The lower levels of the catacombs were flooded with foul, stagnant water, where monsters resembling the "walking dead" aimlessly wandered. Whether it was the presence of a Tarnished or a general malice toward all living things, the creatures lunged at him the moment he appeared. Their movements were sluggish, accompanied by a nauseating stench of decay that felt profoundly unnatural.
"More of those who live in death? Truly, these things shouldn't exist," the Tarnished muttered. He dual-wielded his golden straight swords, carving through the undead like a hot knife through wax.
They weren't powerful, but as Yura had warned, they were "denied death." His physical strikes only slowed them down rather than ending them. However, he noticed a distinct reaction: these creatures harbored an instinctive, paralyzing terror toward Holy power.
My swords carry the Golden Order's light, but they are far from their peak, he thought. The holy essence within the blades was faint, and he refused to waste what little power remained on such low-level husks.
He moved deeper into the gloom, leaving the recovering corpses behind. As he turned a corner, an eerie, distorted cry for help echoed from a dark alcove. It didn't sound human; his intuition told him no living throat could produce such a sound.
He approached with caution, weapon ready. "Huh?"
Even the battle-hardened Tarnished stared in disbelief. Lying on the ground was a twisted, grotesque clay sculpture shaped like a human head. The voice was coming from inside it.
"...What is this junk?" He stared at the ugly prop, speechless. Driven by a collector's curiosity, he picked it up and blew into it. Sure enough, the pathetic "Help me..." voice rang out again.
"A tool for communication, perhaps? For creatures who lack tongues but need to speak to humans." The Prattling Pate was inscribed with simple linguistic runes; a puff of air or a sharp tap was enough to trigger its pre-recorded plea.
"Amusing." He blew into it a few more times before tucking it into his pouch. It'll make a decent decoy if I ever need a distraction.
After this brief interlude, he waded through the sewage, dodged more persistent undead, and finally reached a ladder leading to the upper gallery.
At the top, beneath the statue of a lamp-bearer, he found a heavy lever. Must be the mechanism for the main gate. They really went out of their way to deter tomb raiders, didn't they?
He pulled the lever. The deep, grinding roar of stone on stone echoed through the cramped catacombs.
"Sounds close. If I'm right, the gate should be right beneath that window." He could sense movement—other "little darlings" were waiting for him around the next bend.
"You coming out, or do I have to come in and get you?" he asked the shadows.
Silence.
Right. Why am I talking to Golems? He moved forward, internally mocking his own loneliness. I must be going stir-crazy. Talking to myself in a graveyard... well, at least it livens the place up. He craved real conversation; he had always been a man who hated boredom and thrived on the company of others.
As he rounded the corner, he snatched a hiding Imp by its throat and shattered its stone skull with a single blade strike. "Too slow, brat."
He looked through the archway. Directly below was the great door he had just opened. He didn't waste time backtracking; he vaulted through the window and landed gracefully in the boss's chamber. The air here was thick with the scent of stagnant death.
At the far end stood a Watchdog, guarding a mass of twisted, blackened Erdtree roots.
"Yura was right. Godwyn's death really did poison the Tree." Still, he doubted the Prince's death alone could cause this much rot. Godwyn was powerful, but the Erdtree was ancient. Something about the way he died was... wrong.
He couldn't dwell on it. The Erdtree Burial Watchdog didn't allow for contemplation. The massive stone cat-construct began to move, its body gliding across the floor in a stiff, mechanical slide.
"A Watchdog... my first time facing one of these." Like the Imps, the Watchdog was an automaton, but far larger, with three heads and a rigid, unnatural gait.
Normally, a single Watchdog wouldn't pose a threat. But the shadows were twitching—Imps were emerging from the corners. Individually weak, their small size and erratic speed made them a nightmare in groups, especially when backed by the heavy reach of the Watchdog.
"Better than being bored to death," the Tarnished grinned.
The Watchdog and its pack swarmed.
A short time later, the Tarnished let out a long breath, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. He held a shattered Imp head in one hand; his foot was planted firmly on the scrap heap that used to be the Watchdog.
"I'm getting rusty. Five imps and a watchdog left me this winded? Good thing no one was watching. The Barbarian would never let me live it down."
Loss of Grace hadn't stripped his skill, but the long, grueling wars in the Badlands had taken their toll. Many Tarnished who died in the mists returned with only a fraction of their former power. This was why they flocked back to the Lands Between: to reclaim Grace, or to try their hand at becoming Elden Lord.
Knowing his old comrades, he suspected many wouldn't return. Some felt betrayed by the Golden Order; when they were exiled, two factions emerged. One swore to return and bathe the land in blood; the other vowed never to set foot in the Lands Between again.
Most of the ones here now are likely descendants, he reasoned. Or the radicals. The veterans had mostly been ground into dust in the wars beyond the mist. But their children, raised on legends of a golden paradise, would be driven by a hunger to see it for themselves.
Men like Istvan—old-timers with a spark of kindness—were rare. Most came for power. Most came to be King. Even though the Grace had abandoned their ancestors, the instinct of the warrior was a hard thing to kill. Marika had counted on that. She had cast them out as part of a plan only she truly understood.
And why did I come back? He had a promise to keep. A new path to walk.
"I wonder how many juniors I'll meet on this road... and how many old friends."
He sighed. "Those old bastards were terrible parents. Why tell the kids about this place? Don't they know how deep the water is here? Then again, generations have passed. Most probably don't know the truth of the Lands Between anymore. And life in the mists wasn't exactly easy."
The Badlands were mysterious, even to him. Some legends claimed the Lands Between were once part of the same continent before being physically severed by the Greater Will. If true, only a god could possess such power.
"Enough thinking." He walked to the roots. They were rotting, pulsing with a chaotic energy that felt foreign to the once-orderly Erdtree.
Tucked beneath the roots was another set of ashes: Demi-Human Ashes.
Demi-humans... Unlike the Misbegotten, the Erdtree "mercifully" allowed Demi-humans the right of Erdtree Burial, despite viewing them as savages. It was a stark reminder of the Order's hypocrisy; creatures with human-level intellect like the Misbegotten were shunned, while the more primitive Demi-humans were tolerated.
But these roots were dead. These Demi-humans would never be reborn.
Should I take them? He shook his head. I'm a warrior, not a collector of ghosts. I rely on my own teeth and claws.
He touched the exit and was instantly warped back to the surface.
"Confirmed the state of the roots. Not a wasted trip." The Golden System was in shambles. New, twisted life forms were springing up everywhere.
"Nothing stays the same. Not even your 'Perfect' Golden Order." He looked up at the sky, a mocking smile on his face, as if challenging the Greater Will itself. "Heh. You certainly are patient, aren't you?" He had expected divine lightning for his insolence, but the heavens remained silent. Perhaps the gods didn't deign to look at insects.
He opened his map. A small icon had appeared over the catacombs, marking them as explored. "Very convenient."
In his day, map-makers stayed up all night to ink a single ridge. This magical parchment was a marvel. He looked West. There was another tower, but it looked different from the sorcerer's Rise—more like a lookout. Morne would have needed scouts to watch the coast.
Lookouts usually have bows or crossbows. I could use a ranged option.
"Let's have a look." He abandoned his plan to rest, climbed the ridge, and slid down toward the lookout tower.
The air was clean. No scent of the living, no rot of the dead. His companions used to say he had the nose of a wolf, and right now, the wolf told him the tower was empty.
He reached the top without resistance.
"No enemies, but a Hand Ballista? Not bad at all." He hefted the small crossbow. It was simple, but it gave him a way to strike from afar.
"Though... I suppose I have zero talent for magic." To a warrior, 'ranged' meant spells or prayers. He'd never had much faith in the Tree, so his Incantations were always weak. As for Sorcery? The mages in his old unit had told him his 'stats' weren't up to par.
"Basically called me an idiot," he grumbled, walking back down.
"I really need to sleep." He hadn't closed his eyes since arriving. Battle stress and the chaos of the world kept his nerves fried.
He found a secluded pond shaded by a large tree. If anything approached by land, the splashing water would wake him. If something flew, the branches would hide him.
"Pretty flowers." Purple lilies grew in the shallows—Trina's Lilies. They were beautiful and had a natural sedative effect. The tension in his shoulders finally began to bleed away.
He closed his eyes and, for the first time in an age, fell into a dream.