"In the Lands Between, your gear screams your status." Throne exhaled through his nose. Battle loomed, so he'd left Boc back in Cheka Village. The demi-human made a decent guide, but his real talent lay in hammering that battered Banished Knight armor into something unrecognizable from its original form.
Scrap metal and ancestral craft turned it from a full suit to half-plate. The Banished Knight's foundation held strong though—still a masterpiece by any standard. Here, a man in rags drew suspicion while polished steel opened doors.
Good armor demanded more than coin. It required the strength to bear thirty kilos of iron without buckling. Throne's noble bearing came easier—years of trial had etched knightly manners into his bones until the act became second nature.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Pot Person staggered into view, legs quaking like saplings in a storm. He collapsed against the gatehouse wall, wheezing.
"Tired already?" Throne swung down from his horse, reins loose in one gauntleted hand.
"A... little." The Pot Person gulped air. "Ran the whole way."
"Endurance training. What happens when you're neck-deep in a breakout fight?" Throne's chastisement carried the weight of a warhammer.
A soft snort tickled his ear.
He glanced at the pouch swaying on his belt—Ranni's current nest. After yesterday's bloodshed, wearing her against his chest seemed reckless. One errant splash of gore and he'd never hear the end of it.
"Eavesdropping again, Your Highness?"
Silence.
Probably imagined it. Throne's hide was thick enough to shrug off phantom judgments.
Truth told, his daily interrogations had calloused the witch too. Cutting their mental link would spare her the annoyance, but leaving him unwatched invited disaster. So she endured—a captive audience to his every move across the miles.
The Redmane Knight at the gate barely glanced up. Name. Business. A scribble in some ledger. The portcullis groaned open.
Caelid's festival drew warriors like flies to carrion. Half stayed on as sellswords or treasure hunters. Questioning every stranger would've left the guards hoarse.
"Sneaking in was easier than stealing candy." Throne muttered. Raya Lucaria demanded blood oaths and bribes. Sellia just waved him through.
Then he spotted the robed mages and understood. This town chewed up weaklings and spat out the bones. A few extra armed fools meant nothing.
The slope curved sharply. Stone steps jagged upward like broken teeth. Above them, Sellia clung to the valley walls—red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls climbing the terrain. Spires pierced the skyline, elegant without pretense.
Raya Lucaria's cousin, if less crowded. Prosperous. Alive.
Narrow streets coiled between buildings, staircases twisting into the valley's heart. "Passes for Caelid's market district, I suppose."
He hitched his horse at the base and ascended. One turn, and the world erupted into noise.
Warriors in armor, Night Sorcerers wearing robes with short swords at their waists, nobles rubbing shoulders with commoners—all churned together in a living current. Throne let the crowd swallow him, eyes darting. This was no stuffy academy. Here, the air smelled of steel and opportunity.
In the latter, let alone commoners, even Cuckoo Knights couldn't step half a foot into the academy; it was clearly divided by artificial class distinctions. Of course, this wasn't because the Night Sorcerers were particularly approachable; the two followed different paths.
The academy isolated itself from the secular world, establishing five classrooms, which was equivalent to mages keeping to themselves in their own circle. Sellia, however, still used the ancient master-apprentice system. This system, passed down from the Astrologers, did not care about authority, nor did it have strict hierarchies, let alone titles and evaluations.
In Sellia, those with rich knowledge were called'Sages'. They might have high attainments in magic, or perhaps they only knew many miscellaneous subjects; they might be powerful figures, or perhaps just a kindly schoolteacher. They could not be compared to magic professors. "It's so lively here." The Pot Person was looking around; his physique was ill-suited for the narrow roads.
"Mm, it is indeed an interesting place." Throne nodded reservedly. In any case, Limgrave didn't have a place like this, and even the town in front of the academy lacked a certain something.
The solemnity of knowledge and the hustle and bustle of the marketplace coexisted here; academy mages wouldn't do something like gnawing on a lamb leg at a roadside stall. 'Your Highness, have you ever been to Caelid?'
'No,' Ranni answered decisively, then added, 'In terms of prosperity, it is still far inferior to Leyndell.'
'I wasn't mocking you, why are you explaining?'
'Who is explaining?
I am merely stating facts. Moreover, the situation in Sellia is because Caelid is too special. Mages are always aloof, but here, they cannot afford to be.'
"Why?" "Because if you put on airs, you'll get beaten until you're covered in bumps."
'Haha, that is the cultural custom of Caelid, then.' Throne curiously surveyed his surroundings and sighed: 'It's a pity you can only watch.
If only you could come in person, to personally experience the world of the living.'
Thousands of miles away, a certain princess sitting on a high-legged chair did not answer. She closed her eyes; the cold magic tower and the bustling small town seemed to be in two different worlds.
She didn't hate this solitude, but following Throne's journey, she had slept very little lately, as if she had found something called 'fun'. Of course, this was a monarch's protection of her knight; it was not because she was bored. 'Your Highness?' The man's voice reached her ears through the doll. Ranni's lips curled up inadvertently. 'I have no interest.'
Could she be angry?
Throne rubbed his chin. After spending so much time together, he had become increasingly casual, but he had a feeling that Ranni was definitely still 'peeping at the screen'. Sigh, this tsundere princess. He sighed helplessly, skirted around a passerby resting on the stairs, went up another stone step, and suddenly, the view opened up.
Ahead was a small plaza, crowded with people, surrounded by tents. Walking over to take a look, he realized they were all shops. "High-strength dragon bones, excellent material for making throwing spears." "I have traveled through most of The Lands Between. These are the recorded item crafting methods; they can save your life at a critical moment."
"I once worked at the Leyndell armory and am familiar with various weapon forging methods. Materials are provided by you; I only charge a processing fee." "Smithing stones to make your weapons sharper."
... Cries rang out everywhere. Throne's supplies had been mostly exhausted during the breakout, so he simply pulled Alexander into the crowd, taking this opportunity to restock.
Where there's demand, there's a market. Sellia sat at the heart of Caelid, its streets thick with merchants and travelers, its air humming with commerce. Materials, blacksmiths, crafting notes—everything had its place. Throne even spotted Crystal Tears and Perfumer recipes laid out like treasures. "Good stuff," he muttered, itching to reach for them. His fingers twitched, but his pockets stayed empty.
Simple reason: the Runes he'd hauled out of Stormveil were long gone, squandered by Sellen. He had pride, if not coin. Stealing wasn't an option. Desperate times called for tactical thinking. Your Highness, any chance you could wire me a batch of Runes from Caria?
No. Or rather, I cannot.
Unwanted gear, then? I'll barter.
Silence. Ranni had ghosted him. Stingy witch. Throne swallowed the sting and moved on, counting the meager Runes left in his pouch—enough for one purchase, maybe. He paced the stalls, his ornate armor and the hulking Warrior Jar at his heels marking him as nobility. Merchants perked up, voices honeyed with greed.
Too bad he was broke.
He feigned disinterest, circling the plaza until a sound snagged his attention—a bell? Clear, crisp. The spirit-calling chime. That damned bell had haunted him for weeks.
When Ranni first gave it to him, he'd been giddy. An artifact! Power! Then reality set in. A bell without ashes was a gun without bullets. He'd been too busy running, too tangled in the timeline to scavenge catacombs or loot the Tibia Mariner. Hell, he didn't even know what spirit ashes looked like, let alone how to collect them. Asking Ranni was out of the question—she wasn't his damn errand girl.
Meant to hunt for them later. But here one is.
Fate had a sense of humor.
Throne turned, slow, deliberate. The stall before him was a sorry sight—a wandering merchant sprawled in the sun, his wares a jumble of oddities. Business was clearly dead. "Look all you want," the man drawled, not bothering to sit up. "Buy something if it catches your eye."
No charm, no hustle. No wonder he was starving.
Throne skimmed the clutter—junk, mostly—until his gaze locked onto a black box, small enough to cradle in one hand. "Price?"
The merchant finally stirred. "Sharp eye. That's the crown jewel of my collection."
Sure it is. Throne smirked. He'd dealt with these scavengers in Limgrave. Half their stock was mystery trash they'd scooped off roadsides. He flipped the box open. Scarlet powder glinted inside.
Ashes. Had to be. A scroll would've spilled by now.
His pulse jumped, but his face stayed cool. He upended his pouch, Runes clattering onto the stall. The merchant eyed them, unimpressed. "Not enough. Not even close."
"Then tell me," Throne said, lifting the box, "what is this?"
"Precious material. Found it on a fallen warrior during my travels—"
The merchant froze. Throne's grin had turned razor-sharp. Try again.
Keep bullshitting. Keep right on bullshitting. He'd met a real professional this time. A dry cough escaped him as he stooped to gather the scattered Runes. "You and I have fate between us." The words came out like worn leather. "Take it."
"Thanks."
Throne's grin didn't fade. He didn't move. Instead, his hand dipped back into the pouch, pulling out another fistful of Runes that clattered onto the grimy tarpaulin.
The merchant's eyes narrowed. "What else?"
Throne's smile sharpened. His finger jabbed toward the man's chest. "Information. About Sellia."
The small frame tensed—just for a heartbeat—before slumping back into practiced nonchalance. "You come here often?"
"Mm. Know a man named Boc?"
Limgrave's wandering merchant leader. Throne hadn't bought anything from him back then. With the Erdtree's order still standing, these hunted people stayed careful. Knowledge was danger. They couldn't peddle secrets like cabbages in a market square. This was a gamble.
"I know him." The merchant's gaze dug into Throne's face. "Saw that old bastard fifteen years back. Where'd you meet him?" He was testing. Gauging how deep Throne's ties ran with Boc's people. Most customers just bought their trinkets and left. Few knew the merchants' true nature—fewer still spoke of it so casually.
"Outside Leyndell's walls. Saved his life." Throne shrugged. "There was a cripple with him. Nosey fucker." The lie came smooth, effortless. No fear of slander suits here.
The merchant exhaled through his nose. Eighty percent convinced.
Their people weren't fighters, but catching one alive took effort. He counted the Runes between his fingers, holding up three digits. "Three questions. That's all."
The bet paid off. Throne's fist tightened slightly. A proper Tarnished knew where to get answers.
From the soft bellies of Land Squirts below to the Frenzied Flame's hiding place above—these people knew. And they kept their mouths shut after the sale. Professional.
"First question." Throne unfolded a sheet of paper. Five hoods sketched in pencil, each style distinct. "Any Raya Lucaria mages pass through these past few months?"
---
Evening at the Rose Hotel. Prime location. Left—the bustling plaza. Right—Sellia's central spire, tallest building in sight.
The spire stood empty.
Night Sorcerers lined its steps, shoving back anyone who dared approach.