break through their limits. Having developed emotions, they could be troubled by them; though born stronger than normal jars, they might hesitate to move forward because of their feelings.
"Brother, sister, would you like to become Potentates?" The little jar had a high opinion of these two strangers; both seemed to be the type of people who allowed others to lower their guard.
"Potentates?" Millicent looked at the Tarnished, who also didn't know what a Potentate was. Under the little jar's explanation, they learned that some humans took on this role. A Potentate's hands had to be incredibly smooth.
Millicent was clearly uncomfortable showing her hands to the world, so only the Tarnished offered his hand for the little jar to inspect. But after a careful examination, the little jar's tone became disappointed. Clearly, the Tarnished did not qualify to be a Potentate.
His hands were not smooth.
"Mm... what a shame. Big brother, you can't be a Potentate..." The little jar's voice was full of disappointment, but it quickly cheered up. "But even so, big brother and big sister can still chat with me!"
"Alright, we will," Millicent said with a smile, kneeling before the little jar. She wanted to pat it, but she hesitated due to the rot within her. Even though the rot was suppressed, this had become almost a habit for Millicent... so far, the only person she had shared close contact with was the Tarnished.
She looked toward the Tarnished with a worried expression. "Overcoming the negative impact that thing brings you is also part of your growth." The Tarnished tilted his head encouragingly. Finally, spurred by his words, Millicent gathered her courage and patted the top of the little jar.
It was a red, patterned lid. It didn't feel particularly great to the touch... but for Millicent, touching a living thing was a rare and significant event.
"Don't be nervous, sister! I may not be as strong as Uncle Alexander, but I am a jar nonetheless. I'm very sturdy!" The little jar raised its arms and swayed its body from side to side. Millicent was deeply moved, her eyes exceptionally tender.
(Warmth knows no species boundary,) the Tarnished thought, leaning against a wall and watching the scene. As he watched Millicent gradually overcome the influence of the rot, he recalled the method Trina had told him.
(Empyreans... to think they have such power.) Lowering his head, the Tarnished was suddenly startled... he... seemed to understand why those Preceptors had been silenced by Radagon...
Jarburg was small but full of life, a veritable paradise. This place should have only been accessible to jars and Potentates, but according to the little jar, their peace was not permanent.
They were targeted by a vile group known as Poachers. Because jars contained the flesh and blood of warriors, over time, the heroic aura of those warriors would permeate the jar itself, granting various powerful abilities.
The reason they hunted jars was for their shards—a powerful item. Possessing jar shards could effortlessly increase one's strength.
Power is intoxicating; thus, the jars were often persecuted. Even if the residents of Jarburg never left their village, they would inevitably be targeted.
"That such people exist... to do such insane things for the sake of power." Millicent looked at the surrounding jars; though they couldn't speak, their every move was as simple as a child's. Even if they weren't human, they were still one of the myriad living beings in the Lands Between. Any wanton slaughter for selfish desire was a desecration of life. Valuing martial arts did not mean one could kill without end.
"Big brother, big sister, could I ask a favor...? If possible, please find someone who can serve as a Potentate. Everyone in the village is a bit cracked... but we aren't in a hurry. Just keep an eye out during your journey." The little jar spoke somewhat shyly.
"Yes, we'll try our best," Millicent promised with a smile. Leaving Jarburg, the two were still thinking about what kind of person would be suitable to be a Potentate.
The little jar said a Potentate's palms must be smooth, but the Lands Between was currently in an era of post-war decay. Where would one find well-maintained, smooth hands...? Even Melina had burn scars on hers.
And a warrior certainly wouldn't meet the criteria... well, there are so many people in the Lands Between, one would turn up eventually.
A room filled with books was dim and lightless. A man rested his chin on his hands, seemingly lost in deep thought.
"The seal on the stars has been broken... it seems he succeeded. He is indeed no ordinary Tarnished... I only hope he doesn't forget his promise to me." As the man finished speaking, a taciturn man in skeletal armor leaned against the wall without a word.
"Still haven't found it? Hmph... quite the Village of the Albinaurics... and you, Ensha, how many times have you failed now?" The man's tone changed from its usual calm to one of anger, carrying an indescribable authority.
The skeletal man named Ensha could not talk back; he could only bow his head in silence.
"Ah... it seems my decision to strip you of your vocal cords wasn't such a good thing after all... I can't even hear a single word of apology from your mouth for your incompetence..." Gideon Ofnir, leaning on his cane, paced around the dim room.
Ensha heard the thump-thump-thump of the cane hitting the floor, and his heart filled with dread.
"Ah... if you had even half the strength of that Tarnished, I suppose you wouldn't have failed... but no matter. I will give you one last chance. No matter what method you use, find that Secret Medallion for me." Gideon issued his final ultimatum. He was beginning to lose interest in Ensha, the so-called "Soulless King" and lord of those who cling to others.
Ensha harbored a fear of Sir Gideon that reached into his soul. He knew well the terror of this man... seemingly calm and rational, but more insane than anyone.
He himself was but a pawn. A so-called "King" was just a joke; this man would sacrifice everything for knowledge...
He would be a discarded piece... and what of that "foster daughter" of his, Nepheli...? Would she be any different?
"Fine, go... I know there are survivors in the Village of the Albinaurics. Continue the slaugh— I don't believe they can escape the fear of death... Ah, right, this time that smiling old man will assist you... do your work well. You have no more chances... Ensha." Having his shoulder patted, Ensha was no longer silent in his mind.
There was only endless, inner terror.