Campore's final report claimed everything was proceeding smoothly, that Master Lusat was on the brink of liberation. But as the morning light spilled across the land, no word of victory had arrived. They had no stake in Primeval Sorcery—only irritation that the Primeval Sorcerers had stirred trouble, risking their exposure.
Both sides were using each other. Hiding in the heart of Caelid, they needed each other's strength. Retreating to the town, they waited. At dawn, a figure in red streaked toward them. His robes were mud-streaked, his expression wild.
Insects surged from every corner of the town. Smelling their own kind, they retreated, vanishing into the shadows. Gowry ignored any reports, charging straight for the central stone house. The door splintered under his kick. Morning light seeped through the crack, illuminating pale limbs sprawled across the room.
At the center stood a strange figure, its body bristling with mushrooms of every size. It had transcended the insect form, now resembling something closer to a person. Amid the room full of insects, this figure stood starkly apart. The Kindred of Rot didn't dare twitch—their stillness spoke volumes of his status.
Gowry dropped to one knee without hesitation. "Something's gone wrong, Your Highness." The figure lifted its head. It had no face, only a fungal stalk capped with what resembled a crown. Rustle, rustle, rustle. The mycelium vibrated, forming a voice.
"What is it?" Gowry's voice rasped, mimicking the same rustling sound. "Campore's dead. Lusat's lost control." The strange voice ceased. This method of communication was swift, efficient, alien.
Silence stretched. The mushroom person stood unmoving, like a statue. Sweat beaded on Gowry's brow. He glanced at the silent insects surrounding him. Finally, the rustling returned. "This is not what we agreed upon."
The Kindred of Rot had neither supported nor opposed the Primeval Sorcerers—Campore had promised to handle everything. The plan was simple: shift all blame onto Royal. Even if General Radahn arrived, he'd find nothing in the short term.
And with the Haligtree Army advancing in days, who would care about Sellia? "The plan… encountered an accident." Gowry forced the words out. "That arrogant fool Campore is dead. The out-of-control Lusat will destroy Sellia, and then…"
The rest was clear. Radahn would scour every inch of soil for miles. The Kindred of Rot couldn't escape. This accident was catastrophic—they had no time to find new allies. "Who did it?"
"I don't know. All information's been blocked."
The rustling grew closer. Gowry looked up. The monarch stood before him, its hair-like mycelium brushing its own body. Fine as down, sharp as steel needles.
"Hm, so you mean to tell me that after so many years of preparation, the plan to have an audience with the Goddess has failed before it even began?"
The mycelium brushed against his body, slicing streaks of bloody wounds. He couldn't defend himself—no way to. The plan was ruined, years of plotting declared a failure before it could even unfold. Yet the mycelium didn't decompose him. Instead, they retreated, leaving him gasping.
"This isn't your fault," the mushroom person said, its voice oddly polite despite its grotesque appearance. "My anticipation for the Goddess was too fervent." Gowry exhaled in relief, but before he could speak, a cold command cut through the air. "We retreat. I'll leave some Kindred behind to garrison this place. Remember—when the Scarlet Flower blooms, you must obtain certain things. This is your final chance for redemption."
Certain things? And how was he supposed to evade the Redmane? Questions swirled in Gowry's mind, but he stayed silent. Last night's disaster wasn't his doing, but it was his idea to ally with those fools. Mobilizing so many only to cut their losses—this was the King of Rot's final concession.
As Gowry opened his mouth to ask what he needed to obtain, the mycelium stretched out, spreading like a blooming flower. Swish, swish, swish— The stone house crumbled into powder. Morning light poured in, followed by a deafening boom. A gale-force wind blinded him. Gowry forced his head around and froze.
A massive figure stood outside, gripping two crescent-shaped greatswords. Beneath his feet, Kindred of Rot writhed like crushed insects. Gowry's eyes widened, a chill shooting to the roots of his hair. Starscourge General Radahn!?
"That's truly exaggerated," Throne muttered, riding through the swamp. His katana dripped blood, the aftermath of cutting down fleeing Primeval Sorcerers. The scene before him was a slaughterhouse. Trees crushed bodies, the swamp hardened into jagged rock piercing corpses. A crater stretched nearly a hundred meters, trees uprooted by the shockwave.
How much time had passed? The rebellious Primeval Sorcerers were wiped out. No need to ask who'd left such devastation. Is this Starscourge General Radahn?
If he weren't so exhausted, Throne might've gasped. This demigod was monstrous—high health, high defense, immense strength, and master-level Gravity Magic. At least to him, Radahn was several times harder to kill than Malenia. The Valkyrie relied on technique and agility; if the strength gap wasn't too wide, you could at least inflict damage, cling to the illusion of victory. Radahn, though, was despair incarnate. You couldn't break his defense, couldn't block his attacks.
Even running was futile—he'd just drag you back with Gravity Magic. No wonder his teacher called this suicide. No wonder the Primeval Sorcerers spent years researching escape rather than attempting to kill him. No one in The Lands Between was a fool; they wouldn't ignore such an obvious path.
Throne slowed his horse. He spotted a knight lying in the mud, rising and falling with the water's rhythm. His expression shifted. He dismounted, pulling the knight from the mire. It was Edred.
No melodramatic twists here. The knight's body was smashed to pieces, his eyes wide with rage. The straight sword in his hand was gripped so tightly even Throne couldn't pry it loose. "Even a knight is just a pawn in this struggle," Throne muttered, sighing.
He didn't mean to blame the Great Sage; from the latter's perspective, paying a price to eliminate a hidden threat was reasonable. If Radahn was unwilling to do it, there would always be someone to harden their heart for him. The two couldn't be considered friends, or rather, they hadn't spoken more than a few times, so Throne didn't need to be overly sentimental.
He simply closed the knight's eyes and took off his own cloak, which looked like a tattered rag, to cover him. "At the very least, your sacrifice was not in vain, and I have completed your commission." Throne placed his right hand over his chest and performed a knight's salute. "Hm, you did your best and kept your promise; you are worthy of being called a hero."
The moment Throne lowered his head, a deep, muffled voice came from not far away. The swordsman opened his eyes and saw Radahn striding over through the mud, removing his own magnificent and heavy cloak. "Yours is too rotten; you should use this one instead." His movements were fluid and natural, clearly something he had done many times before. "General, how is his death counted?"
"He died in battle, a fitting end. As for that fool Edred who acted on his own initiative, he will pay the price for it." Radahn did not dodge the topic and answered firmly. Throne nodded solemnly. Only then did he notice quite a few scratches on Radahn's lion armor, and he was slightly surprised. "Are there experts among those bugs?" "Hm, there was a King of Rot." A King of Rot?
What is that thing? Throne was a bit bewildered, but having stayed in The Lands Between for so long, he knew it was still early, and some strange things were still alive. But before he could ask, Radahn had already opened his large hand and slowly clenched it into a fist. "Don't worry, it has been killed by me!" Killed?
Radahn's tone was casual, as if he had done something insignificant, but Throne felt that the name sounded quite impressive. It must have been a powerhouse among the rot forces, capable at least of leaving scars on Radahn. He wanted to ask if they had all been wiped out—if anyone was still alive, they would surely be a blight—but the words were swallowed back just as they reached his lips.
A flash of inspiration struck, and Throne suddenly realized this was an opportunity, so he put on a troubled expression. "Why would the Kindred of Rot come to Caelid? They shouldn't have any connection with the Primeval Sorcerers." This question hit the nail on the head. Radahn looked around, seeing those strange and bizarre corpses, and raised a hand to stroke his chin. "Good question.
I also didn't expect to run into the Kindred of Rot here. Hmm, I suppose I acted too quickly." Two unrelated forces getting mixed up together was indeed thought-provoking. Throne knew the reason, and with this premise, he could actively guide the conversation. "General..." "Just call me General. There's no need for so many formalities in the army.
If you have any thoughts, just say them; I don't like people who stammer." Radahn waved his hand, his expression filled with anticipation, wanting to hear the opinions of this warrior. Under his command, there were many tough guys who could hack people to pieces, but when it came to tactics and strategy, this bunch of fools couldn't say a damn word.
Since Radahn had said as much, it would be pretentious for Throne to act mysterious. He licked his lips and began:
"General, I noticed that during the chaos last night, there were no signs of the Kindred of Rot participating. Does this indicate that the incident in Sellia was an action taken solely by the Primeval Sorcerers?"
Throne didn't jump to conclusions. He guided his thoughts carefully, letting them unfold. Radahn paused, then nodded with a heavy grunt. "Hm. Those insects were holed up in Sages Town. Campore's territory." His jaw tightened. "That bastard's been scheming behind my back." He waved a thick hand, his expression softening. "You did well cutting them down. That's no small contribution."
"If that's the case," Throne said carefully, "they weren't after Lusat. They retreated and hid themselves. The Primeval Sorcerers—they're more like partners. Both sides got what they wanted." He swallowed, then pressed on. "If the Primeval Sorcerers are focused on liberating Lusat, then the Kindred of Rot are after something else."
Radahn's brow furrowed. "What?"
Throne allowed a small smile. "Anything related to rot in The Lands Between—that's what they crave." The answer hung in the air, obvious and inevitable. A flicker of irritation crossed Radahn's face. "Malenia? No, that can't be. She and the Kindred of Rot don't see eye to eye."
Throne shook his head, his tone deliberate. "The Valkyrie fights the rot, yes. But what's inside her—" He paused, letting the implication sink in. "That's what they desire." The Goddess of Rot. Radahn exhaled sharply. His gaze shifted, appraising Throne with newfound respect. This was critical information, the kind that could keep him one step ahead. "Not bad," he murmured. "You know your stuff. Did you come to Caelid to fight the Scarlet Rot?"
Throne met his gaze squarely. "It's one of my missions." He spoke plainly, no lies, no embellishments. He even explained his involvement in the Sellia affair. But under Radahn's scrutiny, his mind raced. In seconds, he constructed a tight-knit organization—its leader, the legendary Flowing Swordsman; its doctrine, something lofty yet pretentious. Flowing water never rots, a door-hinge never rusts. A secret group fighting the Scarlet Rot, yet not opposed to the Valkyrie.
Radahn didn't give him time to elaborate. "A shame," he said, his tone tinged with regret. "If you weren't already on a mission, I'd have taken you under my command."
Throne blinked. No questions? No probing? "Actually," he began, "we have a common enemy—"
"No," Radahn cut in. "My enemy is Malenia, not the Scarlet Rot. But you're right—they're one and the same. Damn it." His frustration boiled over. He backhanded a nearby tree, sending it soaring a hundred meters. The trunk, thick enough for two men to embrace, splintered and crashed in the distance. Straightforward as he was, he struggled to articulate the twisted connection between the Valkyrie and the rot.
After a moment, he clapped his hands together. "Forget it. Our goals align. If you need help, just say the word."
Throne kept his thoughts to himself. Retreat to Redmane Castle. Wait for Malenia to deal with Mohg. Then clean up the mess. He couldn't say it aloud. Radahn's sudden arrival, his blunt manner, had left him unprepared. He was still scrambling for a plan when the sound of hooves broke the silence.
He turned. A magnificent warhorse emerged from the distance, its coat gleaming black, its limbs rippling with power. It slowed as it approached, stopping gently beside Radahn with a soft snort.
"Good boy," Radahn murmured, stroking the horse's head. His eyes softened with affection. The warhorse, towering and fierce, looked almost small beside him.
The warhorse blinked slowly, savoring the moment, then cast a sideways glance at the unfamiliar knight. With a gentle nudge of its hoof against Radahn's leg, it seemed to remind him of the presence lingering nearby. "Ah, my apologies," Radahn said, grinning. "I nearly forgot you were still here. So, what's your next move? Any plans?"
Throne's voice was steady, his tone deliberate. "There are matters I'll need your assistance with."
Radahn didn't hesitate. "No rush. We'll discuss it all later. For now, let's head back to town. Whatever the future holds, you've already done more than enough. I don't forget favors—Radahn rewards those who earn it." He swung himself onto his horse with practiced ease.
The sight was almost comical at first glance—the towering general and his massive frame atop the warhorse. But closer inspection revealed the truth: Radahn wasn't truly resting his weight on the beast. He hovered slightly, suspended in the air as if carried by an unseen force. Throne hesitated. Joining Radahn's ranks felt like a step too far. The Haligtree Army were his allies, his comrades. Crossing paths with them now would complicate things beyond mere awkwardness.
It struck him then—the rulers of The Lands Between were all formidable in their own right. Ranni, Malenia, Radahn—each led with clarity and fairness, rewarding loyalty and merit. And yet, somehow, he'd found himself tangled with all of them. "Don't worry," Radahn said, as if reading his thoughts. "A true man doesn't poach another's people. You're free to come and go as you please. Who you serve behind the scenes—that's none of my concern."
Radahn laughed loudly and rode off. The sound of hooves was rapid, and the laughter faded into the distance, leaving Throne standing alone. He stared after the vanishing figure, a faint smile finally breaking through.