A fleeting thought—the Tarnished in Limgrave wouldn't yield easily.
"These two flying dragons are weak. Together, they don't even match Agheel."
He spat, eyes scanning the jagged peaks. At least the mountains teemed with stronger dragons.
"Next time, use your head before slaying a dragon. You smashed its heart to pieces."
Lansseax's voice cut through the air, sharp and unrelenting. She'd been prattling about uncovering the secret of dragon power. The solemnity from moments ago vanished—she was back to her usual self. The dragon heart, she claimed, was the source of power. She'd assumed Throne would perform some ritual after the kill.
He didn't bother explaining.
"Just two pieces of trash. It's nothing."
"Do not speak so contemptuously. They are weak, but they are not trash."
"Didn't you say flying dragons were lowly?"
"They are still dragons. Only I am allowed to say that."
Throne rolled his eyes. Ancient Dragons thrived on their innate superiority—a hazard for his plans with Ranni. But it didn't matter. Arrogance could be beaten out of them. Once battered and bloodied, they'd see if they could still sneer. He stepped back, gaze drifting across the canyon. The Redmane outposts stood silent, their stillness unsettling. They'd lost interest in their old adversaries, the flying dragons. What was Radahn playing at? Throne never trusted General Radahn to be honest.
A master strategist, yes—but whether he chose to wield that skill was another matter. Was this a ploy to eliminate rivals or sow chaos?
The Radahn Festival felt abrupt. He filed the thought away. They were friends, but not comrades. Battles born of mutual respect always ended the same—grief only surfaced after killing a friend.
"What are you thinking about?"
Lansseax sidled up to him, her voice too casual. Throne glanced at her, unimpressed.
"You're playing dumb again."
She knew this was a trap. Multiple factions, each with their own agendas, tangled together. It wasn't just about the flying dragons and Radahn. The Mohgwyn Dynasty, the Beast Clergyman, the Kindred of Rot—none were to be underestimated.
"Enough of that. What about those Magma Wyrms?"
"Slaying dragons. What else?"
"Then why aren't they hunting flying dragons instead of coming for you? That makes no sense."
Throne sneered. Did they think him a fool? Lansseax shrugged, unbothered.
"They're desperate fools craving power, unaware mine is useless to them."
So Greyoll had allies. Diverting the dragon slayers' disaster elsewhere—impressive determination. Throne smirked bitterly. She'd dragged trouble onto herself again.
"You're quite popular."
"Who do you think I am?"
Pride? Throne didn't get it. He'd rather be invisible. He summoned Torrent with a wave.
"Let's head north."
Beyond the canyon lay the sea.
He could faintly see a huge circular structure at the end of the canyon.
"The flying dragons are to the east. There's someone there you shouldn't mess with."
"Do you think I came to Caelid just to work for you?"
Throne scoffed. Of course, he knew what awaited.
Some people you don't see for ten years, and it doesn't matter how they are doing, but he was more interested in seeing what that young girl looked like now.
Throne wasn't stupid. Killing two flying dragons would inevitably cause a backlash. He wanted to find a new mother for the flying dragons of Caelid, but he didn't need to charge into their nest. Flying dragons weren't made of paper. Even Radahn wouldn't dare claim he could mow them down effortlessly. As for the Dragon Mother Greyoll, she was undoubtedly a demigod-level existence.
The enemy was strong and he was weak; the enemy was many and he was few. Added to that were a bunch of miscellaneous factions. He undoubtedly needed a more clever way to handle this. The northern part of Caelid was slightly desolate. The roads were rugged, and vegetation was sparse. The sea breeze from the north made the trees sway. Though it looked desolate, it had a majestic, rugged grandeur.
Torrent walked slowly. This was the edge of the flying dragon controlled zone. No one jumped out to eat them, but it was only a matter of time before they discovered an intruder. The two flying dragons Throne had killed were not nobodies; they were enough to deal with a hundred-man squad. Not to mention they had wings and could escape at will.
Killing them on the spot would undoubtedly cause a strategic misjudgment. Did the long-dormant Redmane want to bare their fangs again? Let them guess. The murkier the water, the better. When it came to seizing opportunities, Throne was a professional. So he circled around, turning from east to north. In the distance, he saw a giant circular structure.
From the outside, it looked like some kind of arena.
"Do you know what the deal is with that giant jar?" Throne asked suddenly. Now that he had an ancient immortal by his side, he didn't need to go find Ranni and get scolded. Lansseax yawned, thought for a moment, and replied, "Very big, very old, very strong."
"That's it?"
"What else do you want to know?" Throne smiled. It was enough.
Upgrading for a Living Jar was simple, yet very difficult. It required going through hardships to reach that point. He didn't know how many fierce battles it had experienced or how many years had passed.
"Can it communicate?"
"Want to recruit it into your Carian faction? Give up on that idea. If it were willing to leave, we would have invited it many years ago."
Was it really that fierce?
Throne thought that if the Ancient Dragons wanted to form an alliance, its strength must be astonishing. This Great Jar, like the Blind Swordsman, belonged to the reclusive masters of The Lands Between and was a very powerful existence. It didn't matter if it couldn't communicate; as long as he could get information about Alexander, that was enough.
It was all that idiot's fault for not specifying his location in the letter, forcing him to spend time looking for him. He controlled Torrent to jump down the cliff. He saw that Caelid protruded to form a peninsula. The closer he got, the heavier the mountain-like pressure became. A road led forward, about a hundred meters wide, with steep cliffs on both sides.
At the end of the road stood a huge Warrior Jar. Throne pulled the reins to make the Spirit Steed stop and slowly raised his head. He had been in The Lands Between for a long time and was well-traveled, but he rarely showed a look of shock. It was too big. The jar body was like a mountain, at least twenty meters high, with a diameter of over twenty meters.
The arms crossed in front were like two giant logs. It was hard to imagine what kind of terrifying power it would unleash if it swung them. A monster, an absolute monster. How did I not realize a Warrior Jar could grow this big? He looked back. The amused dragon wasn't laughing anymore; her golden snake-like pupils were filled with wariness.
The Living Jar had no head, let alone facial features, but Throne, a top-tier hero, immediately sensed its gaze fixed on him. He dismounted, gripping his long sword as he stepped forward.
"Do you know what that building behind it is?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. The powerful Warrior Jar stood like a gatekeeper, blocking the entrance.
The circular structure bore the deep scars of time. To the left, a Minor Erdtree stretched toward the sky, while the Divine Tower of Caelid loomed on the right. Sandwiched between them, the circular building exuded an eerie stillness. Lansseax stood expressionless, her presence now carrying the cold, weathered air of an Ancient Dragon.
"A place for warriors to obtain glory, the supreme hall of slaughter," she said.
"Why are you speaking in riddles again?" Throne replied, not fully understanding—nor needing to. He moved cautiously toward the Great Jar, scanning for any lurking Red Phantoms, before slowly looking up. The Great Jar watched him in silence.
"Sir, I would like to know where a Living Jar and a girl have gone," Throne said, performing a knightly salute. He felt as though he stood before a massive rock—silent, heavy, and composed. The sharp sea breeze was the only sound. Throne lowered his hand from his chest and turned to Lansseax.
"As fellow ancient immortals, you translate for me."
The dragon woman rolled her eyes. As a relic of the past herself, she barely grasped its meaning.
"It only answers to warriors."
"Are all ancient immortals weirdos? Can't you just talk properly?" Throne muttered, taking a deep breath and placing his hand on his sword. Being a warrior was simple.
"Please, enlighten me."
Click, click—
No Red Phantoms appeared. Instead, a mountain rose before him. Startled birds took flight as rocks clattered down from its body. It was unclear how long it had been since it last moved. Was this a test? A judgment? Throne didn't dodge. He didn't need to fight to the death; he vaguely understood the Great Jar's intent.
"Good, let me feel your strength!"
Throne planted his feet firmly on the ground and drank from his Flask of Wondrous Physick. His body shimmered like neon as he activated his abilities: Gravity Shield, Golden Vow, Glintstone Crystal Armor, Storm Assault! In a life-or-death battle, he wouldn't have this much time to stack buffs. This was a trial, a test.
Clatter—
The Great Jar raised its fist. Throne bent his knees, his pupils turning golden as he braced himself. What he saw next was magnificent. Mountain Fall!!! The heavy fist descended. It didn't appear fast, but its momentum was terrifying, and his instincts screamed in alarm. Dodge, or be turned to pulp. The airflow deformed his cheeks.
He finally understood why the Great Jar had said "warrior" instead of "strong person."
Thud! A golden long tail slammed into the ground, overlapping with the storm. Throne stomped his feet and shot into the sky like a rocket. A true warrior, even facing landslides, earthquakes, or a hell of blood and fire, grits their teeth and charges forward.
This was a state of mind, unrelated to strength. It happened too fast to see clearly. Standing a hundred meters away, Lansseax felt a gust of wind blow across her face, her robes fluttering incessantly. Then came a muffled thud.
A pale ring of air appeared before the fist, leaving deep marks on the surface of the circular building like a blade. A black shadow bounced back. Thud! Thud! Thud! Throne retreated, each step cracking the ground and sending rocks flying. The inertia pushed him back a hundred meters until a hand pressed against his back.
Swish—
Lansseax skidded back, her boots carving trenches in the earth. Ice cracked into a smile across her face.
"How does it feel?"
"Like getting hit by a fucking avalanche!"
Throne spat crimson, throat burning. A decade in The Lands Between, and nothing had ever rattled his bones like this.
Even juiced on every buff he could chug, he'd barely held ground. Maybe this was what a Warrior Jar looked like at the bleeding edge of strength. The second punch never came. The Great Jar stayed frozen, fist embedded in shattered earth, dust swirling around its motionless bulk.
Sea wind howled. Throne's lip twitched.
"Hey. Rustbucket."
He kicked a pebble at the colossus.
"You blue-screening on me?"
The Jar's finger creaked upward, pointing northeast before collapsing back into its crater with a ground-shaking thud.
Throne scratched his jaw.
"The hell's that supposed to—" He turned to his translator.
"Alexander went that way?"
The smaller Jar nodded, armor clanking.