"Sorry, I'm not from the Roundtable Hold."
Blood spread across the ground. The Spirit Steed hopped to avoid the foul-smelling blood and let out a snort, as if questioning Throne's lack of trustworthiness. "Don't overthink it; I'm the most honest and trustworthy person there is." Throne gently stroked the silver mane. It felt soft to the touch, making it hard to let go; he almost wanted to keep riding forever.
He wasn't a fool; there was no way he'd let this Bloody Finger live. Anyone could figure out that the bastard would definitely bring backup to settle the score once he left. If he got targeted by the Mohgwyn Dynasty, the trouble would be endless. There might not be a Big Bird Bank, but a certain gay demigod would definitely screw you over.
Throne glanced at the medal in his hand again and noticed a strange energy radiating from it. Examining his own body closely, he found a newly acquired power that resonated with it. 'Is there a subtle difference in the plundered energy?
Even if it's all power of faith, are there divisions?'
He couldn't see any stats, but as time passed, he gained a deeper understanding of the mutated Dragons Heritage. For instance, from killing the Death Hunter, the priests of the Erdtree, the Kindred of Rot, and the Bloody Finger he had just finished off.
All four were strengthening his faith, but within this broad framework, there were differences. By tracing back to the sources, the answers to these subtle distinctions weren't hard to find. One source came from beast worship, one from Erdtree worship, one from the Goddess of Rot, and one from blood—no, from that Outer God, the Formless Mother|Formless Mother?
If Throne hadn't known the sources of these faiths, he wouldn't have noticed the slight differences; he would have only wondered why each energy radiated at a different frequency. 'The plundering of the Dragons Heritage can actually be categorized into sub-items, but what use are these distinctions?'
Throne didn't have the answer.
Perhaps it was an affinity for certain incantations, or maybe it had some special effect. Regardless, it seemed that the blood faith allowed him to use this Pureblood Knight's Medal without having to take an entry exam. 'Can I go there just by matching the energy frequency and then crushing the medal?' He hesitated for a moment before putting the medal away. Going now would just be seeking death.
Besides, there was no benefit to running off to the Mohgwyn Dynasty; in reality, there was no Big Bird Bank, only a gay guy. Faint footsteps approached. Throne, still on horseback, looked up to see a cloaked girl standing on the cliff beside him. After a brief moment of eye contact, the girl leaped down lightly. She landed silently, without a single speck of blood on her. "Is it settled?"
Throne hopped off the Spirit Steed and asked with a smile. "Yes." Melina nodded slightly, glancing at the headless corpse on the ground. "I didn't expect you to actually kill such a powerful Bloody Finger." Bloody Fingers naturally varied in strength. Someone like Nerijus, who maintained his sanity, was certainly not weak—at least a high-ranking knight.
Looking at Throne, this battle had clearly been easy. "Thanks to Torrent, otherwise he really would have escaped." Throne stroked the Spirit Steed again and asked with a grin, "By the way, how did the battle feel?" Since he was bringing up a sore subject, Melina couldn't help but roll her eyes at him, muttering gloomily, "Not great. Don't scheme against me next time."
"I wasn't scheming against you; let's be reasonable." Throne explained with an innocent look, "If that Bloody Finger had escaped, they would have brought more powerful people to hunt me down. If I fell under their blades, who would complete your deal? Wouldn't all your initial investment go to waste?" Melina was momentarily speechless. After all that, Throne was actually thinking for her?
"I could always find someone else to trade with." "Heh. You'd have to ask Torrent if she agrees. And where else are you going to find an ally as reliable as me?"
Snort.
Torrent snorted, as if endorsing Throne's claim. The words reeked of arrogance, but against the headless corpse sprawled on the ground, they rang true.
Melina couldn't read Throne, but she couldn't deny his prowess. He'd wiped out an entire Bloody Finger squad in moments. Stronger Tarnished existed, sure, but they were already legends—figures she couldn't manipulate with just a Spirit Steed.
She watched as he rifled through the corpse's belongings. "Where did you learn so many strange skills?" she asked. She'd counted three types of magic, two martial techniques, and one incantation, all executed with lethal precision. "Aren't all Tarnished like this? Jacks-of-all-trades?"
Throne didn't look up as he pocketed the Runes. "Those are Memory Stones—rigid but convenient. You don't strike me as the type." Memory Stones were like coded magic, similar to Ashes of War on weapons. Predictable, with power scaling only to the user's aptitude.
Starlight could illuminate, but it couldn't blind like Throne's flashbang. The upside? Anyone with half a brain could use it. "I had two great teachers who gave me a solid foundation."
"Who were they?" Melina pressed, curiosity piqued.
Even the Roundtable Hold's hero Tarnished couldn't secure personal training from powerful sorcerers. The divide between the factions was too deep. "A witch and a demigod."
Melina's mouth twitched. She stopped paying attention. The man didn't have a shred of honesty in him. He might as well have claimed Queen Marika herself taught him.
Throne pulled a wooden box from the corpse's pocket. Inside gleamed a golden chalice. "Talk about luck. It didn't even break." He smiled, satisfied, and tossed it to Melina. "Strengthening the Flask of Crimson Tears—you can handle that, right?"
"Yes," she replied, her tone wooden once more.
Throne didn't mind her demeanor. He mounted Torrent and extended his hand. "Let's move. The Mistwood crew will be here soon." He was ready to vanish again, leaving his deeds and reputation behind.
Melina hesitated, eyeing his outstretched hand. But the sound of blades slicing through branches grew closer. She had no choice. She took it.
He pulled her onto Torrent's back, seating her behind him. Her hands hovered awkwardly.
"Hold on tight. Yah!" Torrent surged forward with a whinny. The Spirit Steed's gait was jarring at speed, forcing Melina to clutch Throne's cloak.
As the hoofbeats faded, Vyke appeared on the cliffside. The newly risen hero looked dazed.
Eina had practically shoved him out of bed. Before they could act, the clash of blades had drawn him out. He'd dressed hastily, rushing to investigate, only to find a field of corpses and no enemies in sight.
What happened? And who were these people?
Vyke's mind buzzed with questions. Behind him, Eina seethed, cursing the mysterious Tarnished who'd ruined their moment.
"Aren't you going back for help?"
"The fight's over. Let's scout first."
"What if it's an ambush?"
"Why would they ambush me? Even if someone's out there, I'll hold them off until reinforcements arrive."
The girl sighed. He was either brave or an idiot—probably both. She steeled herself and kept watch as the two of them descended the cliff. They circled the headless corpses, poking them with a spear to make sure they were dead. Before they could inspect them further, torchlight flooded the area. Throne's fight hadn't gone unnoticed.
The Tarnished weren't deaf. Awoken by the commotion, they'd rushed to town for help, and reinforcements arrived swiftly. Their leader, clad in silver armor, had a square jaw and cropped black hair. He looked like a man you could trust. Istvan, the Roundtable Hold's representative in Limgrave, known as 'Old Knight.'
He spotted Vyke immediately, disheveled and unkempt, and leaped down the cliff. Istvan hurried over, patting Vyke down nervously. "Are you hurt?" "No. I was just scouting the area. If I'm not mistaken, these are Bloody Fingers." Vyke stepped back awkwardly. He hadn't had time to dress properly, let alone put on his helmet.
"Bloody Fingers? They really came for you!" Istvan's fist slammed into a tree, anger flashing across his face. But then he relaxed, relief softening his features. "You're a rising star, aren't you? Surrounded and still you took them all down. Next time, though, leave one alive. The Roundtable Hold wants to know where they're hiding."
Vyke frowned. Why would the Bloody Fingers target him? He opened his mouth to explain. "It wasn't me. Actually, by the time I—"
"Who else could it be?" Istvan interrupted with a hearty laugh. "Don't worry about leaving anyone alive—that was just talk. You've done us a great service."
Istvan was a veteran, though not particularly strong. He enjoyed mentoring younger Tarnished, which made him popular. Hearing his praise, the gathered Tarnished erupted into applause and cheers.
"'The Dauntless' Vyke, fearless even against the Bloody Fingers!"
"Exactly. Why should we fear cowards like them?"
Vyke blinked.
The whole thing felt surreal. He felt no joy, only unease. If the Bloody Fingers blamed him for this, wouldn't they hunt him down? The cheers echoed in his ears. Whether it was exposing a demigod's conspiracy or killing traitors, what Vyke had actually done didn't matter. What mattered was that he embodied the spirit of the Tarnished.
Heroes exist because people need them.
Amid the clamor, Vyke realized he couldn't explain. He opened his mouth again, but Istvan's heavy hand slapped his shoulder.
"Kid, are you afraid to face evil head-on?"
Everyone was watching. Vyke had no choice.
He took a deep breath. If fate demanded he step up, he'd meet it head-on.
"Of course not!" The credit had fallen into his lap, but his dream of becoming a hero had never wavered.
"Good. I didn't misjudge you. Word's come from Leyndell—a Finger Maiden will be assigned to you soon."
Istvan turned to the crowd, their eyes gleaming with envy, and announced loudly:
"Use this power well. Lead the Tarnished forward in The Lands Between. And for the rest of you—achieve greatness, and you too will earn this blessing. Become heroes. Become banners for us all!"
"Hurrah!"
"Glory to 'The Dauntless'!" Cheers erupted.
Vyke was convincing; after all, ten days ago, he'd been a nobody—a low-tier Tarnished with no noble blood or connections. The times created heroes, and The Lands Between was an era of endless possibility. Everyone here had crossed the sea of fog. If he could rise, why couldn't they?
"Is the Roundtable Hold some kind of pyramid scheme?"
The propaganda machine seized its moment. Throne wheeled his horse around, melting into the reinforcements flooding the town. Now he stood on the outskirts, watching—no intention of joining the celebrations.
"What's a pyramid scheme?" Melina whispered.
"Not the point." His voice carried the weight of a blade being sheathed. "The Roundtable Hold needs a hero. That old knight knows exactly how those wounds were made. Vyke? A nobody Tarnished rising up? Perfect poster boy. The brighter they polish his halo, the more it burns the others. And burning men charge harder into the meat grinder."
Throne spat the words like bad wine. He'd seen this before—back in Caria, his own victories had rallied the garrison. But if some decorated knight had done the same? Wouldn't have stirred a damn thing. Soldiers expect glory from champions.
Difference was, he'd carved his path steel-first. Vyke? The man tripped over credit like loose cobblestones. That kind of luck stank of something worse than fortune—it reeked of destiny's favor.
Throne had done the work. Vyke had charged in blind.
The way that fool scooped up glory would've been impressive if it wasn't so pathetic. Am I forging a Lord with my own hands? The thought slithered through his mind. The more it coiled, the truer it felt. That halo would weigh heavy. Vyke would have to bleed just to keep breathing.
With a Finger Maiden's backing and the Roundtable's coffers? He'd outpace every other Tarnished like a hare racing snails. Then what? They'd shove their golden boy forward until he embraced the Frenzied Flame. Until he shattered the old order. Until he crossed Morgott and burned the age of Tarnished to ash.
Melina didn't see the grotesque future unfolding behind Throne's eyes. She frowned. "The Hold hasn't finished investigating. Why crown a hero now?"
"War's coming. Cannon fodder needs a standard to die under."
"War? With Godrick?"
She caught on fast, but the road ahead still swam in fog. Even so, why elevate some untested youth? Why not send proven blades? When Throne stayed silent, she bit back further questions.
This man intrigued her more each passing hour—vanishing into chaos only to reappear with its hidden threads laid bare. His mind and sword both cut deep. If it meant reaching the Erdtree, she could tolerate his sharper edges.
She stole a glance at his impassive profile. "Those cheers should be yours. No regrets?"
"Meaningless." Throne turned, leaving the adoring crowd behind without a backward glance. A miracle-worker? A dauntless champion? He'd worn those masks long enough to know their weight.
The Bloody Fingers incident faded into Mistwood's background noise—just another skirmish in years of butchery between traitors and loyalists. Losses piled on both sides like autumn leaves.
Yet the Bloody Fingers remained shrouded in mystery; aside from their allegiance to the Mohgwyn Dynasty and their cursed blood arts, their true masters and motives stayed buried. Unknown threats breed contempt, not fear.
The Bloody Fingers? Barely worth a mention. The Recusants, at least, had a demigod pulling their strings—these fools were just cannon fodder. Throne returned to town. The camp outside had guards posted now, but the death of that Bloody Finger hadn't stirred so much as a ripple. Life went on.
Mistwood buzzed with energy. Tarnished wandered in packs, heading for caves, graveyards, whatever promised loot or glory. No one spared Throne or Melina a second glance. Why would they? He hadn't done anything remarkable—yet. Instead, he drifted through the market, spun tales in taverns, and sipped tea with a handful of nobles who still fancied themselves poets.
Melina had stopped complaining—silently, at least. After the last lesson, she'd realized Throne didn't need her to hover. He'd taken down a deadly foe without her even noticing, and somehow spun it into a story that made him a hero. What was he planning? She couldn't begin to guess.
She'd given up trying to unravel his thoughts. Her mind couldn't keep pace with his schemes, so she decided to watch and wait. She wouldn't follow him into those stinking taverns, though. After promising not to vanish into spirit form, she'd found a quiet patch of dirt to pitch her tent.
Every day, she sat kneeling inside, staring blankly like a piece of wood, observing Throne.