As the Tarnished left the Pilgrimage Church, his mind was occupied by a single, gnawing question—the greatest mystery since his return to the Lands Between: the Night of the Black Knives, the conspiracy that claimed the life of Godwyn the Golden.
To his knowledge, Godwyn's strength was colossal, surpassed only by the likes of Marika, Godfrey, and himself in his prime. In that era, Godwyn stood as a pinnacle of power. Who could possibly have struck down the Firstborn of the Golden Lineage?
And how was the Rune of Death stolen? Maliketh, the Black Blade, was no pushover. As Marika's Shadow-bound beast, his martial prowess was beyond doubt. Wrestling death from his grasp was a feat that defied imagination.
The Tarnished could not conceive of an external force capable of infiltrating the heart of the Golden Order at its absolute zenith. Even the Ancient Dragons, the previous masters of the world, had failed to fully breach the capital.
"It's a mess. The information I have isn't enough to piece together the whole story." But his initial judgment was clear: it had to be an inside job.
What role had Marika played in this? For now, that answer remained out of reach.
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint violet glow in the distance. As he approached, he found a circle of snake-like creatures composed of spherical, stone-colored matter. They stood perfectly upright, surrounding a circular stone floor engraved with runes.
"An Evergaol?" He remembered the concept from the early days of the crusades. These were specialized prisons designed for figures too dangerous for ordinary shackles—structures that bound both soul and flesh in a pocket of frozen time.
"Looks like this one is active. These 'stone snakes' must be the anchors for the seal." He walked right up to them, but they didn't react. He gave the floor of the gaol a sharp stomp; still, they remained motionless, staring blankly into the center.
"If you won't stop me, I'm going in."
He approached the Imp Statue at the edge. He had two Stonesword Keys now, but if he used them here, that double-statue seal he'd seen earlier would remain locked. He hesitated, then pulled out a key.
"I'm curious about the 'caliber' of prisoner they keep here. Besides, where there's a will, there's a way."
He inserted the key. The barrier shattered with a crystalline chime. He reached out to touch the core of the array, and a powerful vortex of gravity yanked him inside.
He materialized in a distorted space. Time felt stagnant here; the earth and grass looked strangely artificial—a simulated reality maintained by the seal.
"Since the array is humming, someone must be home." He scanned the perimeter. There was no one in sight, but then he spotted a jagged, spectral crack in the air. As he drew near, a tall, lithe figure stepped out of the rift.
"What? A Zamor?"
The Zamor were a race of frost-wielding warriors from the Mountaintops of the Giants. Ancient enemies of the Fire Giants, they had provided significant aid to the Golden Order during the war.
"Technically, he should be a war hero. Why bury him in a hole like this?" It made sense for the traitorous Trolls to be shunned, but the Zamor's interests had aligned perfectly with Marika's. They weren't a threat to the Tree, and their numbers were too small to warrant a purge.
The Zamor warrior didn't offer an explanation. Like a hollowed husk of a man, he lunged at the Tarnished with a curved blade.
"Right. You've lost your mind. Understood." The Tarnished sidestepped a slash, realizing the warrior had been consumed by bloodlust or madness.
The Zamor unleashed a freezing breath from his mouth. The Tarnished leaped back; the frost hit the ground with such force that, had this been the real world, the soil would have been flash-frozen for yards.
This was a hero-level combatant. Despite his long imprisonment and fading strength, the ferocity of his prime was still visible.
"That curved sword is exactly my style. Mind if I borrow it?" The Tarnished blurred to the Zamor's flank, his straight sword leaving a jagged red line across the warrior's side.
The Zamor roared, spinning his blade to create a localized blizzard that forced the Tarnished back.
"Not bad." The Tarnished shook the frost from his wrists. The Zamor was clutching his side, his breathing ragged. The gaol was designed to slowly siphon away the prisoner's spiritual energy; stay in here long enough, and your soul simply evaporates.
The Zamor's eyes flared with a desperate blue light. He lunged.
"Desperation won't save you." The Tarnished parried the heavy curved blade, sent it spinning from the warrior's hand, and drove his own sword through the Zamor's throat. "I'm at ten percent of my peak, but it seems I'm still the better man."
The body dissolved into mist. In its place lay a golden-red, eye-like jewel.
"What's this?" The Tarnished picked up the Radagon's Scarseal. The pattern was unfamiliar—something that must have gained prominence after his exile—but the concentrated scent of the Erdtree's grace within it was unmistakable.
Sensing the prisoner's death, the space began to collapse. The Tarnished was ejected back to the peninsula. The stone snakes around the gaol toppled over, their magic spent, reverting to mundane rock.
"Single-use? What a waste." He looked at the shattered Imp Statue and a devious thought struck him.
Usually, Stonesword Keys were lost because they couldn't be pulled out of the stone. But what if you just... broke the statue? He looked at the discarded stone snakes.
"You look hard enough." He picked up a heavy segment of the snake and began bashing the statue. After dozens of strikes, the statue cracked, but the stone segment shattered first. He picked up another and continued the 'demolition.' After five 'snakes' were sacrificed, the Imp Statue crumbled, and he plucked his pristine Stonesword Key from the rubble.
"Perfect." One key saved. Combined with the one he'd bought, he now had two again.
He then picked up the Zamor's curved sword, wiping the frost from the blade. It was long, incredibly sharp, and beautifully balanced. While it lacked the raw 'bite' of his old Wolf-Fang, it was a curved blade—the signature weapon of his homeland. Though he was a master of all arms, the curved sword was his first love, the perfect match for his fluid combat style.
"Sharper than these straight swords. Time for an upgrade."
As he moved to leave, a thunderous, low-frequency boom shook the earth.
Dong... Dong...
A massive, palace-like structure, the size of a small mountain, began to lumber across the horizon. Every step caused a minor earthquake.
"What in the name of the Outer Gods is that?"
He cautiously approached the gargantuan entity. Up close, its true nature was revealed: it was a four-legged, turtle-like beast made of rock and spirit, carrying a moss-covered cathedral on its back. Beneath its belly hung a massive golden bell.
"Since when does the peninsula have walking cathedrals?"
He noticed a swarm of headless, spectral knights wandering near the colossus's feet. They moved in a protective formation, as if escorting the beast. He was baffled until he saw the clusters of gray, skull-like growths encrusting the giant's legs. The stench of death wafted from them.
"Death again? It looks like those skulls are parasitizing the beast." It reminded him of barnacles on a whale.
He pulled out his new hand-ballista and fired a few bolts. CRACK. The skulls shattered and fell to the earth.
"I'm feeling charitable today. Let me help you out."
After he cleared the growths from its legs, the colossus groaned, its legs buckled, and it lowered its massive body to the ground with a final, earth-shaking thud.
The headless knights didn't attack. Instead, they surrounded the now-stationary "Walking Mausoleum," standing in a grim, silent vigil.
"The more you guard it, the more I want to see what's inside."
There were at least twenty knights—too many to fight head-on. But as he formulated a plan, their forms began to flicker. Within moments, they vanished into thin air.
Did they spot me? He waited. No, they were simply gone.
"I won't say no to an open door." He sprinted to the mausoleum. Even 'crouched,' it was half the height of a hill. He climbed the thick vines and pushed open the heavy stone doors. The sight inside chilled him.
It wasn't a palace. It was a tomb. A shrine for the dead.
"Is this... the remains of a Demigod?"
He could smell it—that distinct, overwhelming aura of the Golden Lineage, even if it had been curdled by time. Marika had many children beyond Godwyn and the Omen brothers. Godfrey and Marika's line had branched out, producing numerous descendants, all of whom carried the title of Demigod.
In the center of the chamber lay a sarcophagus holding a headless corpse.
"A headless Demigod... so that's why the knights outside were headless. They serve their lord even in this state."
The Tarnished realized how much he had missed. The Golden Lineage he once fought for was being picked apart. The Demigods—once the untouchable sovereigns of the world—were falling. Even they could not escape the encroaching shadow of death.