The Elden Beast had been subdued.
He walked over to Queen Marika's body. The goddess was now nothing more than a layer of petrified, brittle skin; not to mention a soul, even bones and flesh were gone.
She was already gone.
So that was it. Skyl thought back to the Queen Marika who had spoken with him at the Chapel of Anticipation; that had only been a body of thought, a ghost, a god dwelling in the hearts of the people of the Lands Between, an incarnation of absolute spirit.
The real Marika was dead. Even he could not bring an empty shell back to life.
He shook his head, thinking what a pity it was.
Now that he had obtained the core of the law, Skyl could also try to establish a system of law of his own. But to throw that law into other universes on a whim might provoke wars between gods—far too dangerous. His plan was to confine the use of law to The Tower of Tomes, mainly to explore the magical theory of fate and prophecy, helping him reach the roots of magic more quickly.
At this point there were only two kinds of things in the Lands Between that appealed to him. One was the fragments of the Ring, from which he could glimpse more of the Golden Order's true essence. The other was sorceries and incantations; as a wizard, it was perfectly normal for him to be interested in his peers' research materials.
As a bonus, he could also go and visit those old NPCs from the game: Melina, Ranni, Millicent, Sellen… names that rang in every player's ears.
His arrival could change many tragedies—that was one of the great charms of transmigration, wasn't it?
Before setting out to explore the Lands Between from end to end, Skyl went back to his classroom to rest. He had brought a dying Morgott in earlier to treat him; by now he should be just about healed.
Gally the house-elf shook a little golden bell, the signal that lunch was ready.
"Perfect, I'm half-starved," Skyl said, thanking Gally for his hard work. "Has my guest woken up?"
"Mr. Morgott is still unconscious."
"That won't do. Without a guest, this whole table of good food will go to waste."
Skyl looked over the feast laid out on the table. He had always lived frugally: when eating at home he kept it to three or four dishes per meal, just enough to be comfortably full; he regarded that as a virtue and had stuck to it. Only when he was entertaining guests would he tell Gally to put on a proper banquet.
He figured a warrior like Morgott had to be a big eater, so today's table was especially rich. In pride of place on a large silver platter at the center of the long table lay a fragrant roast whole pig. Its plump body bulged high with stuffing, its skin crisp and shining red. A vivid apple was clamped in its jaws, and its half-closed lids almost looked as if they were smiling, inviting the guests to carve it into pieces.
Skyl could already picture how, once he sliced through the skin, the rich, clear juices inside would pour out like a little waterfall. The rendered fat would be white as snow, the well-cooked fibers of the meat faintly pink; a bite with skin and meat together would bring three layers of texture—crisp, silky, and pleasantly chewy—while the fragrance of spices and roast pork filled the nose.
Any bad mood would retreat in the face of a meal like this.
Skyl could hardly wait to enjoy it, but he still kept a host's decorum and went to call his guest to the table.
He and Gally walked over to the sickbed.
The defeated Morgott was showing all the signs of rune-loss. His body had shrunk drastically; now he was little more than skin draped over bone.
Every time Gally looked at him, he couldn't help crying. House-elves were a very sentimental race.
"Master, can Mr. Morgott still be saved?"
"He isn't going to die." Skyl leaned over the bed to examine him. "His wounds have already healed. It's just that his spirit has been hurt too badly, and he doesn't want to wake from his dreams."
Gally wiped the corners of his eyes with a grimy rag, like a faithful family member keeping vigil at the bedside, gazing hopefully at Dr. Skyl. When he heard that Morgott's body had mended, his face broke into a broad smile.
Morgott's breathing was long and even, his eyes closed, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Skyl was very curious. What kind of dreams did a monster who had never been loved have?
A faint reddish spiritual light bloomed in his hand, and he pressed it gently to Morgott's forehead.
[Nightmare]
Skyl arrived on a golden hillside, a low round mound. In the real Lands Between you would never see such a softly drawn hill—the wind there was all sharp edges.
Morgott's inner landscape was this unremarkable little hill.
At the top stood a withered little Erdtree, its leaves falling one after another. Morgott sat beneath it, his brutal, fearsome body resting against the trunk, his expression peaceful, almost like that of a quiet monk.
He stared into the distance alone. All the war-wracked corners of the Lands Between had been gathered into the broad plain before the horizon.
He saw the roving bandits of Limgrave fighting with Godrick's soldiers. He saw, behind the burning walls of Caelid, warped lands twisted by Scarlet Rot where aberrant creatures battled Radahn's troops. He saw Albinaurics wandering Liurnia locked in combat with Cuckoo Knights. He saw, atop Mt. Gelmir in the Altus Plateau, Leyndell soldiers fighting mechanical puppets.
In an endless loop of time, the weak were slaughtered again and again, and the strong raised their blades over and over. None of them remembered how many times this process had repeated; the blood they had shed already fell like a torrential rain.
Fresh red blood, rotten black blood, strange white-gold blood—all flowed out into rivers, and burning corpses drifted along the surface.
The throne of the Lands Between stood empty, and the world sank in the strife of shardbearer lords and demigods.
Mortals would die badly.
Kings would die badly.
Gods would die badly.
Everyone wanted to win and win and win, and in the end everyone died and died and died. What a rush.
Morgott suddenly laughed aloud.
"Having fun, are we?" Skyl was, at some point, already standing beside him.
"Powerful Tarnished, you were shut out by the Erdtree as well, weren't you? I knew it from the start."
"So, you 'knew' it again, huh?" Skyl looked around Morgott's dreamscape. "You've got quite a distinctive dream. Is this supposed to be a nightmare?"
"No. A good dream. As good as they come."
"I don't think I'll ever grow to like the feeling of being in someone else's dream. It's very uncomfortable."
"I never invited you as a guest into mine."
"Then wake up. Don't be such a sad little baby. It's time to face the real world."
Morgott opened his eyes. What met his gaze was a phantom sun hanging in the pitch-black sky.
Gally came over with a steaming cup of honey tea, the ugly little elf giving him a shy, kind smile. The wizard who had defeated him stood beside the bed, pen racing across the pages of a notebook.
"Where is this?" Morgott didn't expect an answer; he knew they hadn't been able to speak each other's language.
But to his surprise, Skyl replied, "The Tower of Tomes. My classroom."
"Why did you save me?"
Skyl smiled and shook his head. "Because I needed to learn the language of the Lands Between. Think of it as paying your hospital bill. Now stop lying there. My servant has lunch ready—come eat, you must be starving."
Morgott looked a little stiff at the table. He didn't know how to use knife and fork, or chopsticks. A child raised in the sewers knew nothing of table manners.
Seeing this, Skyl set his cutlery aside, grabbed a pig's leg with one hand and started gnawing on it, grease running down his mouth. Then he took up a bottle of mead and drank straight from it.
Morgott's expression shifted slightly. Copying Skyl, he took his share of the pork and drank his fill of wine. He wasn't a naturally outgoing person; his thoughts were elsewhere as he ate, and he nearly choked.
"Your mother is Queen Marika?"
"She is."
"I'm sorry. She's gone."
"...You entered the Erdtree. How did you do it?"
"The law isn't perfect. It has flaws, loopholes. You can't break it, but you can slip around the seal."
"Incredible." Morgott hesitated a moment, put down the pig's leg, stood up and bowed to Skyl. "In that case, you are the new Elden Lord."
"I am not. Thrones on the earth always rot in no time. My throne stands in the heavens and endures forever."
Morgott looked at this wizard who was deliberately wolfing down food to ease his guest's nerves, and suddenly smiled in relief.
A god with a mortal heart—that was good. Far better than those lofty bastards in the sky.
"Morgott, King of Leyndell, is willing to serve the new god."
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