"Discard that straight sword; this tachi is made of good material and feels more natural to use."
Millicent took it, swung it twice, and indeed felt a sense of familiarity. Seeing Throne walk towards her, she put away the sword and asked, "Teacher, you haven't taught me swordsmanship yet."
"Swing your sword with instinct. Even if it's clumsy, as long as it kills the enemy, that's enough. For the rest, observe and learn, like this—" Throne then used his foot to flick up a long blade, caught it with his left hand, turned, and threw it. The blade vanished into the forest. A crisp sound was heard, and it was already bounced into the air. Such a reaction undoubtedly belonged to a master, but a Comet Azur followed this hidden weapon. Boom! A mushroom cloud instantly rose in the forest.
Throne didn't even look at the result of the battle. He draped a cloak over the stunned Millicent's head and pulled her into a river ditch.
"Let's go. You'll learn a lot on this journey."
The girl looked at the mushroom cloud rising in the night sky, with only one thought in her mind:
This counts as swordsmanship???
Swish—
A blood-red long blade cut through the dust, and a rather disheveled old man emerged. He took off his mask, his wrinkled face first grim, then revealing a bloodthirsty smile. It's been a long time since I've encountered such an interesting opponent. He can even use high-level magic, and he's unconventional, not adhering to honorable combat. Truly the scent of a kindred spirit...
"Master, Saburo and the others are dead, but please take a look at the wounds."
An Inaba Clan member had already surveyed the battlefield; three corpses lay scattered about. The old man walked over and looked, first frowning, then astonished, he couldn't help but squat down, carefully observing the wounds.
"It's a tachi. I didn't expect this master to use a tachi!"
The old man's voice was filled with excitement. How many years had he been in The Lands Between? The Tarnished who used tachis were few and far between, and without exception, they all died by his blade. A bunch of weaklings with inferior sword skills, unworthy of wielding a blade. Perhaps only that Nameless Swordsman from ten years ago could pique his interest.
But now another one has appeared, slaying three Inaba Clan members as easily as an adult beats a child. Only the blood of such a strong opponent can make him stronger. Fortunately, he was an old hand and didn't rush in recklessly.
"Go tell those bugs that the person they want has gone north. The other two are ours to handle."
"Yes."
"You return to the Dynasty and report this matter to His Majesty. Completing the Blood Pool requires Demigod Blood. I believe this is an opportunity. Please let him decide how to proceed."
The old man arranged for another person, clearly, the existence of the Bloody Finger was not as simple as merely causing trouble for the Erdtree; it was also a massive conspiracy. Finally, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was only bloodthirsty madness.
How many years has it been? The person who could interest him has finally appeared.
"The rest of you, follow me! I will take his head!"
... These should be the Inaba Clan, Tarnished from the Land of Reeds. I remember the leader is called the Old Man. Throne ran along the river, a general idea already forming in his mind. The Old Man is undoubtedly in the first tier among the Tarnished.
His tachi, Rivers of Blood, has killed countless people and is not much weaker than Vargram the Raging Wolf. If he weren't so obsessed with slaughter, he might even contend for the title of a quasi-lord. His reputation is well-known, but there's still a significant gap compared to me. If he dared to come alone, Throne would gladly accept the Rivers of Blood.
The demonic blade pulsed with malevolent energy, too dangerous for any but the strongest to wield. Throne's thoughts lingered on the Mohgwyn Dynasty behind him. Why wasn't Mohg, that corpse of a monarch, focused on seducing Miquella? Instead, he'd established the Bloody Fingers. Was he afraid no one would notice him?
Recruiting talents at such a cost, relentlessly assaulting the Roundtable Hold's heroes—there had to be a purpose. Throne's mind sharpened. It must be tied to corrupting Miquella. The specifics eluded him.
"Conspirators are the most irritating," he muttered, frustration mounting. Worse, all this chaos was concentrated in Caelid.
What kind of cursed geomancy plagued this land? Millicent stood silent, watching her teacher. They'd only known each other half a day, yet he'd already left a deep mark. Ruthless, decisive, unorthodox, yet not truly cruel.
"Teacher, they're pursuing slowly," she said. "Just hanging back."
"Don't mistake their caution for stupidity."
Throne's voice was calm.
"They're waiting for reinforcements."
"Then why don't we run faster? Escape?"
"They're coordinated. Melina can't draw all their attention. Blind flight invites ambush. Besides—" His tone hardened.
"We're not fleeing. We're breaking through."
He paused, then added, "Hesitation doesn't contradict resolve. Plan before you act. Understand your enemy's strength and numbers. Then you can win every battle."
Millicent frowned. She'd only wanted to learn swordsmanship. Clearly, this man was more complex than she'd thought. And swordsmanship? Far from simple. Dragons, Bloody Fingers, Rot—Throne's mind flickered through the enemies ahead.
The real problem was his unfamiliarity with these forces. How many strong individuals lurked among them? Going unnoticed is a fantasy. The key is to never stop. Even if they realize I'm heading to Sellia, I'll push forward.
Ahead, the dry riverbed narrowed into a valley of red earth.
The full moon had vanished. Dawn crept in, widening the view. This place bore the Scarlet Rot's mark, yet the trees remained lush, caves faintly visible. Throne halted, pulled a map from his ring, and traced his finger across it. Northeast of the swamp, near abandoned caves.
No Cleanrot Knights should remain inside. He drew the Dark Moon Greatsword, resting it on his shoulder. His aura surged, like boiling blood. Millicent's face paled. The pressure was overwhelming, more ferocious than the Bloody Fingers earlier.
"Stay close to me," Throne said. "We're breaking through."
"Okay."
Millicent scanned the surroundings. The stench of rot filled the air. Her grip tightened on her sword hilt. The enemy wasn't foolish. They hadn't been fully lured north. Once they realized the deception, they'd converge from all sides. Throne's eyes gleamed gold. No stealth, no hesitation. No time for games.
Right before Millicent's eyes, he unleashed his full power.
The valley was silent. A morning breeze stirred the leaves. Even Millicent knew the clash was imminent. She took a shallow breath, steadying her racing heart.
"Remember, stay close. Just cover me."
A sonic boom cracked the air. Pebbles stung Millicent's face. Throne was gone.
Pale rings simultaneously rose at the valley mouth, center, and rear. Throne charged up the hillside like a wild bull. Among the trees, dense clusters of Kindred of Rot awaited. Clever. They'd left a squad to block the crucial path.
Their numbers should've been greater, but reinforcements had been lured north. Fine by me, Throne thought. I'll take care of these. Storm Stomp!
Throne's foot slammed down, crushing two bugs before they could react. The force of his stomp scattered debris, clearing a space. He watched as the Kindred of Rot began casting incantations, a purple gravity ring forming in his left palm.
"Come here!"
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
Swish—
A moon-ring blossomed, severing heads in a single arc. He spun once, and a long, deadly tail grew from his back—Omenkiller Rollo's Tail.
The second spin sent every Kindred of Rot flying. Their bodies smashed against the rock wall, flattening into grotesque bug-pancakes. Throne didn't glance at the survivors closing in from both sides. Spear-like projectiles pierced his body, but his expression didn't falter. His form shattered into starlight. Starlight Phantom. He reappeared dozens of meters ahead.
A mushroom-man stood before him, similar yet different from the others. It didn't hesitate, its body disintegrating instantly into a wall of Mycelia. Waves of fungal tendrils stabbed outward, grotesque enough to unsettle anyone with trypophobia. Throne halted, gripping his sword with both hands. He raised it high.
"Divide!"
A crescent of sword energy roared forth, dozens of meters long, splitting the fungal waves in two. The remaining tendrils curled inward like a closing flower bud. Tch. The Sword of Night and Flame would've been more effective. Wrong equipment.
His gaze swept the Mycelia surrounding him. He pressed his hand to the ground, and a mist of ice spread outward. Freezing Fog.
The Mycelia, lightweight and fragile, solidified instantly. Before they could retract, a fierce gale swept through, shattering the frozen bud into a glittering shower of ice shards. Beautiful and deadly.
Throne glanced back. Millicent wasn't waiting idly; she'd already caught up, her tachi slicing through the air with fierce precision. She had no formal style, but her strikes were decisive, cutting down four or five Kindred of Rot in moments.
"Interesting."
Throne didn't linger. As the Mycelia retracted, he hurled several Fire Pots. The flames ignited on contact, forcing the Mycelia to recoil faster.
He scanned the swarm of Kindred of Rot surging from all sides, then pushed off with his legs, leaping high into the air. Below him, burning Mycelia stabbed upward. Around him, spider-silk incantations surged like an inescapable net, trying to trap him in their center.
"Showy nonsense!"
Throne scoffed. His body glowed with purple light, cloaking him like a meteor. He lingered for an instant in the daylight before plummeting to the ground. Falling Moon.
He smashed through the burning Mycelia, moonlight slicing through obstacles in his path. The spider-silk incantations couldn't even catch his shadow. The wind pressure forced the Mycelia to bow, freezing the Rot Baron momentarily. Too heavy to block. Too fast to dodge.
The moonlight severed its tentacles. The purple meteor crashed into it unimpeded. Boom—
Millicent, driving her tachi into a Kindred of Rot's brain, froze. The air behind her erupted with violent force. Her ears rang, her balance vanished, and she tumbled across the ground, battered by the shockwave.
The lighter Kindred of Rot were blown away, flung in every direction, their bodies coated in dirt.
"Are you alright?"
Millicent rolled several times, felt someone grab her shoulder, and spat out a mouthful of dirt.
"I'm fine."
"Then let's continue!"
Throne didn't treat her like some fragile girl. While the Kindred of Rot struggled to rise, he was already running forward.
Millicent followed, her steps unsteady, her mind still reeling.
She skirted the edge of a massive pit, her gaze instinctively drawn downward. Black, mycelium-like remnants clung to the crater's edges. Her brow furrowed as she glanced at the figure striding ahead. This was Falling Moon's heart—where a Rot Baron had been cut down mid-transformation, its full power never unleashed. Throne had taught her killing precision before. Now he demonstrated something else entirely—
Raw dominance. One force crushing ten thousand techniques.
Thirty seconds to scatter pursuers. Two minutes to shatter a defensive line. Throne's usual combat style favored calculated efficiency—a predator weighing risk against reward. But here? He'd become pure annihilation. Anything standing between him and his goal turned to pulp underfoot.
Sweat slicked his skin, each heartbeat stoking the furnace in his chest. Kill the obstructors. Destroy the opposition. His aura twisted into something unrecognizable—even Melina or Ranni would've hesitated. Sellen would've questioned his identity. But this wasn't change.
This was revelation.
A decade ago, weakness forced him to rely on cunning. Cutting through ranks sounded heroic—until you realized Guan Erye's legend relied on overwhelming strength. Now Throne wielded that same power. Why scheme when you could simply erase?
Millicent wasn't afraid. But her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade as she watched him run, chewing ragged strips of raw dragon meat. The metallic stench clung to the air.
"Teacher," she called, snatching a piece for herself. The taste made her jaw clench, but she swallowed.
"More will come?"
"Yes."
Throne didn't slow.
"They'll die."
Words came sparse now, carving his teacher's mantle deeper with each silence. Perhaps this austerity was his true self.
"How far to the Eastern Mountains?"
"Fifty li. Three hours straight through."
Her voice dipped.
"I'm slowing you down."
She learned fast. One map-reading lesson, and already she tracked distances like a veteran.