The deeper one traveled into the peninsula, the more chaotic the scenes became. It wasn't hard to imagine the carnage that awaited at the heart of the castle.
"Is... is someone there?"
The Tarnished, alert for an ambush, stopped at the sound of a girl's frail voice.
"Please, is someone there?" The voice was timid. As he approached, he found a young blonde girl sitting by the roadside, her eyes bound by a clean cloth.
"Who are you? And why are you alone in a place like this?" Curiosity piqued, the man studied her. The road ahead led directly to Castle Morne; for a blind girl to be sitting alone at the center of such upheaval was highly unusual.
"Um... my name is Irina. I am the daughter of Edgar, the Castellan of Castle Morne," she answered honestly, hiding nothing.
"I see. A refugee, then."
"Yes... my father feared for my safety and sent me away from the castle. But..." Irina lowered her head, her voice trembling. "May I ask a favor of you?"
She fumbled in her cloak and produced a sealed letter. "If you could... please deliver this to my father. I know it is a bold request, but..."
"..."
"Are you... refusing? It's understandable. You have no reason to involve yourself in this trouble." Irina's shoulders slumped. She had expected this, yet her worry for her father remained a heavy weight in her chest.
"How did you reach that conclusion? I'll take the commission. I'm heading to Morne anyway; it's on my way." The Tarnished took the letter from her hand.
"R-really? Thank you so much! But I... I'm sorry, I have nothing to offer as a reward..."
"Doesn't matter. I'll collect the payment from your old man." The Tarnished stepped closer to her and, using a Furled Finger, carved a brilliant golden symbol into the earth beside her.
"What are you doing?" Irina asked, her head tilting toward the sound.
"I'd take you with me, but the castle is a slaughterhouse right now. I'm leaving a mark here. If you sense danger, touch it. I'll come for you."
"I see... thank you." Irina offered a faint, grateful smile.
"Don't mention it. I'm off."
"Please... stay safe."
After a journey that felt both short and agonizingly long, he finally stood before the gates of Castle Morne. On a high ridge nearby, he found a fresh Site of Grace—a perfect spot to rest and prepare.
Suddenly, the earth groaned. The man looked toward the castle as a gargantuan shape stirred from its slumber. "A Golem? Heh... little Castle Morne is certainly lively today."
Golems were massive war-machines crafted using the techniques of an ancient, long-dead civilization. Their power source lay within the core of their chests, making them heavyweight terrors on the battlefield.
However, this one was battered and weathered. Its ankles pulsed with a faint golden glow—a clear structural weakness.
"Seems I have to pay the toll to enter."
The Tarnished withdrew the Golden Halberd from his storage. He crept behind the giant, gripped the heavy polearm with both hands, and delivered a mountain-cleaving strike to the Golem's fractured ankle. The machine shuddered and fell to its knees.
He repeated the strike on the other ankle with a sickening crack. The Golem's support gave way entirely, and the titan collapsed, the ground vibrating under its immense weight.
"Curtains down. Antiques belong in a museum, not on a battlefield."
He violently drove the Golden Halberd into the Golem's power furnace. The resulting explosion tore the machine into jagged shards, sending its colossal greatbow flying through the air.
"Whoa..." The Tarnished watched the massive bow arc across the sky. "A Golem in its prime wouldn't have been this flimsy."
A fully functional Golem would have its ankles heavily armored. This one was a relic, barely holding together.
"But still, to find a Golem here... just how many factions are involved in this mess?"
Shouldering the Halberd, he marched into the castle. As his strength slowly returned, the weight of the golden weapon felt more natural in his hands. Against large foes, heavy steel was a necessity.
He took the lift up. The doors opened to reveal a literal mountain of corpses. A few Misbegotten were still there, desecrating the bodies of fallen soldiers with animalistic fury.
"Grim business."
He looked up. Human soldiers were strung up on flagpoles like grisly banners—a testament to the depth of the Misbegotten's hatred for their former masters.
"The wheel turns," he muttered, stepping into the fray. He cut his way through the Misbegotten guards with cold precision. "I never laid a hand on you lot. If you want revenge, find the right target."
As he turned a corner, a heavy iron ball on a chain whistled toward his head.
"Hm?"
He dodged the strike and found himself facing a massive brute wearing a pumpkin-shaped iron helm. The man's muscles were swollen, his skin a sickly grey, and he emitted a low, bestial growl.
"What in the world are you?"
The Pumpkin Head had no reason, only madness. He swung his flail with savage, erratic movements.
"No talking to you, I suppose. A pity."
"Aaaarrgh!!" The brute roared, grabbed a nearby Misbegotten, and threw the living creature at the Tarnished like a projectile. The Tarnished punched the Misbegotten out of the air and dragged his Halberd across the stone, closing the distance.
The Pumpkin Head brought his flail down, but the Tarnished caught the chain with the haft of his Halberd, pinning it to the ground. The madman pulled back with all his might. The Tarnished suddenly released the pressure; the momentum sent the heavy flail crashing back into the brute's own iron helm, knocking him onto his backside.
"Stupid ox."
The man watched as the Pumpkin Head sat on the ground like a throwing a tantrum. Suddenly, the brute tossed his weapon aside and began slamming his own head against the stone floor with sickening thuds.
"What is he doing?"
The Tarnished didn't wait for the show to end. While the brute was distracted by his own self-mutilation, he raised the Golden Halberd and lopped off the iron-clad head in one clean sweep.
"Your head seemed to hurt. I'm a kind soul, so I've relieved you of the burden." He tore a piece of tattered banner from a wall and wiped the blood from his blade.
Castle Morne wasn't large. It didn't take long for the Tarnished to reach the ramparts, where he found a man in tarnished gold armor, looking utterly despondent.
"You must be Edgar, the Castellan." He approached and handed over Irina's letter.
"Who are you...? Is this for me?" Edgar looked up, his eyes hollow. "Lately, so many Tarnished have come to this place..."
"I'm just a nameless Tarnished. I happened to cross paths with your daughter."
"Ah... Irina. She's safe? Thank the heavens. Thank you for looking after her." A flicker of relief crossed the man's face.
"If you really want to thank me, pack your things and get your daughter out of here."
"I cannot... I am bound by Lord Godrick's command. I must live or die with this castle. Moreover, the storied sword of Morne must never fall into the hands of those... those 'Grafted' polluters. I will not leave."
"Oh. I see. Goodbye then." The Tarnished turned on his heel to leave.
"Wait!" Edgar called out.
"Something else?"
"Tell Irina... tell her I am sorry. I have failed her as a father. Ask for her forgiveness."
"Tell her yourself, you fool." The Tarnished glanced back, refusing the request.
"Let me tell you something. This world has never lacked for men of 'blind loyalty' like you. Your lives are insignificant—nothing more than tools to be used by those above you. You receive a scrap of favor and offer up your entire existence in return, convinced you've been 'chosen.' Look at where you are standing."
The Tarnished had two types of people he despised: those with no talent who sat on high thrones, and those with no will of their own who only knew how to obey.
Godrick? What kind of 'Lord' was he? His territory was in open revolt, yet instead of sending aid, he demanded more tributes. He was a coward and a failure. Why die for such a man?
"You... how dare you—"
"Decide what matters more: your family or some empty duty to a lord who doesn't know you exist. I don't have time for your house-playing. I have other business in Morne."
"You are—"
"And that sword of yours? The Misbegotten won't get it. Because I'm taking it."
Without another word, the Tarnished vaulted over the rampart and headed toward the coast.
"Ah... there it is."
In the distance, across the water, sat a graveyard of tombstones. One massive monument stood out among the rest.
"Whether you agree or not, this sword will be my payment for this trip."
He remembered the Big Barbarian mentioning it once. Castle Morne housed a Greatsword as magnificent as a throne. Legend said a hero from a conquered nation had forged it from the weapons of all his fallen comrades.
The path to the sword was convoluted. He climbed over walls and dropped through rafters, finally reaching the far shore of the castle.
"A lot of trouble for one blade. Must be worth it."
"Jellyfish...?" On the beach, a cluster of ethereal spirit jellyfish floated near the water.
Spirit jellyfish were tragic beings—the souls of children who had met untimely ends, wandering the world with unfulfilled wishes.
"There is no peace in this land. Not in my time, and certainly not in this 'Golden Age.' Conflict is the only constant here." He knew why. The Erdtree was inherently exclusionary; it had to crush every other power to maintain its seat.
"Hmph. Golden on the outside, rotten to the core."
The Tarnished dragged his Halberd through the surf, heading toward the burial mounds. Standing before the Great Tombstone was a warrior—a Misbegotten with a mane of red hair like a lion's. He leaned against a massive, jagged sword made of fused blades, his eyes slitting as he watched the intruder.
"A Leonine Misbegotten. I take it you're the leader of this uprising."
"..." The warrior didn't answer immediately. His eyes burned with a manic, vengeful light.
"Bullying... oppression... you humans have never looked at us as equals. You treat us like livestock—lower even than those 'traitor' Trolls." The Leonine spoke, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
"So we fought back. We are returning every indignity you heaped upon us tenfold. One day, we will sever that false Golden Tree!" A crimson light flared in the warrior's eyes.
"Filthy Gold... false Gold... exclusionary Gold! We will not submit!"
"Why!? Why must we be cast out simply because we touch the Crucible? Because we possess the aspects of the primordial? Why are we treated as playthings to be bullied and broken?"
"...Heh. Cutting down the Erdtree? Count me in."
"What...?" The Leonine Misbegotten paused, confused.
"What's wrong? You were talking a big game just a second ago. Did you lose your hearing?" The Tarnished chuckled. "I said... if you're planning on chopping down the tree, I'll help."
"Treacherous human! What is your angle!?"
"Hand over the Greatsword."
"You want this blade? HAHAHAHA! Never! This sword belongs to us now! It was stolen from our ancestors by your kind!"
"Look at the corpses of my kin surrounding this place! They died for this blade! I will never let it fall into the hands of a human again!!"
The Tarnished looked at the piles of Misbegotten corpses. He looked at the Grafted Blade Greatsword—a mass of weapons fused together, radiating the anger and resentment of those who were slaughtered. It held the essence of the Crucible—the primordial blending of all life.
"Ah. I see. No wonder the Barbarian didn't take it back then..."
Godfrey was a rough man, but he wasn't cold-blooded. On the contrary, he held a deep, spiritual respect for true warriors.
"Then forget it." If that was the case, the Tarnished saw no reason to take it by force.
"Huh?" The warrior was stunned by the sudden change in attitude.
"You chose to fight back against this twisted era. That's good. I respect your will. Keep the sword."
"Are you even human...?" The Leonine remained wary, his grip on the hilt tightening.
"Human, Misbegotten... it doesn't matter. Understanding doesn't care about race."
The Tarnished's expression shifted, his gaze becoming sharp enough to pierce the Leonine's soul.
"However..."
"What do you want...?"
"The spirit jellyfish outside... your rebellion killed them, didn't it? War is indeed a cruel thing."
"Shut your mouth! Now you play the moralist? Your Golden Order slaughtered the Giants for their own gain!"
"We did. We committed atrocities that other races will never forget. But we did it for our people. We carved out our 'Golden Age' just as you are trying to carve out yours through blood and revolt. War isn't about justice; it's about interest. It's a cycle. If it benefits your kin, it's 'justice,' even if it means the persecution of another. Then, the persecuted rise up to fight the oppressor. It's a closed loop."
"War is stupid, filthy, and cruel. But it is also unavoidable. Conflict is etched into our instincts. And war will repeat itself, over and over, until nothing is left."
"Then how are you any different from us!?"
"I'm not." The Tarnished shook his head. "As you said, I am human. I am Tarnished. I must consider the interests of my own race, even if I don't despise yours."
"Creatures fight for their own kind. Always." He shouldered the Golden Halberd.
"You...!" The Leonine Misbegotten raised the Grafted Blade in a defensive stance.
"I understand your rebellion. But understanding doesn't mean I won't fight back. You slaughtered my kin; I cannot stand idly by. I must participate, even if, from your perspective, what you did was perfectly justified."
"So you mean to stop me!? I am not afraid of you!!" The Leonine's eyes bulged. He felt a terrifying, overwhelming pressure radiating from the man, but he didn't retreat. Even if he died, he would leave a scar on this lapdog of the Erdtree.
"Yes. And I will give you a dignified end."
The Tarnished raised the heavy Golden Halberd with one hand, pointing it directly at the warrior. His eyes were calm, devoid of hatred, but filled with absolute resolve.
"Come then, you rebellious..."
"...Hero of the Misbegotten."