Throne gripped the Glaive, his body moving in sync with Torrent's rhythm. His mind sharpened, entering that cold, calculating state before battle. One question burned at the core: What did the Godskin want with Melina after taking her? To force her back onto the so-called "correct path"? Or to turn her into kindling?
The first option seemed impossible. Melina's stubbornness was legendary. Unless they wiped her memory again, assigned her another Tarnished, and started the journey anew. But even if that were technically possible, time was against them. And Throne wouldn't stand for it.
"Then they mean to use her as kindling to burn the Erdtree," Throne muttered, his eyes narrowing. Melina was unique, precious. His analysis suggested she held fragments of Marika's authority and the Gloam-Eyed Queen's power. That made her the perfect candidate for the task.
But why now? The answer came to him instantly.
Godfrey had entered the stage early, but he could never become the Elden Lord. The Erdtree rejected everything—even him. The path to lordship was a lie. With the "main quest" stalled and the Tarnished unable to progress, they needed another way. Reverse the map progression.
As for unleashing Destined Death, uprooting the capital, turning it into a city of ash—Throne didn't know the details. There had to be a way around it.
"Screw it. I'll kill you all first," he growled.
He rode southeast, through the snow-laden forest. The terrain ahead rose sharply, a jagged peak thrusting into the sea of clouds. A vast frozen lake came into view.
The further he went, the darker Throne's expression grew. Damn it. This was the road to the Forge of the Giants. He remembered now. Up the mountain path, a few dozen miles ahead, stood the Watcher's Fort. He'd dealt with the Fire Monks there before. Beyond it lay a treacherous "bridge," leading to the Giants' Grave.
Past the grave, the forge awaited, housing the Flame of Ruin. Was Melina truly to be used as firewood? And worse, would she agree once her memories returned? She was stubborn, foolishly so. How could he guarantee she wouldn't sacrifice herself, thinking it her duty to burn the Erdtree if she couldn't enter it?
"But I don't need that!"
Throne straightened, his gaze locking onto the towering mountain and the dragon that soared from the frozen lake, roaring at the sky.
"Get lost!!!"
His voice thundered like a dragon's wrath, the snowstorm recoiling in its wake. The ice dragon faltered, wings folding as it glided away.
It had meant to roar, but one look at Throne's murderous glare sent it fleeing without hesitation. The dragon knew—dive now, and it would never fly again. The echo of its retreat faded, replaced by the sound of a warning horn. Woo—
Throne rounded a bend. The Watcher's Fort loomed on the hillside, massive and imposing. Along the mountain road, wooden barricades had been erected. Fire Monks, interrupted mid-meal, scrambled for their weapons. The fort stood as the sole path to the summit.
Throne tightened his grip on the reins, spurring Torrent forward. He raised his spear.
"Go, Torrent!"
Light cavalry surged like a sharp arrow, heavy snow clinging to bow and blade.
Woo—The desolate horn sound echoed through the valley, and the entire Watcher's Fort was stirred. Back then, the Golden Order Army annihilated the giants but were helpless against the inextinguishable Flame of Ruin. Because this thing could burn the Erdtree, it was clearly a massive bane, so they specifically left some people behind to guard it, lest it be exploited by others.
However, since the establishment of the Golden Order, very few blind fools had come to seek death. This guard duty, once filled with a sense of mission, had instead become a prison that confined them. Staying in a hellhole like the Mountaintops of the Giants for countless years was enough to drive anyone mad.
The cold was so intense it was devoid of life, and the monitored Flame of Ruin eroded their souls at every moment. Now, going down the mountain to capture a traitor had become a coveted task. As humans, who wouldn't want to go to the warm, spring-like Liurnia, instead of guarding this hellhole and enduring loneliness and temptation?
Thus, their reactions were very slow—so slow that by the time Throne used his Glaive to flick away the roadblocks, the monks behind them had only just stood up. Then, they saw the Spirit Steed charging toward them. Bam! Horse hooves trampled. The Glaive tossed a man into mid-air, and he was then struck by the charging war horse, coughing up blood.
"Your reactions are too slow. Has even your thinking been frozen by this extreme cold?"
Throne revealed a cruel smile. The scent of rot was getting closer; it seemed these Fire Monks had voluntarily let the Godskin pass. There was nothing surprising about this. The Fire Monks had long been in contact with the Godskin and had even learned the Black Flame. Besides, they were also members of the Erdtree faction.
"If I were to become Lord, as long as I liberated these people from their endless prison, I would likely gain their support!"
Throne hadn't been here long, but he knew this hellhole was no place for humans to live. It was incredibly lonely, and having to endure the temptation of the flame would drive anyone crazy sooner or later. Crash—The second wooden wall was shattered.
Scattered wooden stakes flew into the air, then were pulled by gravity, shooting out like arrows. Bang, bang, bang... The monks flooding the road were sent reeling. Throne pulled the reins. Dodge. Torrent instantly performed a double jump to the side. Dozens of fireballs exploded on the ground, kicking up rocks and melting the snow, causing everything within a hundred meters to burn.
"Where did this idiot come from, daring to raid the fortress?" The monks on the ramparts laughed disdainfully. With a cliff on one side and mountains on the other, the fortress was wedged in between; how could it be breached by human power? But their smiles quickly stiffened as several azure giant arrows pierced through the embers. Boom! Boom! Boom!
Several plumes of thick smoke instantly appeared on the ramparts, with bricks and stones mixed with flesh flying everywhere. The next instant, the silver-armored knight, burning with embers, charged out, his light bow drawn like a full moon, continuously firing arrows at the wall. Briefly suppressing the firepower, as Torrent smashed through the third wooden wall, Throne picked up the Glaive again.
First, utilizing the horse's momentum, he swung left and right, slicing the rushing giant fists into two. Then, he deflected a whip of flame, leaned forward, and let Torrent accelerate further.
A chubby prelate raised a great hammer, wanting to smash the head of the charging Spirit Steed, but the latter suddenly accelerated, causing him to hurriedly hold the great hammer horizontally in front of his chest. Clang!! The Glaive pierced the hammerhead, the immense force pushing his body backward and knocking over the monks lined up behind him.
The Spirit Steed screamed—a metallic shriek as its hooves crushed a monk's skull. Throne's glaive was already descending, a silver arc meeting the steed's strike. Man and beast moved as one. The blade sheared through chainmail, buried itself in the prelate's chest, and kept going.
Bone cracked. Muscle parted. Throne twisted his wrist, put his weight into the swing, and split the man clean in half. The follow-through took another monk's head off. These weren't men breaking under slaughter—they were waking up. Years of guarding this frozen hell, and finally, a worthy enemy. Their howls weren't fear. They were hunger.
"By the blessing of the flame!"
The monks below the wall slammed fists to their chests, fire erupting from their palms. Blades and spears glowed white-hot. Flares burst along the ramparts like a string of fireworks. Throne's world burned crimson.
Whips. Orbs. Arrows. A storm of fire. The front ranks didn't flinch from friendly fire—they charged through it, weapons trailing flame. Rehearsed this for years, haven't you? Throne knew that fever. He flicked his glaive. Cyan light flared. Thops's Barrier.
That cheap, glorious spell. The bane of every energy attack. Sellen had tweaked the runes in Elphael—efficiency doubled, cost negligible. Thump. Thump. Thump. Fire splashed off the shield, igniting frozen trees. Explosions tore through the monks' ranks.
The flames protected them—no real damage, just dust and smoke. A mistake. Shadows moved in the haze. Horse and rider burst through. Against steel, fire meant nothing. Thwack. The glaive punched through two chests, lifted them screaming into the air.
They hung there, watching their brothers die below. The Spirit Steed plowed forward, bodies crumpling under its charge. The knight on its back cut left, right—men split at the waist, armor like wet parchment. No one stood. No one could.
After the fifth corpse hit the snow, the others scrambled back. Two flame-whips lashed Throne's armor, shattered into sparks. Sharp as a blade. Hard as steel. A charging knight was despair made flesh. But the monks weren't fools—they pivoted, aiming for the horse.
"Torrent. Jump."
The steed leapt, flames whipping under its hooves. Throne knew a knight's weakness. A warhorse was always the linchpin. But Torrent wasn't just a mount—they moved like one being.
"Again!"
Torrent kicked off empty air, soaring higher. Throne's glaive became a blur, swatting fireballs aside.
"Drop. Back kick."
Bang. Iron hooves met a warhammer. The monk staggered. Before he steadied, Comet Azur tore through his face. The blast wave shoved Torrent forward.
Throne didn't even look, simply riding on the horse, holding the glaive horizontal for the next slash.
"Duck."
A flick of his wrist dispersed a fireball the size of a wagon. He raised his head. Through the smoke, a figure stood on the ramparts. Light gathered in its hands, forming a spear.
The man in the grey robe clutched his strange shield, jerking it up as he felt the weight of a stare. The golden spear hit like a bolt of lightning, slamming into the shield's surface with a force that sent shockwaves through his arms, nearly knocking him off the ramparts.
"Lord Aganti, are you alright?"
His subordinate's voice was tight with fear.
"It is nothing," Aganti growled.
The leader of the Watchers shoved his subordinate aside and glared down at the fortress below. His face was dark, heavy with fury. The scene before him was carnage—blood-soaked ground littered with shattered weapons, splintered wood, and mangled bodies. The Fire Monks lay in pieces, not a single corpse left intact.
"I let those Godskin pass just this evening, and already they retaliate?" Aganti muttered, his voice low and bitter. He couldn't wrap his head around it. This knight had come too fast, too strong. As he debated whether to let the man pass and then hunt him down, his subordinate's panicked cry cut through his thoughts.
"He's coming!"
Aganti peered out from behind the shield, his eyes narrowing instantly. The knight had abandoned the battered monks and was now charging straight for the fortress. His warhorse was a blur of motion, leaping onto the wooden fence and propelling itself into the air, higher than the fortress walls themselves.
Throne looked down at the monks below, their faces twisted in terror. He raised his hand, and a massive bow of light materialized. A golden spear, over three meters long, formed on the string. He took aim, focusing on the densest part of the crowd. The Golden Magic Arrow shot forward, a streak of blinding light that tore through the night.
The explosion rocked the ramparts. The golden light struck the shield with a deafening boom, shattering into countless golden blades that sliced through the air. Screams erupted as the blades cut through the monks like scythes through wheat. Aganti stumbled back, flinging severed limbs from his shield.
He looked down, realizing he'd been blasted into the fortress wall. The base of the structure cracked under the force. Before he could react, a shadow loomed over him. He rolled to the side just as a hurricane of blades tore through the air, reducing the blood-soaked monks to mincemeat. His roll was quick, practiced.
Throne glanced at Aganti, now crouched behind his shield like a turtle retreating into its shell. He didn't pursue. Instead, he turned his horse's head and galloped eastward along the fortress wall. Torrent moved as if the ground were flat, while Throne swung his glaive left and right. The narrow rampart offered no room to dodge.
The Fire Monks had few options as the heavily armored knight bore down on them. They could be sliced apart by the glaive, trampled by the spirit steed, or leap off the ramparts to their deaths. Aganti scrambled to his feet, his face twisted in rage.
"Damn it!" he shouted, watching the knight carve a path of destruction along the ramparts.
"Didn't they guarantee this wouldn't happen?"
His naturally fiery temper made him curse loudly, feeling as if someone had slapped him in the face, burning with pain. A lone rider had breached a fortress that should have been impregnable. Hundreds of Fire Monks—both above and below the walls—had failed to stop him.
"Lord, he's about to charge across the iron chain bridge," a subordinate warned.
"No kidding, I'm not blind yet!" Aganti snapped, his voice dripping with fury.
Aganti's thoughts churned—three seconds, five—but all they spat out was bitter defeat. Blocking was impossible. Catching up? A joke. Those hammering hooves crushed his pride into the dirt. He stood frozen, watching the figure shrink into the distance.
Torrent launched from the ramparts, body angled like a blade. Impact became momentum. The frozen chains groaned under his weight as he sprinted across them without breaking stride.