The instant Nolan adjusted his stance, the Church Confessor sprang forward like a tiger descending the mountain, blade sweeping low along the ground and forcing Nolan to leap clear.
The movement was brutally efficient. No flashy techniques, no wasted motion. Using only the power of his shoulders and the momentum of his charge, he slammed straight into Nolan's chest.
A deafening crash rang out as Nolan was sent flying, smashing hard into a stone pillar that had stood for years. Cracks spread across its surface in an instant.
After a long moment, Nolan slowly pushed himself upright and wiped the blood from his forehead.
If this man were wearing heavy armor, he would stop being a nimble assassin and become an indestructible steel monster.
The Lands Between really were infested with freaks.
Unlike knights who relied on wide, heavy swings, or those mindless insects that fought without pattern, this assassin's style was entirely his own. His physical abilities far surpassed those of ordinary men, his killing techniques were refined, and his strikes were merciless.
"With this much noise," Nolan said, casting a sidelong glance at the elevator a dozen meters away before fixing his eyes on the approaching assassin, "whatever these assassins were planning, it might as well be a failed mission now."
"So you're the one chosen as a Golden Needle Knight," he continued. "Looks like Miquella isn't quite as wise as people like to believe."
The words came cold as a winter wind. Nolan wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, yet a victor's smile curled across his face as he mocked,
"Whatever you were scheming, it's already fallen apart, hasn't it? I imagine the Two Fingers must be terribly disappointed in you, Graceless Ones."
The words cut deep, like a blade driven straight into the Church Confessor's heart.
They were people who had never received Grace themselves, yet yearned for it with desperate intensity. Nolan's taunt was nothing less than salt ground into an open wound.
"Bang!"
The claymore crashed down with brutal force, blasting shards of stone into the air. A storm of shattered rock erupted before them, instantly blotting out all sight.
In the heat of battle, the Church Confessor lost focus for a split second, his rage clouding his mind.
His eyes widened as he saw the dust hanging in the air begin to glow faintly with a golden hue.
Discus of Light!
Nolan shouted, raising one hand high and hurling the golden ring forward.
The prayer shot straight for his opponent's neck, slamming into the ground and carving a shallow groove where it struck.
"A sacred mark hidden under his gauntlets? What a filthy trick," the Church Confessor cursed inwardly. He hadn't expected his opponent to be hiding something like that.
In the blink of an eye, he twisted and ducked, evading the sudden attack with speed no ordinary human could manage. Almost simultaneously, he snapped his arm back and fired a bolt in retaliation.
Just as the Black-Key Bolt was about to strike its target, the figure before him vanished from sight.
Bloodhound's Step!
Nolan, already prepared, had no idea what was running through his opponent's mind. Even if he did, he wouldn't have bothered explaining.
This technique was the product of his joint research with the Lady Ghost, a method that allowed him to cast prayers without the use of a catalyst. The next problem they were working to solve was how to cast sorceries without a staff.
Unfortunately, that wasn't Lady Ghost's specialty, so progress had been slow.
All of that was beside the point.
Nolan darted to the side, effortlessly avoiding the incoming bolt. He shifted back half a step, narrowly slipping past the Confessor's rising slash with his knife.
Sparks burst into the air as Nolan dropped his center of gravity in an instant.
Power surged up from his legs, flowed through his waist, and poured into his arms as he drove the Claymore forward.
The strike was broad and decisive, the blade carving a crescent arc through the air as it descended toward the Confessor's head.
Yet the assassin twisted his wrist ahead of time. Even with the blade tearing through the air mere inches away, he showed not the slightest hint of panic.
He released the black-key crossbow from his left hand, raised both arms overhead, and gripped the Great Knife tightly.
As Nolan's heavy strike came down, his body sank just slightly, meeting the blow with a calm that looked almost effortless.
"How weak," the Church Confessor thought with open disdain.
Steel rang as their blades clashed. Nolan felt a tremendous force surge through his sword, the greatsword knocked aside in an instant. Even though the enemy was in a stance ill-suited for exerting strength, his astonishing brute force still managed to deflect the blow.
The Church Confessor snapped his wrist. The small blade, previously angled upward, flipped instantly into a downward cleave.
At that distance, at that speed, only Bloodhound's Step could have avoided it.
And yet, in that very moment, Nolan's lips curled into a confident grin.
"Since you worship the Two Fingers," he said, "do you also believe in the Golden Order?"
"!?"
The Church Confessor's eyes flew wide in shock.
A complex triangular sigil materialized before him as golden light surged from Nolan's body like a rising tide.
This was—
"Law of Causality!?"
The light detonated like an explosive, bursting into a violent shockwave that spread outward, swelling rapidly in the Confessor's vision.
At the same time, Nolan stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance even further, until he was nearly pressed against the Confessor's gaunt frame.
Instinctively, the Confessor tried to evade. But the memory of that strange footwork, the sequence of movements he had just endured, forced an unavoidable conclusion upon him.
He couldn't escape.
The Law of Causality bound all things together, forging them into an unbroken chain. Once its bearer endured a certain degree of attack, it would automatically unleash a counterstrike.
With the dagger in his hand, he was confident he could split the opponent's armor and take his life.
But that did not mean his own body could ignore the retaliation.
He was a Church Confessor, not the First Elden Lord. His flesh alone could not withstand everything.
In that instant, with no better option available, he raised an arm lightly clad in iron plating across his chest, bracing himself for the impact.
Nolan fixed his gaze on the black-armored figure.
The next moment, the man was hurled backward, smashing into the stone pillar behind him like a bolt of black lightning.
Bang!!
The impact rang out sharp and clear. The hood was flung back, and the mask slipped from his face, clattering to the ground.
As the dust settled, Nolan finally saw the man's true appearance.
It was an utterly ordinary face, no different from countless others. Yet within those eyes, there was not the faintest trace of Grace.
He was someone untouched by the Erdtree's blessing.