"Never. I won't give up." Alexander's voice cracked, but he forced his thighs to steady. The tremor in his legs subsided, though his brow furrowed. "What's the point of these things on my body? Weight training?"
"You're nowhere near ready for weighted horse stance training. I'm just making one thing serve two purposes." Throne plucked a chicken wing from the Pot Person's "head." Steam rose faintly—heat conduction had done its job. He tore into it, the meat tender and dripping. "Stop looking around. Another two hours, and I'll teach you the basics of martial arts."
"Yes!" Alexander's voice surged with energy. The memory of Throne's precise, almost artistic strikes played in his mind like a loop.
"Keep it up." Throne patted the Pot Person's body, then jerked his hand back, blowing on his fingers. The heat was intense. He wasn't sure if this Alexander matched the one from his memories, but the kid had chosen to follow him. That meant responsibility. The Pot Person's fighting style was chaos—raw strength and wild swings. It needed refinement.
True skill took time to cultivate, but Throne knew his way around a brawl. The pot body's fragile. Why not armor it up? Even if weapons aren't your thing, steel gauntlets could work.
Alexander struggled, sweat dripping down his face. Throne watched him. For a Warrior Pot, this kid had guts. Determination like that could take him far—if he didn't break first. Since their paths had crossed, Throne figured he'd lend a hand.
Maybe Alexander's persistence was contagious. Throne stopped slacking. The Storm Art flowed through him again. A pale gust coiled around his legs, the force of it bending the grass and shaking the trees. Then—
"Who's there?" Throne's growl cut through the air. A small head popped up from the flattened grass. The intruder froze, then bolted. Throne's right foot slammed down, and his body shot forward like a bolt. The storm around his feet detonated mid-step—whoosh—a two-stage burst.
He caught the figure in an instant, his hand slamming it into the ground. It was small, thin, with grayish-brown skin. Throne hauled it up, tilting his head. "Demi-human?"
His power had sharpened again. Bloodhound Step had its limits—no matter how skilled, it couldn't match Starlight movement's range. But today, he'd fused Storm Art with Bloodhound Step, creating a two-stage leap. Even knights wouldn't evade it, let alone this frail creature. "Why were you spying on us?" Throne held it aloft, its short legs flailing.
Alexander hurried over, his voice tinged with alarm. "Uh, you're choking him." Throne blinked. He glanced down. The Demi-human's eyes had rolled back. He loosened his grip, letting the figure drop. Coughs erupted—harsh, desperate gasps for air. The Demi-human lay sprawled, wheezing. For a moment, its neck had nearly snapped. Throne's strength was no joke.
After a full few minutes, the Demi-human looked up with lingering fear at Throne, who was sitting boldly on a rock in front of him. "M-my lord, I... my name is Boc, and I am the slave you saved last night." His voice was humble. Throne blinked and looked at Alexander behind him, finally understanding. So, he had recognized the Warrior Pot. When he released the people last night, only Alexander had stepped forward. Besides, all these Demi-humans looked the same; he couldn't even tell the males from the females, let alone who was who. "Oh, you're Boc!"
Alexander quickly pulled the Demi-human up, looked at him carefully, and laughed while patting Boc on the back. "Tsk tsk, it really is you. You should have just stood out openly; what would you have done if my Big Brother had slaughtered you?" The poor Demi-human was almost patted into the dirt and could only keep smiling apologetically. "I... I was afraid." "What's there to be afraid of? We're all on the same side." The hearty Warrior Pot pulled the Demi-human up and said to Throne: "His craftsmanship is quite good; he's the one who wove that scarf of mine. Huh, where did my scarf go?"
"Stop fumbling around; it was shot off by an archer yesterday." Throne scolded him irritably and leaned forward slightly. "You're a tailor?" Mentioning this, the originally timid Demi-human finally found some courage and nodded heavily. "Yes, our family are all tailors, and my descendants will be tailors too!" What a chance encounter across a thousand miles; could you be the ancestor of that Boc? Demi-humans don't live long; he probably wouldn't live until the end of the Tarnished era. But Throne didn't care; if his clothes wore out, he would just go rob someone.
"Tell me, why were you following us?" "I... I wasn't following you, my lord, I was just going home." Boc stretched out his hand, pointing to the distant mountains. "Our tribe is over there." Throne turned his head to look at the mountains and rivers of Caelid, and after a moment's thought, he understood. Malenia hadn't released the Scarlet Rot yet. As one of the most fertile lands in The Lands Between, Caelid was naturally home to various tribes. Once the Scarlet Rot contaminated that land, the various races would either die or swarm into Limgrave. Oh? Living in the mountains?
Throne's eyes lit up. He instantly thought of something: if these Demi-humans dared to walk the main road, it would be like delivering meat to a predator. Since they could travel between the two places, they must have a route. "Do you know how to get to Caelid?" "Yes, yes, our tribe sometimes comes here to trade for supplies." Throne was ecstatic and immediately took out a map. "Can you mark it? Don't worry, there will be a reward for you." The Demi-human looked at the map longingly but didn't take it. Throne raised an eyebrow. "What, you don't trust me?"
"You are my savior, of course I trust you, but I'm illiterate." The Demi-human scratched his head and explained: "We find our way by the scent of a special plant, but humans can't smell it." Is that so... Throne put the map away, feeling a bit disappointed. He still had to meet up with Sellen; he didn't have time to find the path, but he couldn't take this Demi-human with him either. "How about I go?" Alexander suddenly spoke up, patting his chest with a loud thud. "I'll find the path and come back immediately to meet up with Big Brother, and then we'll set off together!
Oh, Caelid, how many towering heroes there must be there." Throne ignored the last part. He thought about it, and it seemed feasible; Alexander seemed quite reliable. "Alright, you go with him. Don't come back here afterward; just go to the outskirts of Summonwater Village." "But how will I find you?" "Simple." Throne pulled out a piece of dragon flesh. Alexander's eyes went straight; such a powerful creature was, for him, an incredible supplement. "Follow the scent, and you'll be able to find me!"
After descending the mountain and trekking north for a dozen kilometers, the narrowing fjord led to Summonwater Village. Sandwiched between the coastlines to the north and south, the area was perpetually shrouded in mist. The village itself was built entirely on the lake, surrounded by nothing but mountains and water—hardly an ideal place to live. Yet its location in the corridor between Caelid and Limgrave made it strategically vital.
It became a hub for trade between the two regions, and the Brant family profited handsomely from Summonwater Village alone. Throne walked along the wooden bridge, eyeing the stilt houses perched above the lake. Officially a village, it felt more like a town—and a prosperous one at that, surpassing even the settlement outside the Academy. Its population was dense, dominated by merchants. With the Redmane Army blockading the border, many caravans bound for Caelid were stranded here, fueling an unnatural kind of boom.
The Count was dead, and the merchants wielded significant influence. The noble knights and mercenaries dared not intrude, opting instead to set up camps outside the village, rigorously inspecting passersby. Throne paid them no mind. No matter how thorough their checks, they wouldn't recognize the spirit-calling ring. Besides, the convoluted family name he'd concocted left the guards baffled. Participant of the Ancient Dragon War, slayer of giants, honorable returnee to the Erdtree, knight of Leyndell—the titles were grandiose enough to sound legitimate.
His family had fallen, and he was a destitute noble son with no claim to inheritance. Such individuals were notoriously troublesome. They seemed powerless, but who knew what connections they might have? When Throne began spouting incomprehensible tales of the Ancient Dragon War, the guards bowed respectfully, allowing the murderer of their lord to pass—even waiving the toll. Throne sneered. Truly a bunch of cowards who preyed on the weak and cowered before the strong.
He scanned the bustling village, his thoughts turning to Sellen. But he didn't need to search long. A fiery red figure sat at a round table outside a teahouse. Her fair skin and slender frame caught the eye of every passerby. She sipped tea delicately, her head resting on her hand as she gazed into the distance. Small boats drifted by, and pedestrians paused to admire her. Some longed to approach but hesitated, unwilling to disrupt the scene. She looked every bit the literary young woman. Throne shook his head.
If these people knew she could level the town with a few Comet Azurs, they'd think twice about calling her "literary."
He adjusted his collar, strode through the teahouse lobby, and waved off the approaching waiter. Without hesitation, he walked up behind Sellen. "Miss, may I sit here?" His voice interrupted her reverie. She raised her slender neck, her expression darkening when she saw Throne. "Sit." "Thank you." He bowed with exaggerated grace, took the seat across from her, and ordered a cup of sparkling Pacha tea.
The waiter retreated with an ambiguous smile. A handsome noble youth chatting up a beautiful young lady—today's gossip was already set. Only two days had passed, and their mutual trust hadn't yet reached the intensity of life and death. Everything felt as mundane as Throne going out for a stroll and returning. Reality lacked the melodrama people craved. When the onlookers saw the warrior successfully engage her, they turned away, envious but resigned, and went about their business.
They stood close, but if anyone had leaned in closer, they'd have realized how chilling their conversation truly was. "Is everything done?" Sellen's gaze lingered on the lake, distant.
"Yes. I killed five nobles, Count Brant among them. Some knights, mercenaries. Freed a group of slaves along the way." Throne's tone was casual, as if discussing the weather.
Sellen showed no surprise. She nodded, set her teacip down. "This tea's bland. Brew me a new pot later."
"Of course." Throne knew her tastes well, but politeness compelled him to ask. "Were you comfortable these past two days?"
"No." Sellen paused, then launched into a tirade. "I nearly drove the carriage into a ditch twice. The stool was too hard—my backside still aches. Then there were those insufferable humans trying to lecture me. Oh, and parking the carriage cost money. Two guards thought they could proposition me. I killed them."
Throne smiled at first. Being needed felt good. He'd changed her, softened her edges, made her less the mad scientist and more an ordinary woman. But his smile faded. "Wait. Teacher, you killed people?"
"Is that not allowed?"
"I mean, did you dispose of them properly?"
"Magic evaporation. No trace remains."
"Good. I'll teach you how to handle the aftermath." He exhaled, relieved.
"Does that need teaching?" She raised an eyebrow.
"There's a process. Listen carefully." Throne cleared his throat. A breeze swept through, dispersing the mist. The afternoon sun cast golden light on the lake and the village's rooftops. Small boats drifted lazily. The woman in red and the youth in hunting gear whispered, sipped tea, smiled. To anyone watching, they looked elegant, refined.
Had anyone approached, they might have wondered what such cultured people were discussing—music, perhaps? Art? But no one dared disturb. A passing painter paused, inspired. He sketched the scene swiftly, already naming it in his mind: The Lady and the Youth.
Throne spoke for hours, detailing what he called a "rigorous system." His hands gestured as he grew animated, though to an outsider, it might have looked like courtship. He touched Sellen's face, explaining how leverage could snap a neck. Measured her chin, pointing out the carotid artery. Held her hands, demonstrating how to drag a corpse efficiently.
A seasoned romantic would've applauded. Even the physical contact remained decorous, never crossing a line. Sellen showed no impatience, her expression focused, approving.
"So, Teacher, did you learn it?" Throne finally stopped, breathless.
Or having Sellen raise her hands to demonstrate how to use a woman's smaller frame to lift a body—those watching might've thought it was some romantic gesture. Measuring her strength? Calculating her movements? The youth seemed to know his craft well.
Her gaze remained steady, unbothered. Approval flickered in her eyes. Elegant, precise—this pair was no ordinary duo.
Teaching Sellen anything was rare—he ignored the stares burning into his back. "Picked up a few tricks, but theory's just theory." She turned her head, baring teeth in a smile sharp enough to slit throats at the distant watchers. "They're spying. Shall we test my lessons on them?"
"I don't slaughter civilians. Save it for actual enemies." She shrugged, already bored, shoving away tea that tasted like dishwater. The chair screeched as she rose.
"I've rented a room at an inn in the village, and I have a gift for you." Throne leaned forward, eyes alight. "A gift? Some new spell you've cooked up?" "Not magic." Her grin widened.