Sunlight shone through the gaps in the door curtain, dust motes dancing in the beams. Sleeping on the inner side, Throne suddenly snapped his eyes open, clutching his head as he slowly sat up. "My head hurts... As expected, cheap goods are never quality. Is this low-grade ale actually poison?"
Last night, he had once again 'worked hard' until the middle of the night before returning, then slept until noon. After a long yawn, the headache significantly subsided. Throne wasn't a masochist. Even when he was being hunted alongside Sellen, he had still taken the time to enjoy himself in Summonwater Village.
Now that all the credit had been shifted to Vyke, there was even less reason for him to be in a hurry. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at Melina, who was sitting in a kneeling position on the outer side, and raised an eyebrow. "You just sat like that all night?" "Sleep is of no use to me," the girl replied calmly.
She wanted to ask what intelligence he had gathered after coming back drunk two days in a row, but she swallowed the words before they could leave her mouth. She could endure loneliness and suppress her curiosity; she preferred to observe in silence. "If you want to ask something, just say it," Throne said as he put on his newly purchased cloak.
They had been in contact for nearly a week now, and he could only conclude that Melina was indeed a block of wood. If he hadn't added the condition forbidding spirit-calling during their deal, they probably wouldn't have spoken more than a few words by the time they reached the end. Of course, that heartless repetition of hers didn't count.
Since Throne had taken the initiative to ask, Melina couldn't remain silent. She asked faintly, "What else have you discovered these past few days? Why do I feel like you are wasting time?" "Nonsense. I was simply relaxing while gathering intelligence." Throne fastened his belt and continued indistinctly,
"I've discovered many things, of course. They are very important for the road ahead."
"And so?" "It's not the time to tell you yet." Looking at the girl's strange expression, Throne held his head high without a hint of shame. He wasn't lying; for instance, he had managed to coax information about Liurnia out of a group of passing Tarnished. That majestic Lady Ranni had already occupied half of Liurnia of the Lakes, then halted her conquest.
He didn't know what she was up to, but according to those ubiquitous Tarnished, the reason Caria stopped was because Leyndell had intervened in the war. The implications were thought-provoking. And the price for this precious intelligence was merely five bottles of ale and a night's hangover. It was a complete steal. "Don't worry. I might play around, but I never neglect serious business."
"Mhm, I believe you," Melina nodded slightly, then added, "But you still haven't answered the significance of remaining in Mistwood." This woman is really stubborn... Throne had a bit of a headache. He thought to himself that her wooden head couldn't help anyway, so why couldn't she just be obedient? He could only spread his hands. "I'm thirsty. Help me pour a cup of water."
Melina gave him a deep look, lifted the curtain, and went out. Before long, she returned carrying a water jug. Mud was still floating in the jug; it was obviously collected from some random puddle outside. "How am I supposed to drink this? Don't you know those Tarnished often pee in there?" Faced with his protest, Melina didn't indulge him, placing the jug directly on the ground.
"Then go yourself." Dammit, why don't I have a considerate and gentle companion? Throne gritted his teeth. Come to think of it, he rarely acted alone, but who were his companions? His life-incompetent teacher Sellen, the majestic and unapproachable Ranni, and now she's been replaced by a piece of non-combustible wood. If possible, he had to find a way to remodel this piece of wood.
Throne's eyes flicked to the girl, her face blank as stone. His mind churned, piecing together a plan. He forced a laugh.
"Actually, I'm waiting." "Waiting?" "Mhm. Waiting for the Tarnished and Stormveil to start fighting. Then I'll find my chance to kill Godrick." He threw a punch at the air, the motion sharp and decisive. Melina blinked. Kill Godrick? She stared at him, confirming he wasn't joking.
The goal wasn't hard to grasp. To pull this off, he'd need far more strength than he currently had. Slaying Demigods and claiming their great runes was the only way forward.
"How? By drinking and bragging in the tavern every day?"
Throne rolled his eyes. "Why do I feel like you're being sarcastic?" He stood, his mood darkening. "I told you, I never slack when it comes to serious business. I've heard some interesting news these past few days."
He let the silence hang, watching her face shift with curiosity. Only when her gaze hardened with questions did he speak.
"The Roundtable Hold is playing dead."
"Playing dead? What do you mean?"
"Literally. They haven't made any moves to rally the Tarnished against Godrick. As long as Godrick doesn't lose his mind and declare war on all Tarnished, a full-scale battle won't break out."
Melina stayed silent, clearly struggling to follow. If the two sides wouldn't clash, how could he possibly kill Godrick? Was this man planning to storm Stormveil alone?
Throne sighed inwardly. Sigh, I'm starting to miss Lady Ranni again. He shrugged helplessly.
When it came to unraveling conspiracies, Melina's mind wasn't exactly nimble.
"The Roundtable Hold wants Godrick dead too. They need a great rune to prove their worth."
"But you just said they aren't preparing for a confrontation."
Melina frowned. Wasn't that a contradiction?
"It's a trick. They're playing weak to lure Godrick out. Push Vyke and the Tarnished of Limgrave forward as cannon fodder."
Melina's eyes widened as the pieces clicked.
"They're baiting Godrick out of the castle for an assassination. Will he fall for it?"
"He will. Godrick has no choice."
Throne paced the tent, his voice steady. "He's the weakest Demigod. His rule was already crumbling by the end of The Shattering. Every second Vyke's banner stands is a slap to his face."
"Weakness is the original sin. The infamy of Grafting clings to him. If he doesn't strike back and claim the nobles' resentment, he's doomed." The former rulers of The Lands Between were already simmering with discontent. The first to oppose the Tarnished would gain a following. This was Godrick's last shot at redemption, his only chance to reclaim the throne.
If even a lowly Tarnished like Vyke could slander him freely, Godrick might as well surrender. Stay locked away, waiting for someone to take his great rune.
Melina couldn't grasp the scope of it all, but Throne's words rang true. He'd quietly orchestrated everything.
"So you pushed that Tarnished from behind? Made him the target of all criticism?"
Uh, I just wanted someone to take the blame at first. I didn't think that far ahead. But looking at it now, seems I stumbled into it.
Throne kept his face blank.
"This is what fate demands of Vyke. To become king, one must first bear the weight of the crown."
Melina's gaze shifted, her expression unreadable.
The man before her had become an enigma, his motives shrouded in shadow. She couldn't fathom why Throne had taken an interest in an unremarkable Tarnished, let alone orchestrated the entanglement of Godrick and the Roundtable Hold. From what she'd observed, Throne and Vyke had only just crossed paths. How could he be so sure Vyke would dare lead the charge against a Demigod?
If Vyke had even a shred of cowardice, he'd have shifted the blame and fled long ago. She couldn't make sense of it, not truly. The only explanation was that Throne was a master manipulator, a chess player who saw moves no one else could. Even the Bloody Fingers might have been pawns in his scheme. "So you quietly killed the Bloody Finger and handed him a piece of prestige?"
"Mhm."
"And you had the Roundtable Hold's representative publicly acknowledge him. That acknowledgment shapes your waiting. Godrick can't afford to lose, and the Roundtable Hold even less so." Through his bragging and brawling, Throne had pieced together the Tarnished's precarious survival—the foundation of his entire plan.
Melina recalled Throne's words from that night and exhaled softly. A flicker of satisfaction stirred in her usually calm heart. She couldn't deny her admiration for his ability to weave conspiracies. It confirmed she hadn't chosen the wrong person. "But that's still not enough. If things unfold as you say, the opportunity will arise, but seizing it won't be easy."
Two obstacles loomed. First, killing Godrick, guarded by a legion of troops—even the weakest Demigod was still a Demigod, no match for any ordinary Tarnished. Second, the Roundtable Hold had its eyes on the prize and wouldn't relinquish it to an unknown Tarnished. "That's why I need your full assistance."
"Trying to scheme against me again?"
Having been deceived once and forced into the role of teammate, Melina refused to speak, even if it killed her. It wasn't about rules—her strength simply wasn't enough. If her partner relied on her, they'd both fall. "Don't overthink it. I'm not counting on your strength to get things done. I just need your help with a small matter."
"Say it."
"Go outside and keep watch. Don't let anyone in."
Throne pulled out his meteorite staff. The weather was clear, the kind of day that made you want to stop being human.
Since arriving in The Lands Between, Throne had discovered he was an exceptional student. Perhaps it was the influence of his renowned mentors. After being taught by the two strongest sorcerers, his research skills alone left most Tarnished in the dust. Few bothered to ask why; most were content as long as something worked.
"This circuit is invisible under normal conditions, but it flashes like an emblem when mana is injected." He took out a magnifying glass to examine the meteorite staff. Like all staves, it was divided into two sections. The top housed a high-quality glintstone, while the stone shaft was adorned with intricate casting units.
Every staff was a masterpiece. You couldn't just stick a glintstone on a wooden stick and expect it to work. Throne compared the detailed diagrams in his notes and found similarities. Sellen must have based her research on staves. Her work was groundbreaking—he wouldn't have made progress in a hundred years.
"Teacher truly is a genius. I can't grasp the theoretical system at all." He sighed, relieved he didn't need to understand it. All he had to do was follow the pattern. He took out a pot and added materials according to the recipe.
Mistwood Town drew him for many reasons. Strange materials, accessible only to the Tarnished, flowed through its veins—the logistics hub of Limgrave. Yet some were too obscure, too rare. Days passed before he gathered them all. He crushed them with a short blade, shaking the pot gently.
The liquid inside shifted to a faint purple, releasing a sharp, acrid stench. It burned his nostrils, corrosive and foul. A single whiff brought tears to his eyes. "Alar Moss. Some Tarnished poison their blades with this... Bloodfly wings? Isn't that for internal bleeding?"
Throne's expression twisted. Fear coiled in his gut. Applying this concoction to himself felt reckless, insane. Without Sellen's unwavering trust, he'd never dare. The eerie ingredients were one thing; her meticulous instructions were another. She'd laid out two non-negotiable conditions:
First, a steady hand. Every circuit had to be precise, down to the millimeter.
Second, consciousness. Every inch of the circuit carved into his flesh required precise mana control, synchronizing body and energy. Without it, the result would be nothing more than an invisible tattoo—useless. Throne inhaled deeply, adding a silent third rule:
This will hurt. Worse than anything. It'll demand nerves of steel.
The requirements were absurd. Warriors with iron wills lacked the fine mana control. Sorcerers with precision couldn't endure the pain. Most would collapse before the first stroke. "Only Teacher could devise something like this. Was it made for me?" Throne chuckled bitterly.
Thinking of Sellen, her cold rationality, he realized it was possible. She believed in him, judged him capable. If she were here, she'd be watching, notebook in hand, documenting every detail with clinical detachment. Throne stripped off his clothes, revealing lean, defined muscle. He sat cross-legged on the ground.
Around him, the tools were laid out: specialized clay pots, glintstone extracted from his meteorite staff, crimson and cerulean flasks. He closed his eyes, still as a meditating monk, rehearsing the steps in his mind. 'Crimson flask for blood loss, cerulean for mana depletion. The rest is endurance.'
With a flick of the spirit-calling ring, blue particles shimmered into existence, coalescing into a slender silver short sword. A foot long, its cylindrical blade resembled an armor-piercing spike, the tip needle-thin. Throne had commissioned a town blacksmith to hollow it out, turning it into a syringe.
He dipped the blade into the pot, drawing the pale purple liquid into its hollow core. A towel stuffed into his mouth, he bit down hard. "Begin." His chest rose, then settled. His hand, steady as stone, lifted the syringe sword. He paused, the tip hovering over the inner side of his left arm, then pressed inward.
Skin broke. Muscle parted. The blade drove straight to the bone marrow. Throne's eyes snapped wide, veins bulging on his forehead. Pain exploded—physical, mental—as the blade carved into his bone, then twisted, bending and looping according to the diagram. His body screamed for him to collapse, to black out.
But Throne couldn't. He poured every ounce of focus into the point of agony, letting mana flow along the blade's tip, guiding its path.
Guan Yu once scraped poison from his bone while playing chess to distract himself. Throne had no such luxury—this was pure self-torture, deliberate as a sculptor chiseling unfeeling wood. His hands never wavered. Blood pooled beneath him. The world tilted as his vision blurred from blood loss.
Controlling mana with this precision demanded more focus than casting spells. Just completing the first circuit left him gutted. Empty-headed now, he dropped the syringe sword back into its pot. Two gulps of crimson tears from the flask. The wounds knit. His mind sharpened. He bit down on the towel again.
"Eighteen left."
His laugh came out ragged. "Working overtime tonight."
Melina stood rigid at the tent's entrance, gaze fixed on the Erdtree's distant glow. Her heightened senses caught every stifled groan. Hours of them. Curiosity won. She peered inside—and froze.
Throne sat cross-legged in a circle of soaked earth, driving that narrow blade into his own flesh again and again. Blood and sweat stank in the close air. "Why?" Melina's head tilted. She wasn't a fool. Throne didn't do anything without purpose.
This was undoubtedly some kind of preparation for confronting Godrick.