The Shura, having just cut down a dozen men, kept moving forward, never stopping, his steps making the earth thunder. Eleonora gritted her teeth, deflected a flying head, and advanced instead of retreating. Blood Blade Dance! Corpses strewn everywhere! Mist of Stealth! The three Bloody Finger heroes brought out their signature techniques.
In normal times, Throne would have avoided their edge and used his brain to kill them one by one, but at this moment, his heart was as clear as glass, and he didn't think about anything. To retreat even half a step would mean being surrounded. Even if the hundreds of Bloody Fingers lined up for him to cut, he would tire his hands out doing so.
"Get out!!"
Dragon Storm Stomp!
The earth shook as if in an earthquake, and the gale blew the ordinary Bloody Fingers away. The blades of the old man and the others were closing in, but they touched a layer of purple barrier. Repulsion Barrier. Gravity Magic swatted away the spent attacks. Yashan, being slightly weaker, slid several meters in the mud. Just as he was about to hide in the curtain of rain, a shadow obscured him.
That devil-like man was right in front of him, raising his katana and greatsword high, and without a word, he swung them down together. The blade light formed an 'X' shape, and the crushing power slammed into the claws, sinking deep into the ribs before lifting the short man up.
Throne glanced at the dozen Bloody Fingers rushing to the rescue, twisted the handle of his blade, and Moonveil released a light blade resembling a Carian Greatsword. Storm Dance! Everything within a few meters was cut into shreds. The light blade and the storm even swept over a dozen meters away, forcing the old man and Eleonora to stop.
Looking up, they saw Yashan's head rolling down the slope, his protruding eyes still filled with confusion. Bang! A large foot stomped the head into the mud. Throne, soaked in rain and blood, let out a beast-like roar.
"Roar—"
This roar drowned out the sound of rain and thunder, just like a blood demon from the ancient past, wantonly enjoying the pleasure of slaughter.
Where did this monster come from! The old man and Eleonora felt their scalps tingle. A pure monster is always terrifying, even if his reckless slaughter didn't gain him any advantage, leaving him covered in blood from incantations and blades. But what did blood loss matter? The evil intent to slaughter every living thing had not faded in the slightest.
When Throne crossed his blade and sword and crouched in a dashing stance, the Bloody Fingers blocking the front had only one reaction—retreat! Thump, thump, thump... His heavy footsteps resounded, and Throne launched another charge to the east. But this time, no one was willing to stand in the way; those chunks of flesh and heads spoke volumes about the consequences of blocking him.
Millicent, following closely behind, was completely stunned. She only saw the man charging forward, his greatsword and katana constantly cutting down the heads of the Bloody Fingers who couldn't dodge, completely ignoring the attacks from both sides, like a paranoid lunatic proving one point: those who block me die. The crazier he was, the less anyone dared to stand in his way.
The girl could only move her legs mechanically, seeing headless corpses on both sides. They were cut to pieces, staining the earth blood-red. The heavy defensive formation was completely pierced through.
The old man watched them climb the hillside and saw a flying dragon spread its wings and come from the north, its massive, dozen-meter-long body piercing through the wind and rain, and only then did he wake up from his daze.
"Chase him!"
It was one thing not to dare to block the way, but if they didn't even have the courage to pursue, what kind of Bloody Fingers were they?
The people scattered everywhere scrambled to their feet and chased forward in a swarm. Humans, what a bunch of trash. The cyan flying dragon circled in the air, curling its mouth in disdain. It had come from the dragon nest to support, attracted by the sounds of battle, but upon arriving, it saw the ground covered in the corpses of Bloody Fingers. Where is the enemy? Hmm?
Why is there the scent of its own kind? It was suddenly full of question marks. The information was asymmetrical. As far as the flying dragon knew, someone had stolen an important item from the Kindred of Rot, and it had come to help a little as a collaborator. How dare they kill a dragon! The flying dragon's killing intent instantly surged.
It instinctively wanted to dive, but in the blink of an eye, the person running in front had disappeared, and when he reappeared, he was already in front of it. Their eyes met, and it saw only the purest killing intent and desire for blood in the human's eyes. Pfft! With a sound of cracking bone, the greatsword was already embedded in its skull.
The flying dragon let out a deafening shriek, shaking its head wildly, and spiraled down toward the ground. Before it could figure out what was happening, Throne, who had been prepared, had already used Starlight Leap to appear in front of it. He gripped its dragon horns tightly to keep from being thrown off, pulled out the greatsword stuck in its facial bone, and hacked wildly at its neck.
"Behave, or how am I supposed to cut your head off."
This was ten times more thrilling than a roller coaster. Even though his palms were a bloody mess, Throne remained as focused as a butcher. He broke through the scales, delved into the muscles, and hacked into the bones, letting dragon blood soak his entire body.
The flying dragon traced a bizarre path in the air and finally plunged headfirst into the ground. Bang! The massive creature, weighing tens of tons, crashed to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust and debris. The remaining dozens of Bloody Fingers stopped in unison, their heads still dazed. How could such a powerful reinforcement, having just appeared, fall to the ground in a single exchange?
So crazy, who the hell is the real Bloody Finger? Whoosh—
A gale rose, sweeping away the dust. The cyan adult flying dragon lay crashed a hundred meters away, its severed neck gushing blood, staining a large patch of ground red.
And that crimson figure stood on the dragon's neck, the blood-red greatsword on his shoulder, his other hand holding the dragon's head, turning the hideous and confused head toward the crowd, as if displaying his glory, letting out a silent roar. Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne, this is Shura!
The autumn rain continued. The waterlogged soil oozed blood, which gathered into small streams along the slope. A group of Bloody Fingers stood in the rain. Before them, the dragon corpse acted like a giant wall blocking their path. Even though they could cross it with just a little effort, no one, from Eleonora and the old man downwards, dared to step over it.
They couldn't stop him; this was the only answer. That person had cut through the Bloody Fingers in a mere five minutes and then spent twenty seconds making a flying dragon fall into the dust. A true chosen of Khorne is meant to use skulls and blood to incite the most primal instinct for survival.
No matter how bloodthirsty and tyrannical, the Bloody Fingers were ultimately human and far from being Shura. Since they were human, they would feel fear, analyze the enemy and themselves, and look for reasons to retreat. But a true bloodthirsty maniac cares about nothing. This strength comes from purity, just like Throne, who had nothing in his eyes but the prey blocking his path.
"You didn't stop him?"
The voice sliced through the silence like a knife. All heads turned toward the blood noble in ornate robes, his pointed hat casting a sharp shadow across his face. His tone dripped with cold malice.
"Lord Esgar."
The old executioner dipped his head in acknowledgment. His voice held no apology.
"We didn't. Same as the Kindred of Rot—he cut through us like parchment. No reason to bleed ourselves dry for a lost cause."
The admission carried no shame. The old man had seen the enemy shatter their lines. Chasing him now would mean death in scattered handfuls. If they couldn't stop him united, what hope had they divided?
When the truth of a losing duel settled in his bones, he'd let go. This wasn't the Bloody Fingers' fight anyway.
"Reason strangles truth," Esgar mused, "but it keeps fools from dying pointlessly."
He didn't blame them. Even Lord Mohg wasn't some mindless slaughter-beast.
Yet curiosity gnawed at him. How did a creature steeped in bloodlust survive this long? To toggle between calculation and carnage—that was terrifying.
"Lord Esgar."
Eleonora stepped forward, her armor streaked with gore.
"Do we pursue?"
Thirty Bloody Finger corpses littered the ground. Heads rolled. Limbs lay severed. A skirmish had turned into a charnel pit.
The blood priest surveyed the carnage. Only Eleonora and the old man remained standing. The rest were meat. Heavy losses. In all their clashes with the Roundtable Hold, they'd never lost more than ten at once.
No—the Bloody Fingers had always been the predators. Until today.
"I won't decide this."
Esgar drew a blood-red badge from his robes. Crimson droplets coalesced in the air, swirling into a towering figure.
"Your Majesty."
"Your Majesty."
Every surviving Finger dropped to one knee. The blood-shadow loomed—horns curling, trident glinting. No face. Only presence.
"Ahhh."
Mohg's voice was a velvet purr.
"Such perfume. Pure slaughter. Madness distilled into scent. A beast sculpted for blood."
It could've been a wine tasting. A sonnet.
Esgar bowed lower.
"Your Majesty, it's one man. In a single day, he broke through us and the Kindred of—"
"Shh."
Mohg's raised finger might've been a conductor silencing an orchestra.
"Don't speak of those festering insects. Wounds bleed fresh. They ooze pus."
"One man?"
The shadow tilted its head.
"Look at his work. Perhaps our next Bloody Knight."
Had Throne heard, he'd have groaned. Godrick's knighthood was bad enough. Now Mohg wanted to brand him too? Three masters were two too many.
Eleonora lifted her head.
"Your Majesty—shall we invite him?"
Demigod whims were unknowable. That demon from the fight—a comrade? But she couldn't deny it. He fit.
"No time."
Mohg's shadow rippled.
"The Great Mother hungers for wounds."
"New blood will gush from the wounds, allowing beautiful flowers to break through the soil."
Each word dripped with meaning even Esgar couldn't parse. The Fingers only understood one thing—their lord wasn't recruiting.
Fools. The blood shadow shuddered.
Mohg's killing intent flickered beneath the surface, a blade sheathed in silk.
"The Kindred of Rot seek something in Sellia," he said, fingers tracing the rim of his chalice.
"Greyoll's hunger points there as well. We'll ride their coattails."
"Your Majesty, do you mean to—"
"Flowers crave rich soil."
Mohg's smile showed too many teeth.
"The rarest blooms require the most precious blood."
Not just an opportunity—a perfect storm. Let the dragons and rotkin draw the Erdtree's wrath. The Mohgwyn Dynasty would remain untouched, its bloody machinations hidden. The Roundtable's recent disruptions had forced their hand. Varré hunted traitors even now.
No more shadows.
"My knights," Mohg spread his arms, "the hour has come to rip the world's scars wide open. Let my blood embrace you. Drown this land in agony!"
Rain fell just as hard miles away, but here the air smelled of wet earth instead of blood. Millicent leaned her stained katana against a tree trunk and stole a glance sideways.
The man slumped against a boulder, chest heaving. Rain had diluted the worst of the gore on his clothes. That terrifying presence from earlier was fading.
She fished a strip of dragon meat from her robes—leftovers from yesterday. No chance of lighting a fire in this downpour.
Her fingers tightened around the jerky. Throne's rampage played behind her eyelids—the way he'd moved, like something not quite human.
Millicent gritted her teeth and stepped forward.
"Teacher. Eat. You need strength."
Throne wrestled with the thing inside him.
Shura wasn't just a technique. It was a door kicked open, his darkest self given rein. He'd used it once before at the Brand Fortress, but never this completely. No choice. Time had demanded a blade sharp enough to cut through steel.
A double-edged sword. Back in Ashina, only the Sculptor and Sekiro had pulled him back from the brink.
Annoying memories.
He forced his breathing into the old rhythm—in, hold, out—when Millicent's voice cut through the rain.
She stood three paces away, poised to bolt.
Throne wiped his mouth.
"Relax. I've got the leash back on."
He took the meat with a self-mocking grin.
"Thanks."
Millicent exhaled. The monster from before wouldn't have said thank you. She edged closer.
"Teacher... what was that?"
"An unstable trick. Fastest way to scare off pursuit."
He flicked the raw meat disdainfully before vanishing it into his ring, swapping it for a flask of crimson tears.
"Don't mention it to Melina."
The burn of the tears down his throat matched the sting of his wounds. Those Bloody Fingers had landed hits.
"A... trick?"
Millicent frowned.
"You think swordsmanship's just swinging steel?"
Throne pushed off the boulder, already moving. He tapped his katana's hilt as he jogged.
"Sword techniques are the body. Sword intent is the soul. The mindset behind each cut."
His boots splashed through mud.
"Masters carry multiple intents. Switch them like coats."
Throne continued running forward, obviously having no intent to slow down.
Throne chose his words with care—lessons he'd never shared before. Most wouldn't grasp them. But Millicent wasn't most.
Her brow furrowed for half a breath before clearing.
"Yes. I understand."
Flowing Water or Shura, the principles bled the same.
Sword Dao's mysticism, the weight of intent—these might daunt others. Not her. What shocked him was how fast she'd shaken off the killing aura. He didn't press whether her understanding ran deep or shallow.
He just looked up at the autumn rain that had been falling all day, the downpour turning the road to mud.
"How much further?"