Wherever it passed, plants grew tumors that corroded the mind, and animals twisted into monstrous forms. Wild dogs bloated into beasts, crows swelled to the size of wagons—all became Lords of Cinder that harried the Tarnished to their limits. Throne surveyed the wasteland, his gaze settling on the firewood masquerading as weeds.
"This is sufficient. Or rather, this is the correct way to wield a Prophet." The autumn wind whispered past, carrying the scent of decay.
Knights and militiamen moved with urgency, their faces set in grim determination. They didn't understand the why, only the what—and they executed it without question. This was no small task. It required precision, coordination, and tireless hands. Assigning territories, replenishing the firewood as it burned, ensuring the seals held—every detail demanded meticulous oversight. A transmigrator could never shoulder this alone.
Endless radiation. A costly rescue. The parallels to a certain nuclear disaster were impossible to ignore. "At least these are brave warriors fulfilling their duty," Throne muttered, forcing a smile. "Not cowards hiding in their homes." He couldn't imagine asking anyone else to undertake such a perilous task.
In the original timeline, even after the commander fell and the army lost ninety percent of its strength, even as the survivors succumbed to madness, the Redmane fought on. They struggled to contain the Scarlet Rot, to prevent its deadly spread across The Lands Between. Their efforts were valiant—but futile. Such measures were drops in an ocean, incapable of solving the root problem.
"Lord Throne, we've finished here, haven't we?" The voice was sharp, cutting through the tension. An unkempt man climbed the slope, his vibrant armor dulled by dust. A flamberge rested on his back, and a civilian hood obscured his face. Jerren.
"It's too early, Lord Jerren. If time allowed, I'd seal this place three layers deep." Throne offered a knight's salute. Fate had a peculiar sense of humor—Radahn had sent Jerren to assist him. A wanderer at heart, Jerren had elevated the concept of a Guest Knight to an art form. Years in Caria, then off to Caelid when boredom struck. Rumor had it he'd move on again once this battle ended.
"You're cautious to a fault, but the warriors below are restless." Jerren stroked his beard, his chuckle deep and rasping. "They dislike standing idle. The people of Caelid have tempers hotter than the natives of Mt. Gelmir. But they'll follow the general's orders to the letter. You can trust that."
Throne sighed. Explaining the stakes was impossible; secrecy demanded silence. "They'll understand the importance of this work in time."
As he pondered what else might be needed, a mug of ale appeared in his hand. He glanced at it, torn between exasperation and thirst. Did no one in Caelid drink water? His body betrayed him, and he downed it in one gulp. "Lord Jerren, as commander of perimeter operations, do you have further concerns?"
Jerren snorted. "Your schemes have tethered me to Caelid. Fine, fine. One question: how do we ensure the Haligtree Army doesn't catch wind of our little game? The Valkyrie's known for her caution."
Throne grinned and decisively shifted the blame: "This is Lord Radahn's judgment."
Jerren nodded. "Makes sense. The Haligtree Army's on a long march. They'll aim for the heart, not waste time skirmishing with us." He glanced up, catching Throne's distant, solemn expression. "What is it?"
He spun around on instinct. Two figures moved down the desolate road, clad in light armor and black cloaks. Short spears and small shields hung at their waists. Their steps were hurried, their faces weathered—wanderers, like him. "You know them?"
Throne studied the guest knight beside him and shook his head, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Don't know them. But maybe we should grab them for questioning." His smile didn't reach his eyes. Half a month ago, he'd fought a man dressed like that to the death in a cave. A hunter.
Was this chance? Or had they already been tipped off? His muscles coiled. These bastards always showed up unannounced, always at the worst time. He'd long prepared for either possibility. Fifty-fifty odds.
The Beast Clergyman was in Caelid. Hunters might come for their reward. But Death Eating? That was above even the demigods. Hard to predict. "Suspicious," Jerren said, waving a hand. "Question them." A group of Redmane Knights moved forward, fully armed. No fight broke out. Not what Throne expected.
The two sides exchanged words, then parted. The knight rode back to report. "My lord, they're Death Hunters." "Ah. Thought they looked familiar." Jerren stroked his beard, dismissed the knight, and turned to Throne. "Still doubtful? Want to hear their story?" "No need."
"As long as they don't interfere, it's fine." Throne waved him off. He knew what they did. He'd had his own… disagreements with them. He turned his attention back to the road, focusing on the man leading them.
He was broad, hairy, like the one Throne had killed—but younger, with two short spears on his back. Sharp instincts. The hunter felt the weight of Throne's gaze and turned. His eyes locked onto the knight surrounded by Redmane soldiers.
Their gazes met, held for a moment. A nod of acknowledgment, then they moved on. No issue. This one was a hero-class hunter, too. "Their leader's impressive." "Obviously. Anyone who hunts those monsters has to be."
"And they're trackers, intelligence gatherers. Fighting's not their specialty." Jerren was showing off again. Intelligence gatherers? Throne muttered the words, his mind racing. There should be survivors. But everyone who faced me directly is dead.
His heart skipped a beat.
There was one survivor. The Wing of the Storm King—Oleg. No. He served Morgott. He wouldn't show up openly in Caelid. Besides, skilled swordsmen weren't rare in The Lands Between. As long as Oleg didn't come himself, there was no way to tie Throne to it.
You want to kill Death Eaters; what does that have to do with me, a Scarlet Rot cleaner? But shouldn't they head north for the reward? Why Sellia? Better safe than sorry. He called out to the departing knight. "What's their leader's name?"
The knight paused, then spoke a single syllable. "A." "A, are you sure the target's in Caelid?"
The road stretched barren, dust swirling underfoot. Among the hunters, chatter broke the desolation. The leader, more animated than the rest, tipped his wineskin back for a deep swig. "Call me by my old code name. Sounds better." The bald man beside him, mustache stiff as wire, ignored the jest. His tone was clipped. "You're the replacement. Original A's dead."
A capped the wineskin, gaze sweeping the bustling soldiers around them. "Why aren't the Redmane preparing? What's with all the digging?" "Not our concern. Focus on the target." "Tsk. Two demigods clash, and you're not even curious?" The leader waved a hand, feigning boredom, but his expression sharpened.
"The mine's compromised. The target infiltrated Caelid. Didn't that village mention a warrior passing through?" "Right. We should interrogate." "This is Caelid, not your cozy bedroom. I'd rather not end up ash."
A ran a hand through his tangled hair, frustration etched in his face. "All we know is the target's skilled in magic and swordsmanship, wears Banished Knight armor. That's it. How are we supposed to find one warrior in this chaos? Caelid's crawling with them. And Oleg's description? Worthless. Too dark that night, and his drawing's a joke."
You'd have better luck identifying someone from a smear of paint. The rigid-faced hunter paused, considering. "The Starscourge and the Valkyrie are about to collide. Caelid's on the brink. Time's running out." "S, what do you make of that knight earlier?" "Huh?"
The rigid hunter blinked, caught off guard. "From his gear, he's a guest knight. Young, decent strength. Why? You think it's him?" "No way. He's clearly high-ranking Redmane. Piss them off, and you'll lose your head."
A grinned, shaking his head, his mind leaping ahead. "You said time's tight, right?" "Yeah. Didn't you notice the Redmane questioning us?" S rolled his eyes. Partnering with this lunatic was testing his patience. "It's fine. Let them fight each other. Makes our job easier."
"Even if the target's under their protection, we can find our moment." "What did you say?" "Nothing. Just thinking." He gestured toward the gate tower ahead, a faint smile playing on his lips. "We head to Sellia. Ask around. Simple."
Persistent as a ghost. Throne stood on the slope, surveying the bustling soldiers. Hearing the name 'A' didn't faze him. Outwardly calm, like an old dog, but his mind raced. Resurrection's impossible. Alexander swallowed that hunter's corpse. Twins? They don't look alike. Must be some twisted organizational system. Doesn't matter.
It only confirms the hunter's death is known, and the Black Blade's sent a specialized squad. Fast reaction. How many days has it been? He exhaled softly. No fools in The Lands Between. His fingers tapped the hilt of his sword, a quiet rhythm as he weighed his options. Kill them?
No, these two are not weak, and knowing that a hunter and an entire squad of Nights Cavalry fell to me, how reckless would they have to be to send more lambs to slaughter?
The thought surfaced, then vanished. Death Hunters headquarters lay in the north. His gut screamed that acting now meant no escape.
Killing them wasn't an option—they'd have contingencies. But leaving wasn't feasible either. Throne gritted his teeth. These hunters always appeared at the worst moments—Summonwater Village, Caelid, and now, clearly headed for Sellia. Were they after Radahn to flush him out?
Don't let the Starscourge General's brutish facade fool you; the man was meticulous. Once he pieced things together, suspicion would fall squarely on Throne. As he wrestled with the problem, a hand clapped his shoulder, jolting him. "Hey, we're done here. Come report with me."
Jerren stood beside him, studying Throne's shifting expression. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Just making sure we didn't miss anything." Throne forced a smile, took the reins, and mounted his horse. "Let's go. The general's waiting."
A squad of Redmane Knights fell in behind them, cracking whips as dust billowed down the slope.
"Throne, why aren't you running?" Ranni's voice echoed in his mind. She'd been watching, of course, and spotted the Death Hunters.
"Your Highness, still awake?"
"Don't deflect. Tell me—why not run? The risk of exposure is sky-high."
Throne squinted against the wind, his smile unwavering. "This is unexpected, but the arrow's already loosed. No retreat now."
"You'd risk your life for this?"
"It's not that dire. Do you know the worst mistake prey can make when facing a hunter?"
He snapped his fingers lightly. "Panic. Turn your back. Get bitten. Die exhausted." He hadn't come to The Lands Between to spend his days fleeing.
Ranni paused. If exposed now, he'd be hunted down instantly. The odds were brutal.
"I can send Blaidd to meet you in Limgrave." Throne's eyes widened. He hadn't expected the Princess to offer so much, risking the Black Blade's wrath herself. He was touched, then refused flatly. "This isn't about difficulty. You don't know the chaos I've stirred up on this trip. It's already more than Caria can handle."
Ranni knew exactly how much trouble he'd caused: Black Knife Assassins, Raya Lucaria Academy, Cuckoo Knights, 'Morgott,' 'Black Blade' Maliketh, and likely Godrick and the Kindred of Rot. If these forces turned their fury on Caria, even she'd struggle to contain it.
"So what? This started because of my wish. I'll take responsibility."
That was a monarch's duty. If she hadn't sent Throne on this mission, he wouldn't have provoked so many enemies. She couldn't let her subordinate bear the brunt of the fallout.
"You're a good person." Throne handed her the compliment but shook his head. "But you're wrong."
"This is our wish. You don't need to take responsibility. I'll cut down these scourges myself." His confidence left Ranni speechless. Try as she might, she couldn't see a way out. But then again, this man had provoked countless titans and still walked free. That alone was a miracle. Let me see your methods.
Her pulse quickened with anticipation, but she crossed her arms and snorted. "If you're determined to get yourself killed, don't expect me to stop you." Was Ranni angry? Throne called out to her a few times, but silence answered. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. Capricious princess. He was only trying to help her—he could've stayed in Caria and done nothing.
The gates of Sellia loomed ahead. No time to waste. Throne dismounted, boots hitting the stone stairs, and fell in line with a cluster of knights. His mind raced, plotting contingencies. The Redmane Army streamed in from the north, their crimson banners snapping in the wind. The once-magical town now bristled with the grim efficiency of a war camp.
Soldiers lined the stairway, rigid as statues. Archers and mages perched on rooftops, scanning the horizon. The air crackled with tension—the decisive clash loomed close. Throne steadied his breathing, climbing the stairs one deliberate step at a time. The autumn wind tugged at the soldiers' scarlet tassels, carrying with it the weight of inevitability.
The square came into view, familiar yet altered. Gone were the bustling merchants; only emptiness remained. The Starscourge General had compensated them fairly, dipping into military funds to procure supplies. A calculated move—loss now for gain later. Once the war ended, commerce would thrive again.
Anyway, for most people, the Redmane victory seemed assured. Once the dust settled, business would resume as usual.