"Hmm."
The dragon woman tilted her head, her scaled brow arching in mock innocence.
"Quite the fiery way to say 'thank you.'" She nodded, as if utterly missing the implication.
"How about this—we'll talk alone later. Call it even."
"Don't even think about it."
Throne's voice cracked like a whip.
"You caused Greyoll's mess."
He activated Bloodhound's Step, leaping back from her with practiced ease. To Blaidd, he added, "She's not right in the head. Don't take it personally."
Ancient Dragons. All of them, mad. Blaidd's hackles rose, though he kept his composure. Lansseax radiated danger, a storm barely contained. If Throne, Caria's Chief Knight, wielder of the Dark Moon Greatsword, were to be whisked away by an Ancient Dragon, it would stain Caria's honor forever. This dragon woman was the antithesis of Her Highness.
He didn't trust Throne to resist her. A plan had to be found, and fast.
"Teacher! Are you alright?"
A voice cut through the tension.
"Throne!"
Blaidd turned to see two figures hurrying toward them. One was the young girl he'd met in Limgrave, her face flushed with worry. Beside her ran a fiery redhead, her stride urgent, her gaze sharp.
Throne glanced up, rolling his eyes at the autumn rain that misted the air. Perfect. Enough for a game of mahjong.
The jagged rocks loomed like sentinels, the cavern's dome a mimicry of the starry sky. Beneath the palace sprawled a vast expanse, a floating island suspended in the underground void. Below it, a crimson lake shimmered, its surface thick with the metallic reek of blood. One breath would send an ordinary person retching.
At the cliff's edge, a figure in resplendent robes knelt abruptly. Mohg clutched his throat, his trident discarded. A gurgling sound escaped him, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of black and red.
"The avatar... destroyed."
Gone was any trace of his former elegance.
In The Lands Between, crafting an avatar of one's true body was never taken lightly. Even Ranni, when she'd fled to Raya Lucaria Academy to cast the Dark Moon, had been met with desperate resistance.
This avatar wasn't like Loretta's phantom. Any damage inflicted on it echoed back to the true body. Mohg writhed, his soul screaming as if hacked apart.
"Blood," he rasped, raising his hands in supplication to the void.
"Nourish me."
The lake bubbled, then surged. Massive pillars of blood rose, coiling like serpents before plunging into Mohg's body. The pool visibly shrank. At its edge, hundreds of onlookers watched with rapturous hunger.
Seeing the pool dwindle, they drew short blades and slit their own throats without hesitation. Their wounds gaped as if an unseen hand tore them open, necks ripped until only a thread of skin remained.
Their bodies shriveled instantly, the extracted blood funneled into the pillars, feeding the monarch. A grotesque exchange, a mockery of eternal life. The lake's surface bobbed with mummified corpses, their husks drifting on the waves.
Mohg saw none of it. He floated in the air, feeling as comfortable as if he had returned to his mother's womb. Not long after, he opened his eyes and stepped back onto the ground. Looking at the blood pool that was now only thigh-deep, his eyes were somewhat frantic, but after a while, he gradually calmed down. Looking at his open hands, his expression grew increasingly strange.
The power hadn't returned—not a sliver. It felt as though something had swallowed it whole. The final moment flashed in his mind: ice shards raining down, the knight with the greatsword striking, reducing him and Red Wave to ash. The image froze on the knight. Mohg's eyes narrowed. Who the hell was that man?
The air reeked of blood, thick and nauseating. The blood cultists continued their self-sacrifice ritual. Simple steps: slit your throat, leap into the pool, mix the blood, pour it over the chosen one. In this way, distinctions blurred, and eternal life was achieved. A grotesque communion.
The monarch, usually graceful and composed, stood cold and expressionless, staring blankly at the ritual. His mind raced. Something felt off. An avatar was just an avatar—when destroyed, power should return. Instead, he felt a searing pain, as if his soul had been hacked apart.
"Unheard of," he muttered. "This barely counts as a small gain."
Mohg had grown up in Leyndell's sewers. He knew how to control his emotions. Among the tripartite alliance, he'd lost the most. A classic case of aiming too high and losing everything. He'd stoked flames, fished in troubled waters, and ended up sacrificing dozens of Bloody Fingers and a trusted priest.
His escape had been pitiful. Closing access to the Bloodboon Ritual felt like abandoning his subordinates. But Mohg felt no shame. Those people were expendable. If he hesitated and Radahn pursued him, what then? Their lives didn't matter. Yet, the loss of blood from the pool twisted his gut.
He turned, his gaze settling on the giant cocoon at the palace's center. This blood was meant to nourish it. A demigod's blood would have accelerated its hatching.
"I failed," he said, voice icy. The defeat was unbearable—not just the loss, but its inexplicability.
A stranger had ruined his plan. The Lunar Princess appeared without warning, casting her strongest spell without a word. The Dark Moon fell. His avatar's power vanished.
"That man isn't some Flowing Swordsman. Even if he were, it wouldn't justify the Lunar Princess's involvement."
He shook his head, firm.
But how to explain that swordsmanship? And why had the Lunar Princess acted? He'd never heard of her possessing foresight. Had it been coincidence? It didn't make sense. Radahn had sealed the stars—why attack him? Questions churned in his mind.
He thought back to the long months of plotting, never even glimpsing Radahn's face. His blood boiled. Damn it! Rage burned so hot it turned cold. He tilted his body slightly, casting a glance at the White Mask.
"Varré, didn't you go to investigate?"
"Your Majesty, I found no clues."
Varré bowed, his voice devoid of resentment or disdain.
Every Bloody Finger was expendable—a sacrifice for the ideal. Mohg nodded, calm, and walked slowly toward the palace's center, each step heavy with thought. The situation was dire. He hadn't gained replenishment but suffered unexpected losses. Yet, revenge wasn't an option. Not yet.
The swordsman's silhouette burned in his memory. Mohg wasn't a fool—he recognized the lingering threat, the unrelenting intent to kill. The Mohgwyn Dynasty stood on an isolated island, cut off from the world, no paths leading in or out.
"There's likely a traitor among the Bloody Fingers," he muttered. "Otherwise, such a coincidence would be impossible. That's why I shut down the permissions."
He paused, then added, "Use the portal. Check on a few things for me."
"What specifically?"
"The powers of Caria. The movements of the Lunar Princess. I suspect someone's trying to use the Mohgwyn Dynasty for their own ends."
The report from the old man came back to him—the Flowing Swordsman appearing at the Smoldering Church, stirring chaos with a blood ritual. Coincidence? Perhaps. But it felt more like a deliberate warning to Radahn, urging him to pay closer attention.
"We've always been meticulous," Mohg said. "Yet the problems keep surfacing."
The White Mask nodded. The Bloody Fingers had always kept a low profile, yet they'd been targeted repeatedly. He remembered the chaos in Limgrave months ago—a spectacle that had cost them dearly. Mohg's fingers traced the surface of the giant cocoon, gentle, almost tender, as if brushing a bride's hair.
"I'm satisfied with this world," he murmured. "All I want is to complete the final ritual. Yet someone always schemes against me."
"That Flowing Swordsman," he continued. "He's tied to Ranni. He wasn't surprised to see my avatar."
The pieces didn't fit. The Bloody Fingers wouldn't betray him. They couldn't be captured. So how did this swordsman know about the dynasty? About his existence?
"Varré," he said, his voice sharp. "Find me the answer. No one in The Lands Between gets to use me."
The White Mask's eyes narrowed.
"The Flowing Swordsman appeared first at the Smoldering Church. He must have come from Limgrave. There's someone who might know something."
"Who?"
Varré took a slow breath.
"Sir Gideon Ofnir."
Mohg was probably seething now. But no—a schemer like him, lurking in the shadows for centuries, wouldn't just rage. He'd retaliate. Throne stood on a hill overlooking the battlefield near Sellia. The scene stretched before him like a canvas of chaos.
He hadn't expected Mohg to show himself. When it came down to it, there had been no time to strategize. He'd acted on instinct—cut the threat down first. The old saying rang in his ears: Soldiers come to block, water comes to cover. Whatever Mohg was plotting, Throne would meet it head-on. From this first encounter, he'd gained a rough impression. The demigod was cautious—too cautious. No wonder he'd stayed hidden all this time.
Shutting down the pathways immediately, cutting off any pursuit—that was overkill. Still, Throne was exhausted. Mohg's reaction was excessive, even paranoid. To take him down in his own dynasty would require the combined strength of at least three demigods. Throne stretched his shoulders, feeling the ache in his muscles.
"A snake in the dark is always the most troublesome," he muttered. "But ambition makes it slither into the light."
There was still work to do in Caelid. For both personal and practical reasons, Greyoll's head was next. Not for that wretched dragon, of course. The thought of Lansseax soured his mood. Her parting words still burned.
"The Lunar Princess was watching quite happily, wasn't she?"
Damn it, that smelly dragon clearly knew the inside story, yet played dumb and deliberately messed with his state of mind. It had to be said, this move was quite effective. He was immediately written down in Ranni's little notebook, surpassing Melina to become the person she hated the most.
"Speaking of which, why didn't you let Lansseax and Blaidd come?"
Melina walked up the mountain, stepping on the mud. She didn't need to be on the scene for pursuing the remaining enemies.
"If I bring an Ancient Dragon to see Radahn, wouldn't that be smashing the General's face? And Blaidd is someone by Ranni's side; some things shouldn't be too obvious."
"Didn't you say Radahn had already guessed it?"
"That is called tacit understanding, understand?"
Melina shook her head, indicating she didn't quite understand, and even less understood why these people were beating around the bush. She just pondered, "What to do next?"
"See an old friend, then slay a dragon."
"Would Radahn not know of Lansseax's existence?"
As soon as the words fell, the sound of dense hoofbeats rang out. A torrent of iron followed the mountain range.
Hundreds of warhorses struck the earth, and the red plumes on their helmets boiled like the ocean. The Redmane Guard had finally arrived. To be honest, they had arrived very quickly; even the warhorses were panting, but they had at least caught the last bus.
"He can certainly guess, but before being a warrior, he is still the General under the Erdtree. He needs a reason to convince himself and others, and I will provide that reason."
The original plan would not change. Lansseax would still take Greyoll's place. As long as she could restrain the drakes, Radahn could fulfill his promise.
"Remember, Radahn is Radahn, and the Starscourge General is the Starscourge General. The former can talk about friendship with me, but the latter does not have the power to be willful."
Melina still didn't understand. Wasn't the Starscourge General just Radahn? How could the same person be split apart? Throne didn't expect her to understand; this was just like himself. The swordsman Throne and the Carian consort had different stances.
The latter should prioritize interests, directly cutting off Radahn's head instead of being willful and naive by making some gentleman's promise to duel. But this was the best result: narrowing the matter down to the level of Throne and Radahn, rather than Caria and the Golden lords. The former spoke of friendship and loyalty, while the latter only cared about interests.
"Don't overthink it. Come and see the little gadget I just got."
Throne didn't want to let Melina crash. He used a knife to cut his palm, and the flowing blood changed shape in his palm. Melina was indeed distracted, hesitating, "This looks like a Bloody Finger incantation??"
"Hmm, snatched from Mohg's avatar. I haven't carefully studied how to use it yet, but little tricks are quite interesting."
Melina's mouth widened in surprise, and she subconsciously took a half-step back, as if looking at a monster, but quickly reacted. Eh, why am I surprised? He also grew a tail when he killed the Crucible Knight. The girl naturally wouldn't say she was slow to react. She shook her head solemnly: "Throne, why do I feel like you aren't from The Lands Between?"
You look so dull, yet your intuition is so sharp; you actually guessed the correct answer.
"What are you thinking? I am a red-blooded Carian, I even have a birth registration! I'm just wondering why I didn't seize any abilities from those bugs, including the Rot Drake I killed earlier." Throne laughed it off, taking the opportunity to divert her attention.
"They aren't qualified enough? Or is the Scarlet Rot itself flawed?"
"Maybe. Either way, I can't decipher it—no one's left to explain the truth."
Throne shook his head. For a transmigrator, he was pitiful. Years later, and he still hadn't cracked this so-called cheat. But if his body splitting or spewing Scarlet Rot was the alternative, maybe not seizing it was a blessing. Mushrooms sprouting from his flesh, reeking of decay, his reproductive rights revoked—no thanks. The power he wielded was already diverse, overwhelming. Adding Scarlet Rot to the mix felt redundant. Throne clenched his fist. The blood on his palm ignited, vanishing without a trace. He glanced over his shoulder. Radahn lumbered forward, a barrel of wine wedged under his arm. Bang. He slammed it onto the ground, scanning the area.
"Where's that Living Jar and the girl?"
"I sent them to join the fight. A chase is rare experience. Meanwhile, you skipped the battle to drink?"
Radahn's laugh boomed.
"If those fools can't mop up the stragglers, they should've quit ages ago! Besides—" He gestured at the horizon.
"This view demands a drink."
His hand came down on Throne's shoulder, testing. The lack of movement pleased him.
"Not bad. You're almost on my level. No idea how you got this strong, though."
"Trade secret."
Throne's smile was cryptic. He scanned the area again.
"Where are the cups?"
"Forgot 'em."
Radahn scratched his head, then yanked off his helmet.
"Use this. Plenty of room."
"Never one for formalities, are you?"
Throne chuckled, removing his own knight's helm. He scooped wine into it, holding the makeshift chalice aloft.
"This toast—your words or mine?"
"I'm the host. My duty."
Radahn grinned, then hesitated. The right words eluded him. Anything he could say felt too heavy, too raw.