Leaving Patches' cave, the Tarnished felt a sense of immense satisfaction. With the Omenshackle in his possession, no Omen—no matter how powerful—could easily stir up trouble. These shackles were items forced upon the most potent Omen children since birth; as long as the tool existed, they could never truly escape its soul-binding reach. It was an absolute suppression of the spirit.
"To be honest, I'd rather not use this thing," he muttered. If Margit truly was who he suspected, he had no desire to use such a humiliating tool against him. But if the Omen chose to be stubborn... that was a different story.
One must always have a trump card. He tucked it away while making a mental note to master the "Aspects of the Crucible" as soon as possible.
When he returned to the plateaus, the storms of Stormhill had begun to wane, and night had fallen once more. A few Trolls remained standing like monoliths, dully following the ancient orders of their masters.
Stormhill wasn't large, but in the old days, even without a garrison, the perpetual tempests acted as an impregnable fortress. Most enemies would be torn apart before they ever reached the castle walls.
"We had to expend quite some effort to break through back then. Now look at it... this isn't even a breeze." The Tarnished felt a pang of regret. This wasn't just due to the Storm Lord's departure; it was because Godrick's cowardice and grafting had defiled the fierce, noble spirit of these winds.
In his era, the storm symbolized courage and valor, from the Storm Lord himself down to the common foot soldier.
Lost in thought, he approached a dilapidated shack near the road. He felt a powerful presence within. Stepping inside, he saw a weathered man clutching a massive greatsword, staring silently toward Stormveil Castle.
"Oho... a visitor in this godforsaken place. And a fellow Tarnished, no less." The man turned his gaze slowly. As their eyes met, the Tarnished felt a familiar resonance—an aura he had once felt from Godfrey.
The aura of a King.
However, unlike Godfrey, this man's "crown" felt fractured. He was a Lord-Contender, one who had come close but failed to reach the finish line.
(Interesting. I didn't expect to find someone with this kind of potential in this era... he was almost a Lord.) The Tarnished looked at him with a flicker of genuine respect.
"My name is Bernahl," the man said, missing the deeper meaning in the newcomer's gaze. He spoke his name with a trace of self-deprecation.
"As for me... I have no name. You can just call me 'Tarnished'."
"Haha... hast thou discarded even thy name?" Bernahl gave a dry laugh.
"The past is dead. No matter how brilliant it once was, we are equals now. Titles and names are meaningless for those who have died once already."
"....Hahaha. Is that so? Aye, I suppose thou art right." Bernahl nodded. A Tarnished's resurrection seemed like a gift, but they often lost far more than they gained. Everything they once cherished had turned to mist.
"May I ask thee something, kinsman?" Bernahl's dull eyes searched his. "Wilt thou continue to fight in these Lands Between? Even if the Elden Ring is shattered beyond repair, wilt thou still follow the guidance of Grace?"
"I don't believe in it."
"?"
"I've never believed in 'guidance.' Not then, and certainly not now." The answer was blunt. Bernahl hadn't expected such a clean rejection.
"Then why hast thou come back to this land?"
"To finish what was started," the Tarnished said with a meaningful smile. "The 'guidance of Grace' is a crutch for the lost. Besides, anyone with eyes can see the rot within the Golden Order. Its guidance..."
"Is something I wouldn't wish on a dog."
"What...?" Bernahl was stunned. He had expected a model Tarnished, not a heretic who dismissed the Golden Order so casually. But then...
"Hehe... Hahaha! HAHAHAHA!" Bernahl laughed—a sound both of liberation and profound sorrow. A keen observer could hear the echoes of a broken life in that laugh.
"Hah..." Bernahl sighed, wiping his eyes. "If only I had understood that as clearly as thou dost, years ago."
"What was that?"
"Nothing... I like thy spirit. Art thou interested in learning my arts? I know nothing of magic; I only know how to swing a blade. I wish to pass on what I have learned before it is lost."
(The life's work of a Lord-Contender... that's nothing to sneeze at.) The Tarnished nodded. "Show me."
"Then I shall demonstrate. Watch closely." Bernahl took up his greatsword. His movements were deceptively simple—basic slashes, thrusts, upward swings, and the summoning of local storms. But each move was infused with a terrifying, mountain-crushing weight.
"Impressive." The Tarnished clapped once the demonstration ended. Bernahl was indeed of "Lord" caliber. His power, speed, and form were top-tier. He lacked the absolute, world-bending dominance of Godfrey, but he was undoubtedly a master.
"Hah, just simple swinging." Bernahl sheathed his sword, breathing hard. "How much didst thou catch?"
"Well... my turn, I guess." The Tarnished gestured for the sword. As his hands gripped the hilt, his entire aura shifted. Bernahl froze.
What followed was a display that challenged everything Bernahl knew about combat. The Tarnished moved with the grace of a predator and the weight of a tyrant. Though he held only one blade, the killing intent he projected made it feel as if the air itself was a thousand swords. His basic slashes were transcendent.
"...." Bernahl stood paralyzed. When the Tarnished raised the greatsword to call the storm, the very winds of Stormhill converged on the shack. With one downward stroke, the clouds were swept away, leaving the moonlight to pour unobstructed into the ruins.
"How was that?" The Tarnished looked back, a slight smirk on his face.
"Who... who art thou, truly?" Bernahl finally squeezed out the words.
"Just a nameless Tarnished..."
After that, Bernahl departed with a complex mix of emotions. He didn't say where he was going, only that he needed to find a new reason for his existence. The Tarnished continued to wander the heights.
He noticed that Stormhill was dotted with many wooden shacks—dilapidated now, but clearly once inhabited. This was unusual; in the old days, the winds were too fierce for anyone to live outside the walls of Stormveil.
He decided to scavenge one of the huts. He had barely stepped inside when a needle-like killing intent pricked the back of his neck.
A tall figure appeared out of thin air. The man wore rusted iron armor wrapped in jagged thorns, radiating an aura that felt all too familiar. It was the scent of a man who had ended countless lives—the aura of a butcher.
"This bloodlust... oho, interesting." The Tarnished turned to face the apparition. Only two kinds of men carried this weight: conquering Kings or professional executioners.
This man was clearly the latter.
"An executioner from that place?" The Tarnished drew his curved sword, ready for a fight, but the giant man only shook his head, muttering under his breath.
"No Bell Bearing... no Bell Bearing..." Then, as strangely as he had arrived, he vanished.
"What was that about?" The Tarnished blinked, utterly baffled.
"Wait... did he say Bell Bearing?"
Bell Bearings were unique storage items used by merchants to keep their stock. They were dangerous for warriors to carry; if stolen, every item linked to that merchant was lost. Only those who needed to transport massive quantities of goods risked using them.
"Is he hunting merchants for their stock?" It was a pathetic way to spend the Shattering. In this era, Runes were the only currency worth blood; why hunt for dry goods and balets? He shrugged.
The man had been strong—likely a high-level butcher employed by a Great House. His rusted gear was of high quality beneath the rot.
"Seems he's gone rogue, though." If he were still employed, he would be wearing his house colors. He was either a defector or a pure psychopath.
"Whatever." Such people weren't worth his concern as long as they didn't block his path.
"I just hope Kalé doesn't run into him." If the man was hunting Bell Bearings, a weak nomadic merchant like Kalé was the perfect target. He could only offer a silent prayer for the merchant's safety.
Confirming the area was safe, the Tarnished sat down in the shack to rest. He closed his eyes, reflecting on his journey since his return, and eventually, his mind drifted to the basic magical theories Sellen had shared.
"Magic is a headache." Unlike weapon arts or his unique Incantations, he had very little experience with sorcery. He lacked a catalyst—a staff or glintstone—to even experiment.
"I wonder... if I fought a few sorcerers and bathed in their blood, would it work like the Dragon Heart?"
"Nah, just a joke. I'm not that far gone yet." Dragon blood was magical by nature; sorcerer blood was just... blood. It didn't necessarily contain the "Primal Current" of the stars Sellen raved about.
It was a bit frustrating. According to Sellen, the "Glintstone Kris" or a sorcerer's blade wasn't something he'd find in Limgrave. He'd likely have to go to Liurnia, the source of it all. Still, he needed to solidify the theory. It would be embarrassing to fail the basics when he eventually saw her again.
He looked up at the cloudless night sky—the result of his "Storm Slash."
"Hardly any stars tonight..." In the deep, dark sky, the stars were few and far between. How was he supposed to understand the essence of the cosmos in a sky like this?
"I'll just have to imagine it." He slowly closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind into the vast, dark unknown.