Altus Plateau – Subterranean Shunning Grounds – Late Evening
A thick plume of black smoke slowly crept toward the maidens, filling the narrow chamber with a deathly fog. The maidens instinctively drew back as soon as they saw the ominous mist just as the cornucopia of slugs had upon the Basiliks' arrival. Jets of the foul substance spread through the drainpipe the maidens occupied as the air grew heavy with the stench of decay. The Basilisks rapidly approached, spraying the substance from their mouths while they slithered through the ankle-deep sludge. Millicent and Melina recoiled and covered their noses and mouths, careful not to inhale the deadly mist. As if the sewer's foul odour wasn't enough, the nauseating smog made the air even more oppressive.
Melina quickly grabbed Millicent and motioned for her to stay behind her while she sent waves of golden arcs toward the approaching lizards. The air briefly shimmered with golden light as the flaming arcs sizzled through the mist and cut through the beasts emitting them. The scaled creatures screeched, their forms twisting in pain but continued to advance, for they were overwhelmed by a hunger left unsated for far too long. Though their eye-like protrusions were nothing but decoys to intimidate their prey, they made for solid targets as they jutted out of the encroaching smoke. Melina created some space by hacking through the bulbous orbs of their pursuers while Millicent scouted ahead to look for an opening.
"There's too many of them!" Millicent shouted while she dashed through the tunnel. The capital's underbelly was a maze of dead ends and sheer drops—meant to double as a sick prison instead of being built for simple practicality. What wasn't flooded with the city's waste was filled with narrow, jagged pathways barely large enough for one person to pass through. Still, with the number of lizards chasing after them, and the overwhelming stench that threatened to consume their very essence, there were few options to choose from. Melina cursed in frustration, realizing that the young Valkyrie was right. The narrow and slippery terrain left them at a disadvantage, and though the beasts could not speak in the typical sense, their incandescent eyes and feverish movements all but announced that they were hungry and would do about anything to secure their next meal. And so, the maidens fled until they found another wide opening and found themselves inside a stony catacomb. The Basilisks continued to pursue them by weaving through a series of narrow drainage canals until the maidens encountered a brutish figure. Even in his kneeling position, the grey ogre towered over the maidens. His body was wide and twisted, covered in gnarly horns that sprouted and curled unnaturally over his form. He wore a solemn expression as his presence loomed over the decomposing corpse of one of his kind.
The Basilisks seemed to recognize the figure and began to scatter, leaving the maidens puzzled over the gratuitous outcome. Their relief was almost immediately cut short when the creature noticed its unwanted guests. With an incensed huff, the horned ogre brandished his weapon—a curved sword as tall as its wielder. The hulking brute smashed the colossal blade with both hands, sending shards of rock and weathered bone hurtling toward the maidens. The two brandished their weapons in turn and guarded against the stray projectiles, as the rumbling crash echoed through the stone chamber. Melina and Millicent braced themselves against the onslaught of debris, finding themselves once again caught off balance from the shockwave coupled with their muddied footwear. Millicent deftly sidestepped a rapid swing from the brute—a maneuver she noted to be quicker than it had any right to be, while Melina reignited her blade and sent an arc of golden flame toward their attacker. The horned creature roared, and from his body erupted a host of dark flames that imbued the great cleaver with the aggrieved malice of cursed energy.
Noticing that her movements were no longer restricted by narrow tunnels, Millicent leaped into the air, her movements primed for her signature technique. Melina lent her support by sending wave after wave of golden arcs which the ogre seemed to bitterly ignore as he set his sights on the young Valkyrie. Streams of blood erupted from the wounds Melina inflicted on the creature, but this did little to stop his next move. Plunging his curved sword into the ground, the ogre curled up in a defensive position that quickly transitioned into a swift parry as soon as Millicent unleashed the first whirlwind of slashes. The sound of metal clashing against metal rang loud as a bell, until the ogre sidestepped Millicent's barrage and threw a punch that immediately knocked her out of her technique and sent her flying into a nearby wall. Millicent attempted to soften the blow by stabbing her Shamshir through the ground but found herself pursued by a wave of golden-black flames as soon as she regained her footing. She wiped her bloodied face as she avoided the wraiths that seemed intent on harming her, while Melina used her agility to weave around their opponent, dodging every blow and studying his movements.
The ogre spat a jet of cursed flame toward the kindling maiden, who redirected it with a flick of her hand, turning the attack on its caster. The flames distracted him for just the moment Melina needed to slash at his ankle, which finally knocked the hulking brute off balance and allowed Millicent to jump back into the fray. The young Valkyrie dug a heel into the ground, using the momentum she had accumulated to boost her spinning slash. The Ogre attempted to block it as he had before but realized the young Valkyrie's feint a split second too late. The maiden's curved sword screeched through the ogre's horned limbs, severing the bony projections and causing it to cry in agony.
"I…I yield!" a gravelly voice interjected. Melina and Millicent ceased their attacks but kept their guard up, nonetheless. They kept their distance and slowly lowered their weapons to a neutral stance should this plea turn out to be a ploy. The maidens' golden eyes met the creature's, prompting him to speak.
"I'm no fool. I know when I've lost," the creature stated as he loosened its grip on his weapon. He deeply sighed but refused to lower his head, maintaining a proud expression as he spoke. "Do what thou must but know that my kin will see that I am avenged."
Melina, still grasping at her glowing dagger, narrowed her eye. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice firm and measured. "And why did you attack us?"
"I am known to my people as Orgo, the Aegis. Ever loyal to the Omen King." His eyes studied the maidens, trying to gauge their murderous intent. The fact that they seemed intent on accepting his surrender implied that they were either too trusting or naïve fools. In either case, continuing the conversation would allow his kin the time to answer his call. "As for why I attacked, wert thy kind not responsible for the death of my friend?"
"I don't believe you're in any position to ask questions," Millicent impatiently interrupted. The gesture was something she felt was unbecoming, but between the injuries she incurred and the filth that now encrusted her body, she had no interest in paying courtesy to an enemy. "We did not lay a finger on your companion. Perhaps you would have known that had you not attacked us on sight."
"My, my. Quite a firebrand, thou art," Orgo articulated. He turned to Melina and began, "As for thy question, I acted to avenge my fallen brother. I assume either of thee wouldst have done the same wert thou in my position."
Melina's golden eye remained fixed on the ogre, her expression strikingly unreadable. "We fight to survive. We seek no quarrel with you, and only wish to find a way back to the surface."
The ogre huffed. "As do all thy kind. Whosoever finds themselves discarded into the sewers hath either committed a grand sin or hath been sent to hunt down more of my kin. Rarely hath there been an exception."
"Believe what you will; it matters not. We only wish to pass through and mean no harm unless something threatens our path" Melina dismissed her dagger's flaming enchantment, but her piercing gaze remained.
"Be that as it may, thy path is stained in blood, regardless of intent. Thou may not seek a quarrel, but a quarrel hath found thee. Know this: those who trespass through the Omen King's domain and leave a trail of death shall never know rest."
"Enough of this," Millicent stepped forward, "You yield, and yet you speak of vengeance. We are not fools; we know of your attempt to delay. If you will not help us, then we shall be on our way."
The maidens slowly backed away, weapons still drawn, cautious of any surprises that lay ahead. More than anything, what either maiden wished for was a stream of fresh water and some soap to cleanse themselves. Everything else was secondary. As they began to make their way through the mausoleum, they heard a roaring chorus of hisses splashing steps approaching the fallen ogre. While they were busy fighting, it appeared that the Basilisks had been patiently waiting for their prey to become vulnerable. The scaled predators began to swarm through the drainage canals, their glowing eyes dotting the dark tunnels they came from. Melina and Millicent heard the screeching spew of noxious mist swirling around the tunnels, creating an ever-encroaching death trap. The maidens turned toward each other and silently cursed as they ran back toward Orgo.
Heavily injured from his loss, the proud Omen struggled to swing his blade or even maintain his balance as the ground became slick with his blood. The Basilisks began to swarm out of the drainage canals, their fumes slowly beginning to fill the chamber. Orgo felt his breathing start to grow heavy as the deathly mist gathered around him. Suddenly, a wave of golden light filled the chamber, and screeches of hunger gradually transformed into screams of panic. The golden light from Melina's incantations briefly pushed the creatures back, but the dense mist they spewed out continued to spread. Every breath felt more treacherous than the last.
Now that her movements were no longer restricted, Millicent could finally wreak havoc on the bothersome pests. She dug her heels into the ground and prepared to leap but found herself interrupted yet again when Melina placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her head.
"The mist is too thick. It's not safe."
"I know, but we can't just let them overrun us. Either we thin out their numbers now, or risk being overrun later."
Millicent shrugged off her companion's warning and moved with a frenetic energy. Fuelled by her mounting frustration, the young Valkyrie's blade carved a bloody path through the Basilisks in a blinding blur, sending them scattering in every direction. But the cloud of death that swallowed the air appeared to have grown a mind of its own, gathering around the swordswoman like the very beasts that desperately wished to consume her. No matter how her movements thinned the smoke, it would always coalesce and wrap around her just as something more insidious crept into her mind.
Melina could only watch in horror even as she tried to thin out the source of the dark fog from a distance. Fragments of memories bombarded her every thought, warning her of the dangers of being near the smoke. The sewer was home to everything the capital wished to hide, and this included the dreaded messengers of the Prince of Death. The swarm of Basilisks continued to pour out from the sewer grates, eager for even the tiniest of morsels. It would have been far too easy to leave the wounded ogre behind them—if anything, it would have bought them enough time to make an exit. But to do so would make them no different from the monsters they were fighting. Millicent made that abundantly clear as she jumped into the swarm without a second thought.
It started as a faint whisper—an eerie source of warmth that sapped away at her energy little by little. With every strike delivered and every enemy slain, the presence grew stronger, asking her to answer the call. It filled Millicent with a sickening sense of familiarity, for she had heard a similar call for almost her entire life. But unlike the maddening disease that once beguiled her like a puppet, this force was more patient and unnaturally welcoming. Its message was clear: cease the struggle and become one with the Prince of Death.
Had this been her first encounter with such a force, Millicent would have been more alarmed. But at present, she found herself beyond caring. She had been fighting for so long, enduring the pain of the rot that lay dormant within her, the curse that had afflicted her from birth, and the constant struggle to survive the outside world. The needle that quelled the sickness trembled within her chest while she continued to struggle. As the numbness of the blight was beginning to take hold of her body, the unbearable pain wrought by the Scarlet Rot began to rise from within. Rage and rot intertwined within her, as Millicent felt the resurgence of the pain and used it to carry out her own will. Her vision narrowed toward the beasts as she moved faster than her body would normally allow. She had turned into a tempest—a violent vortex that shredded her foes and dispersed the dark mist like leaves soaring in the wind.
What remained of the Basilisks, hissed and scattered away, driven back by the wild intensity of Millicent's onslaught. Though the beasts were motivated by hunger and instinct, they eventually became overwhelmed by an all-consuming fear. The spectre of rot hung above them, causing them to retreat into the shadows. But as the last of the creatures disappeared into the darkness, Millicent's furious momentum slowed. Her chest flared with laboured breaths, and she saw a vision of insects gathering beneath her skin, coalescing into a system of roots that connected her consciousness to the Prince of Death. Blood and rot coated her flesh, creating a stinging sensation as her sweat mingled with her open sores.
Two forces clashed within her—death and decay, rot and ruin. The enticing whispers of the Prince of Death continued to sweetly beckon while the iron grip of the Scarlet Rot pushed back. Millicent fell to one knee, her prosthetic arm trembling as she lost her grip on her blade. Her thoughts blackened—a swirl of fear, anger, pain, and confusion. She could feel the power of the Prince of Death clawing at her being, but the rot, the same force that destroyed her body, refused to renounce its possession.
"Millicent!" Melina's voice broke through the haze like a beacon. She knelt beside her companion, a golden eye casting a piercing light through the fog of confusion. Her hands glowed with the warmth of gold, but no amount of healing incantations could hope to break through an outer god's resolve. Millicent screamed in agony, her voice trembling as the two forces warring within her were locked in a bitter stalemate. The Prince of Death's voice echoed in her mind, promising her freedom from pain, and an end to all suffering, while the Scarlet Rot, persistent and unyielding, gripped her body, reminding her of survival, of endurance, and of the strength that came from suffering. If death was peace and loss of breath, then rot was fear of living death.
Limgrave – Stormveil Castle – Midnight
Rogier the Spellblade had long grown accustomed to traveling alone. Life, he found, was much easier when there was no one to question one's decisions. Ever since he lost sight of the guidance of grace, he'd become more cautious—fearful of the world at large. There was no knowing where he would end up should he fall, and even less of a guarantee that he'd come back in one piece. He knew very well that death was an anomaly in the Lands Between…though no one ever went into the specifics of exactly what that meant. Rather, it was more fitting to describe that no permanent death existed in the Lands. Short of falling prey to Destined Death, or having one's soul consumed by the Frenzied Flame, one could always gamble on the possibility of returning in some way or other. Whether one came back in a suitable form was another matter altogether.
When the Age of Gold first started to wane, and Marika's decree fell upon the Tarnished to fulfill, legions of Tarnished warriors threw themselves into certain peril, all in the hopes of making a name for themselves. Some sought to slay the demigods with varying results, others forged alliances that gave them a better chance at succeeding. All have failed, and even the one closest to claiming the throne disappeared without a trace.
Proving one's worth in combat was the surest way to come back in the fullest capacity, for only those deemed worthy by the Warrior Jars were fit for resurrection. Once a warrior's body was collected, the Warrior Jars would make a voyage to the many Minor Erdtrees that littered the lands—each accompanied by an Avatar specially designed to make quick work of them. For all their might and bluster, the living jars' defeats always resulted in a spectacular shower of blood and mangled guts that fed and fertilized the Erdtree's roots. Once fully absorbed by the great tree, the warriors would be reborn to continue their journey anew, and the cycle continued ad nauseam. Only…much of what was known about the resurrection process was deliberately left obscured. Memories would sometimes come back in fragments if at all, and the pain of death was something that one could never get used to. Even worse was the sneaking suspicion that the person who came back was never guaranteed to be the same person who left in the first place.
Rogier had long put such thoughts to rest when he decided to invest his time and effort into learning and travel. It was a good distraction from his ever-present sense of existential dread, and it gave him some comfort from the thoughts of failure and doubt that plagued him since he lost the guidance of grace. He'd pondered many a possibility and spiraled both into and out of many an intellectual conundrum, but the one thing he could be sure of was that he still existed and would never exist in the same way again should he expire. He'd lost many comrades to Marika's futile decree, and once their failures began to mount, the spectres that came back could hardly be considered human. Their bodies may have returned somewhat, but their minds gradually diminished until they were reduced to shambling corpses driven only by the basest of instincts. Rogier had many theories about what caused his fallen comrades' mental degradation, but the symptoms were always preceded by the loss of grace.
Thus, Rogier would go on to live his life with utter detachment. He'd long decided that the days of combat were past him, though he was never shy about demonstrating his prowess if the situation called for it. He'd dedicated several lifetimes to mastering his craft, learning a mix of swordsmanship and sorcery that earned him his stripes in the Roundtable Hold, though the demigods he'd felled were never ones of good renown, nor were they the vaunted Shardbearers. After all, to slay a demigod was the price of admission when the Roundtable was first established, though the requirements had grown much more lenient since his time.
Rogier cautiously scanned his surroundings as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, careful to avoid detection from Stormveil's Tarnished hunters. He'd slain a few on his way to the castle's dreadful underbelly, but he knew that more would always come to stand in his way. To venture deep into the heart of Godrick's butchery was foolhardy all on its own, but curiosity was a powerful motivator, and the Spellblade's studies had led him to this very location. It was clear even to the least perceptive adventurer that Stormveil had been gripped by a powerful curse. The storms that repelled scores of would-be invaders did little to hide the ever-growing abundance of thorny vine-like clusters permeating through every inch of the accursed domain.
As Rogier descended Stormveil's crumbling frame, he found it more difficult to progress. Every instinct in his body warned him to turn back while he still could, but the scholar's morbid curiosity was a force that compelled him to forgo all reason. The tempestuous winds that raged on the surface had all but vanished, replaced instead by a suffocating silence that permeated every inch of the castle's forbidden inner sanctum. Rogier cast a protective Glintstone Phalanx both to shield himself from harm and to light the way through the bottomless ink of Stormveil's forbidden secret.
Rogier watched his every step as he followed the winding path of thorns and vines further into the castle. The signs were unmistakable now, from the thorns that twisted around every surface living or dead to the pungent stench of living death—Godwyn's corpse was nearby. Rogier had read enough to recognize the Prince of Death's influence, but to experience it firsthand evoked a special kind of horror. He'd felt brief fragments of it on his journeys with an old accomplice, D, but the overpowering pressure he now felt told him that he was nearing the source.
Brittle bones rattled beneath his feet; each appendage tangled in a mass of thorns that pulsed almost imperceptibly.
"Death has claimed this place," Rogier whispered, his soft murmurs fading into the silent abyss. He drew his weapon, a piercing sword of superior quality, and readied himself for what might come next. The deeper he ventured, the more twisted the architecture became, as though the very stones of Stormveil had begun to warp and shift under the curse's influence. Stairs crumbled into nothingness, walls curved at impossible angles, and the corridors seemed to stretch and twist in ways that defied logic. It was like he was in a different world. One that embodied the paradoxical duality of life and death.
A shallow pool of water flooded the underground crypt he now occupied, ankle-deep and swimming with the bones of the dead. Rogier's protective phalanx cast a dim reflection over the water's surface, yet even its light was nearly swallowed by the oppressive dark of the chamber. Squinting his eyes to the distance, Rogier noticed a small swarm of Smoldering Butterflies that alerted him of the bodies that littered the ground, each too numerous to count. He moved toward them, realizing too late that the bodies were little more than a ruse.
Rogier barely had time to brace himself as the earth trembled and a serpentine creature burst from the ground. A low grumble rolled off the creature's maw, drawing attention to its thick rotting hide and the red pulsing ulcers that dotted its carapace. Caught completely unawares, the sorcerer stumbled backward while his protective phalanx reflexively fired toward the towering creature. Each spectral sword shattered on impact, barely affecting the creature as it spewed a stream of sickly yellow flame from its misshapen jaws. Rogier quickly found himself engulfed by the flames, and though rolling into the stagnant water alleviated some of its bite, the searing heat that the creature spat out was unbearable.
Gasping for air and his heart pounding, Rogier watched in horror as the serpent twisted and coiled, swiping its colossal claws through layers of bone and solid stone. Its movements were relentless, and the Spellblade found himself relying more on instinct rather than reflex. He waved his sword and fired off a barrage of Glintstone at the creature, aiming not to harm, but to distract it while he bought more time to scan his surroundings for something useful. Shards of magic harmlessly shattered off the creature's rotten hide while Rogier lured it toward a crumbling stone pillar. With a furious roar, the creature lunged, its body twisting unnaturally as it effortlessly glided through the chamber.
The ground shook once more with a resounding crash as the serpent triggered the ceiling's collapse, but to Rogier's shock, this did little more than act as a mild nuisance. He sighed as he ignited his blade with sorcerous energy, resigned to the possibility that he may have met his match in this grotesque creature. Just the thought of dying so close to the answers he'd diligently searched for frustrated him to no end. But if he was going to die here, he wanted to at least leave a worthwhile parting gift for his would-be murderer.
"Come on, then!" Rogier shouted, prepared to make a final stand when he was effortlessly swatted away by the creature's tail. Rogier regained his footing shortly after, realizing then and there that the crypt he'd been wandering was where all the thorns and deathly presence converged. Here was where the corruption of the castle originated, and it was here that Rogier realized that what he'd been fighting was none other than a twisted facsimile of an Erdtree Avatar. The incomprehensible revelation stunned him just as he felt an alien presence casting hooks beneath his flesh, tearing at him from within like nothing he'd ever felt. Rogier turned and saw a pair of eyes, each bigger than his entire body, staring at him with a look that stole all the sound from his quivering throat. The haunting visage that peered straight through the scholar's soul was none other than Godwyn's.
As the first of the demigods to fall prey to Destined Death, Godwyn now served as a beacon for Those Who Live in Death. Nourished by Godrick's vainglorious crusade and given the space to manifest through the Erdtree's roots, the Prince of Death had devolved into a cancer left to rampantly spread. The wandering scholar was stunned by the realization, unable to fully comprehend its immediate implications when the pain growing in his chest became too much and burst out of him in a cluster of black root-like thorns that connected him to the fallen god. Rogier hung helplessly in the air like a puppet when the serpent turned toward him, seemingly responding to the dead god's silent command. It was then that a pale figure descended from the sky.
Rogier's eyes could only capture faint glimpses of the figure. He knew not where it came from, but he could only stare in confusion and disbelief at the strange events that would shortly transpire. A spiral of spectral blades manifested around the figure, shining with a shade of magic unfamiliar to the scholar. It disappeared and reappeared in quick bursts, with each reappearance signified by flashes of blue light and a flurry of brilliant slashes. Explosions of pale moonlight pierced through the shadows of the crypt, each time cleaving a sizeable portion of the serpent just as effortlessly as the creature had swatted him aside. Like Rogier's Glintstone Phalanx, the pale swordsman's conjured blades appeared to shatter on impact from the creature's thick hide. But what was significant was how deeply the spectral swords embedded themselves into their target's flesh. Rogier's fading eyesight barely registered the brilliant shards of blue that remained in the creature after the swordsman fired off the spectral blades one after another without end. The moment the serpent roared with a breath of fire, the stranger sheathed his blade, triggering multiple explosions within the creature that eviscerated it from within.
Then, just as Rogier had experienced, the pale swordsman was impaled by the very same thorns that captured him. Only, this appeared to be of little consequence. In his half-delirious state, Rogier was unsure of whether he heard a laugh, but when he saw the swordsman rip himself out of the thorns as though they were a slight inconvenience, he was sure that his mind had finally snapped. The swordsman's footsteps echoed through the flooded crypt as he slowly approached the misshapen corpse.
"Thank you for that," he stated while dusting off his cloak, "unfortunately for you, you have nothing of value to me. Begone!" With that, the swordsman unsheathed his blade, seemingly severing the very essence of the Prince of Death's manifestation.
Rogier tried to move, but his heavy limbs refused to respond to his desperate pleas. Whether it was caused by confusion or simple blood loss, the scholar's mind continued to drift in and out of consciousness. He replayed the swordsman's words over and over, trying to assign some meaning to the confusion that completely beset him. "You have nothing of value to me." The cold dismissal and the bored indifference in the stranger's tone unsettled him in a way that neither the serpent nor the death that nearly claimed him ever had.
As soon as the stranger sheathed his weapon, Rogier felt the echoes of a shudder through the pike that ran through his body, and then, the abrupt resurgence of a chilling quietness. The shadowy thorns that held him in place slowly disintegrated into nothingness and what remained morphed into a swarm of flies that scattered away in a panic. Even the sickly stench that clung to the stagnant air seemed to dissipate, leaving behind only an emptiness that unnerved him to the very core. The swordsman turned back to gaze at the corpse and vanished in a blur just as quickly as he'd appeared, and Rogier was left to lie in a pool of his own blood for a moment that stretched to eternity when he forced what was left of his fading consciousness to return to the Roundtable.
Limgrave – Secluded Cell – Late Evening
After indulging his curiosity and leaping into the abyss, Vergil's understanding of the world's current state grew ever so slightly. Buried and festering beneath the castle was a testament to how brittle this world had become. Festering beneath Stormveil and left to grow from Godrick's insipid machinations was a tumour—a grotesque, mutating corpse that had long since lost its right to death.
When the deformed corpse impaled him with its root-like tendrils, it established a moment of pure connection, serving as a painfully unorthodox form of communication. As a being who'd returned from the dead, Vergil felt a strange connection to the essence that imparted him with its buried secrets. The corpse, robbed of its soul, was trapped in a state of perpetual corruption. Through this connection, Vergil glimpsed the buried roots of the Great Tree, and how the fallen demigod's ever-mutating body choked it of its vitality, manifesting its reach in places where death was abundant. As the grotesque body grew, so too did the corruption within the tree, weakening it from the inside and spreading throughout the Lands like an invisible plague. How fitting it was that such a fate would befall a world so fractured by war and scarred by conflict.
Vergil had no reason to care about this world, and yet the knowledge that the corpse imparted him with left him with a profound understanding of how it reached its current state. The imbalance and slow decay of the natural order was unmistakable. With the very concept of death sealed away and the power holding it together shattered and separated, it was no wonder that chaos and suffering had become the norm. As brilliant as the Great Tree was, it was nothing but a false beacon for a fallen age desperately clinging to life.
In the brief moment of connection, the pale swordsman felt a strange kinship with the soulless corpse. Perhaps that was the point of the attempt, but for a moment, Vergil allowed himself to ponder his purpose once again. Like the corpse, he too, was searching for something, looking for completion that may never come. Like him, the corpse would never be able to reclaim what was lost—it could never become fully whole. The realization both intrigued and repelled him; while he sought to transcend his limits and claim power through any means, the fallen demigod was trapped in an eternal prison. Was he, too, trapped in a fruitless quest? The thought was fleeting, discarded as quickly as it had formed, but a lasting unease lingered in his mind. He needed to keep getting stronger; his obsession was all he had. Almost like clockwork, Vergil felt a chill run up his spine and the same sickening sense of weakness began to seep through the cracks in his skin. He'd grown somewhat more accustomed to these outbursts and even found a temporary panacea by using Rykard's rune. But when the claws of weakness gripped him, he felt just as helpless as the day Mundus robbed him of his agency.
Vergil emptied his mind and focused on his resolve. Such sentiments could only be attributed to the weakness of his human heart, and it was one he would need to address one way or another. One day he would rid himself of his feelings of weakness, and when that day comes, then perhaps he would no longer need to entertain such thoughts. Unlike Godwyn's corpse, Vergil refused to be trapped. He would not be consumed by stagnation and would rid himself of the corruption that plagued his body and soul. He had the means to move forward, and he would cut through anything in his way.
Vergil reached for the light of grace as he had done so many times it had become second nature, but just as he was about to rest, he felt a chill in the air. Without turning his head, Vergil flicked a sliver of Moonveil and casually rested his hand on its hilt, prepared to draw it at a moment's notice.
"Show yourself."
"I might have expected thee to be this perceptive..." Emerging from a fog of cold mist was a spirit inhabiting a blue porcelain doll. Cloaked by the chill of night and draped in a snowy white robe, the former Princess of Caria glided over the ground as if untouched by the physical world. The cold mist that followed her movements clung to the air, as though the night itself was captivated by her otherworldly allure. Her movements were careful and calculated, evoking a level of cunning fit for one who sought to stand against the whole world alone if need be.
"Ranni the Witch, I take it?" the pale swordsman asked with a tone of indifference. His mind still swirled with thoughts of the soulless corpse he had left behind, but he supposed that this had the makings of a worthwhile distraction.
The witch tilted her head slightly, her porcelain features unreadable perhaps by design. "Indeed I am. Though, I had no doubt such a sharp mind would see through my guise."
Vergil remained silent, assessing her with cold detachment. She had to have known of his involvement in the destruction of Caria and the Academy, but the way she approached hinted that her purpose was not one of vengeance. No, if anything, her actions seemed to hint at the complete opposite.
"I have heard whispers of thee," her voice echoing in his head with its distinct, ethereal quality, "of the storm that walks in human form, a force that rends all who stand in his way. The Dark Moon sees in thee a bringer of ruin, and yet I wonder…doth thou truly comprehend the purpose of thine own path, or where it might lead?"
"You want something from me," Vergil finally replied, his tone flat and emotionless. "I don't care for your riddles, witch."
Ranni's porcelain face, though expressionless, still conveyed a hint of amusement and curiosity. "Always so quick to cut through the veil of subtlety. Very well. Thou art correct—I seek thy strength for a purpose that transcendeth this dying world. The Greater Will hath imposed its order on this land and its inhabitants in a ceaseless cycle. I seek to break these chains and bring about an Age free from its influence. For that, I require those with strength enough to stand against it."
Vergil's impassive gaze flicked toward the witch, his grip on Moonveil still tight.
"And what makes you think I wish to lend my assistance?"
"Because," Ranni answered with a low and measured voice, "the road thou hast chosen to follow leads to but one end. Thy storm rages unchecked, yet aimless. Thou art like a blade without a master, striking with no end in sight."
Vergil's gaze flared at the accusation. He was many things, but he was a slave to no one. Never again.
"I know what I seek, and it is none of your business," Vergil flatly stated, though a flicker of frustration revealed itself in his otherwise stoic expression. Ranni tilted her head slightly, a wry smile curling on her lips.
"Dost thou truly? Thou seeketh power, yes, but to what end?"
"Enough of this!" he exclaimed, "I care not for your games, witch. Speak plainly or else stop wasting my time."
"Thy tongue is indeed as sharp as thy blade, swordsman. I offer thee a choice. Aid me in my rebellion against the Greater Will, and together we shall carve a path unbound by their machinations."
Vergil weighed her words carefully, and for a moment, no sound could be heard aside from the howling winds that surrounded the castle. He found nothing of interest in her proposition, and yet in her eyes, he could sense a similar obsession. Was she, too, trapped in a cage of her own making? She clearly meant to manipulate him and made no effort to hide it. Yet in a way, he appreciated the straightforwardness of her proposition.
Ranni sensed a sliver of conflict in the pale swordsman's expression and her expression somewhat softened. She extended a delicate hand, unblemished by conflict and yet cracked from within. "I see in thee a conflict. Perhaps thou hast considered mine offer?"
"On the contrary. I will be an accessory to no one's schemes. Never again." Vergil clenched his hand and for a moment, Ranni sensed an otherworldly presence awaken within him. One that further roused her intrigue.
"True as that may be, thou art a fool if thou cannot sense the hands of the Greater Will guiding thee at every turn. Tell me, since thou hast awakened in the Lands Between, hast thou never questioned why it is thou wert chosen? How thou wert granted the succour needed to advance thus far? I sense in thee a power completely foreign to the Lands Between and yet I can also see that thou art victim to an affliction that weakens thee greatly."
"You presume too much." Vergil's eyes narrowed and his grip on Moonveil tightened. He despised the notion that he was a pawn in another's schemes yet again, but he could not refute the fact that for all he had accomplished thus far, he still knew precious little about his mysterious benefactor. His pale gaze drifted toward the gentle light of grace shining before him and realized how he had grown reliant on it. Nothing ever came without a price, and at some point, the noose around his neck would tighten. He could not help but feel as though he was just another hound wandering about an open field, left to his own devices. The terms of his resurrection were acceptable insofar as it corresponded to his search for power, but as much as he hated to admit it, the Lunar Princess was right. At some point, whatever it is that brought him back could tighten the leash, and he would be powerless to resist. Until he knew more about the invisible hand guiding him, he remained a pawn in another's scheme.
"Mayhaps," Ranni softly replied, "but thou wouldst be wise to acknowledge my words before it is too late. The Greater Will's influence on this world is vast, regardless of thine acknowledgment. But if thou art intent on severing thy ties to the Two Fingers…we may yet find common cause."
"No." His voice was sharp and decisive, "I will not be used. Not by you. Not by anyone. If this Greater Will has any issues with that, then it too shall fall."
Ranni's expression remained calm and unreadable, though her ethereal eyes glinted with wild curiosity. "Quite the stubborn one, aren't we? Perhaps thine ample mistrust will be to thy benefit. Thou art indeed a most fascinating creature. A being from beyond this realm, unburdened by the cycles of grace that bind the Tarnished." Ranni's form began to fade, the mist surrounding her dissipating into the chillness of the night. Vergil remained still, watching her while the ghost of her voice imparted one final message.
"Know this—thy journey shall be long and perilous, and without purpose, even the sharpest of swords shall dull. Shouldst thou seek to break free from the chains that yet bind thee, I shall be waiting."
When the mist dispersed, Vergil stood alone, finally relaxing his grip on his weapon and pushing its blade back. The silence that followed was deafening, and the weight of his thoughts a damning realization. What was meant to be an idle distraction proved to be anything but and reminded him yet again of how vulnerable he still was to the machinations of others. As he reached once again for the light of grace, he hesitated, and he felt the faintest whisper of doubt that refused to fade.
Vergil let out a long, exasperated sigh as he pressed a palm on his face, shaking his head in frustration. He had allowed himself to be distracted for far too long while his target could have very well fled at this point. Any lingering concerns and doubts would have to wait. There remained one last place for Godrick to be hiding—perhaps the most obvious and heavily fortified area of the castle as befitting of a coward. It was but a short stroll away, just through the stone hallway in the corner. His chase had been long, but it would be a lie to call it fruitless.
The airy winds surrounding Stormveil howled particularly loud in the castle courtyard, where a tall, hooded creature rested a large unshapely hand over the head of a decaying dragon.
"Nowhere left to hide." Vergil flicked a sliver of Moonveil while he casually walked toward the towering figure.
"Mighty dragon, thou'rt a trueborn heir." The exiled Shardbearer mused prayerfully. "Lend me thy strength. Deliver me unto greater heights."
Tightening his grip on a golden battleaxe, the figure turned his gaze to the pale swordsman, his voice laced with fury and disdain. "Well…thou must be the cretin. The lowly Tarnished, playing as a lord." He laughed while beneath his cloak dozens of tiny movements shuffled and twitched at irregular intervals until the wailing winds blew his tattered cloak away.
Vergil's eyes narrowed at the sight of Godrick's grotesque tapestry of a form. Beneath the Shardbearer's cloak was a mismatched patchwork of arms, legs, and claws, each hastily grafted from countless victims. Compared to Rykard's distorted form, Godrick appeared exceptionally crude and ill-conceived. A troll's body acted as a main anchor to the conglomeration while dozens of twitching limbs hung almost uselessly around, half of them gangly and decayed. Vergil almost felt insulted at the pitiful sight. He made no effort to hide his disgust and derision and flicked Moonveil back into its scabbard and sighed. Godrick's bluster meant as little to him as the ground he trod upon, and despite the Great Rune housed within his hideous form, the exiled ruler of Stormveil was nothing but a scared runt hiding behind a crumbling veneer of pride.
"To think this is what I've been chasing after…" Vergil planted a finger on his forehead and dismissively shook his head, "How disappointing…"
Godrick roared with fury at the affront, "Thou hast the gall to speak to me in this manner?! Dost thou not know who I am?" Raising his right hand, the ruler of Stormveil swung a gigantic battleaxe engraved with a lion's crest. Its considerable weight was apparent, and as it moved, a swirl of wind began to gather around the weapon. "I am the lord of all that is golden! I command thee, kneel!" As he slammed the colossal axe into the ground, the earth began to shake, and the winds bellowed.
Vergil calmly approached, unshaken and unimpressed at the display. "Such a fool. You will soon come to realize just how powerless you truly are."
Godrick swung his battleaxe once again with earth-shattering force, flinging another smaller axe toward the swordsman. The smaller axe pierced through the air like a spear, creating loud thunderclaps through the whirling gales. Without breaking his stride, Vergil casually swatted away the projectile with his scabbard, deflecting it into the stony entrance and shattering the pillars holding it in place. But Godrick was relentless and used the same moment to sneak in a more powerful two-handed strike of his battleaxe, now empowered by the vortex of winds blowing through the castle. He swung his gilded weapon around himself repeatedly, heavily distorting the air around him while he approached the swordsman.
"Disappointing indeed," Vergil grumbled as he stood in place, completely unbothered. At the last possible moment, he vanished, his movement so swift that Godrick was utterly dumbfounded at how his blow failed to connect. A large gust of wind followed Godrick's swing, slicing away at the nearby trees and pillars until Godrick halted its advance with a heavy stomp.
Standing a few paces away, Vergil derisively watched as Godrick's imbalanced momentum caused him to stumble. A mess of disfigured legs extended themselves to catch the Shardbearer's weight, cracking at the exertion. Godrick continued to clumsily sway from side to side, trying to regain his balance while searching for his prey. It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of Vergil's bleeding aura that he was able to redirect his fury.
"That Rune is wasted on you," the pale swordsman opined, his voice calm but laced with contempt, "holding on to power that isn't your own, desperate for greatness."
Godrick roared once again, turning to face Vergil with his legion of claws coiled to strike, "I am greatness! Thou art but a lowly Tarnished, blind to the truth of my lineage!" Godrick rolled to the side and extended his arm back, using his weight to strengthen the blow of his leaping strike.
Vergil expression remained unphased. As Godrick's axe came inches above his head, the pale swordsman tightened his grip on Moonveil and flicked it slightly from its scabbard, revealing a bluish glow of otherworldly light.
"Enough," Vergil whispered.
Before Godrick could even blink, the pale swordsman's form blurred into motion. Closing the distance in a heartbeat, Vergil disappeared in a sphere of slashes too numerous to count. He reappeared behind Godrick, twirling his sword as if completing a stretch, and flicked it back into its sheath. As soon as Godrick heard the metallic clink of the hilt clicking into place, geysers of blood erupted from the stumps where Godrick's extraneous arms used to be. He screamed in agony, noticing that the bright glow of Vergil's damaged features had dimmed considerably. Vergil spoke again, his tone unchanged, "You are not worthy as my opponent."
"How…" Godrick gasped, brought to his knees "can there be such a difference between us?!"
"You lack motivation," Vergil simply replied, "and discipline."
Godrick boiled over with rage, his wounded pride unable to accept defeat. In his desperation, he grasped at his left arm, tearing it apart tendon from tendon until another shower of blood erupted and a sharpened stump remained. He awkwardly lunged toward Vergil with the sharpened limb, the mistake rewarded by a deep slice to the midsection. Godrick coughed while he crawled toward the dragon's corpse from earlier, almost as if yearning for help that would never come. Vergil blinked in disbelief at the bloodied mass and felt a surge of pain erupt from deep within his memories. His visions filled with flame, and his body seemingly covered by a burning sensation.
No…not again…not now!
Vergil's eyes glowed with a white-hot intensity as his body erupted with azure light. His cracked features overflowed with demonic energy—dark azure flames that sought to consume his very being. His vision faded into white, and for a moment, he saw not a vision of Godrick's mass of writhing flesh, but that of a young boy crawling toward a burning manor. He clenched his hands, using Moonveil's sturdy scabbard to ground himself back to reality.
Godrick, too busy to notice, reached for the dragon, whose head fused with the Shardbearer's mangled flesh. Both his and Vergil's pained screams seemed to meld into one another as both sought to regain their composure. When their eyes met again, they were both short of breath, weakened, yet determined to finish the battle. The dragon's head, now grafted onto Godrick's discarded arm, roared back to life, alight with flames that reflected its wielder's fury. Eyes filled with conviction, Godrick's voice boomed, "Forefather's one and all…Bear witness!"
The dragon's jaws split open, and from it burst forth a searing rain of fire. Vergil's vision was shaky and disoriented, but with time, he slowly started to return to his senses. Godrick turned to face his opponent once more, his eyes no longer filled with false arrogance, but brimming with an emotion that Vergil knew all too well. The injured Shardbearer let the dragon carry his movements, sweeping its jaws from side to side with a powerful stream of flame. Meanwhile, Vergil's hand crackled with crimson lightning as he clenched the air, leaping forward with a mighty lunge.
Vergil vanished and reappeared a short distance away, the sharp ache within him starting to subside as Rykard's rune sapped more of Godrick's essence. Godrick weakly gasped for air; his breaths filled with anguish. "…I am Lord of all that is Golden…you…wretched…Tarnished…"
The pale swordsman's body crackled with traces of draconic lightning as he extended his arm. With his back turned against his fallen opponent, he muttered, "The fox condemns the trap, not himself." Flicking his arm, Vergil banished the spectral glaive, and Godrick's stolen body disintegrated, reduced to the feeble vestiges of his original form. Vergil felt the curious pull of runes coalescing and reconfiguring themselves within him, dormant until he fulfilled the necessary next step. Yet again, another fragment of the Elden Ring had become his. Once he claimed the discarded shard, a vision presented itself, faint and fleeting, guiding his attention toward the nearby spire. Atop the tower lay the key to his prize—the power he had earned through conquest.
Limgrave – Divine Tower of Limgrave – Early Morning
With a focused thought, Vergil envisioned the top of the tower, his mind's eye tracing over every detail until it was palpable. He vanished in a blur and reappeared at the tower's ancient peak as if the entire world shifted. Upon it lay the petrified remains of another hand-like creature, a sigil of faded gold nestled tenderly between its two fingers. Its power radiated a faint warmth, pulsing with a pale light that resonated with the fabric of the Lands Between. He approached the makeshift altar without hesitation, extended his hand, and braced as he felt the raw essence of the cosmos igniting within him. His senses burst with clarity once more, and he felt a warm presence growing within, stitching the shattered fragments of his soul together while it reunited with its lost counterpart.
Vergil sighed with relief when he felt the constant radiating pain from within grow duller, like a scab healing over an open wound. As a result, his senses grew sharper, and he could immediately feel his body react to the change. It was a feeling akin to when Melina infused him with the runes he'd won through combat but with a considerably more pronounced effect. He felt invigorated and physically refreshed, yet the weight of his thoughts continued to linger Standing at the edge of the tower, Vergil cast his gaze over the lands, observing the stormy skies of Limgrave stretching endlessly. He turned his attention toward the Erdtree on the other side of the sea and could not help but notice an anomaly occupying the vast ocean—a land hidden in shadow—that he could faintly sense but could not yet grasp.
"Two down…" he muttered, feeling oddly melancholic. This victory was swift, but something about it felt hollow.
