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Tarnished rubbed the back of his head, squinting out the open church doors toward the distant rise of Fort Haight, its silhouette barely visible beyond the tree line.
"We're just headed to visit that fort out there." He said casually, thumbing toward the horizon.
The old woman blinked at him in surprise, brows rising sharply above her tired eyes. "Fort Haight? Don't tell me you were hired by that idiot Kenneth?"
Millicent let out a giggle that she tried to stifle behind her hand. Melina's lips curled upward in mild amusement.
"Not a fan, I presume?" the finger maiden asked dryly.
The old woman scoffed and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, he means well, bless his heart. But the lad's head's full of feathers. What in the hells was he thinking? Expectin' us peasants to hold off a whole bloody army? We've got pitchforks, not spears!"
She gasped then, hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes darted to the refurbished statue of Queen Marika at the front of the church.
"Oh, dear… Forgive me, Lady Marika." She murmured quickly, clasping her hands in prayer. "I didn't mean to curse in your house."
Tarnished smirked and turned his eyes skyward. 'I've committed thievery in this church already… What say you, my Queen? Should I throw myself prostrate on the floor and beg for mercy?'
A soft shimmer of golden motes swirled beside the altar before resolving into the radiant form of Marika herself. She appeared with her arms crossed beneath her divine bust, her gaze pointedly avoiding him.
"If thou seekest forgiveness, then thou should indeed grovel at mine feet." She sniffed with a false haughtiness, her mouth twitching toward a smirk. "Though the image of thee doing so might just grant me peace everlasting."
He stifled a laugh, shaking his head, before turning back to the old woman. "You mentioned an army?"
She huffed, picking her basket back up and settling into her seat again. "Aye. Godrick's filth. Took over Fort Haight right after that little skirmish Kenneth mentioned. Kenneth's lot folded quicker than old parchment. Now they march under Godrick's banner, sayin' they 'protect' us. Not that we asked 'em to."
Tarnished blinked at that. "There's a village out here?"
The thought hadn't crossed his mind. In the game, the Mistwood was more or less wild territory. It was a haunt for beasts, bears, and howling wolves. But of course… it made sense. Where else would survivors go after the Shattering?
He turned slightly to find Marika now gazing outward through the doors, expression unreadable. Her voice echoed in his mind alone.
"More of mine people survived than I thought… We must have missed them on thy mad sprint through Caelid. The forest was dense with beasts and blighted soldiers then… and overrun by Those Who Live in Death."
Millicent tilted her head. "What would they need protection from, anyway?"
Melina gave her a sidelong glance that said you sweet, naive thing, but the old woman simply smiled.
"Oh, the usual. Demihumans, wild dogs, maybe a Misbegotten or two if they wander too far from the shore. And gods forbid, a Rune Bear."
Tarnished flinched ever so slightly.
Rune Bears. The name alone made him tense. Even as someone who could take down dragons, those steroid-bloated monstrosities were his personal nightmare. Too fast. Too mean. Too much.
The old woman caught the twitch of his brow and nodded. "You've seen 'em, then. You know. We had a pack wander too close last week. Injured a lot of folks before we drove 'em off; with the 'help' of those cursed soldiers, of course. First they play savior, then conqueror. That's how it always goes, doesn't it?"
He hummed, arms crossed. "We'll pay them a visit."
Marika's golden form flickered beside him again, her voice cool but resolute."I would see this village with mine own eyes. If Godrick's dogs oppress these people, then thou must act. Quickly, and without hesitation."
Tarnished gave a subtle nod, then turned to the old woman. "What's your name, ma'am?"
She blinked, setting her basket aside. "Oh, heavens! Where are my manners?" She stood with some effort and gave a little bow. "They call me Old Maesin, dear. Just Maesin, if you'd like. And you are?"
Melina was the first to respond, bowing her head slightly. "Melina."
"Millicent!" the redhead chirped brightly.
Tarnished hesitated.
He felt the familiar press of their eyes on him. Melina's brow arched curiously. Millicent waited with cheerful expectation.
Marika hovered nearby, arms crossed, her lips already curled with amusement.
Finally, he gave in with a sigh and muttered, "My name is… John. Just John. Short for Johnathan."
There was a small pause after he spoke.
Then, from above, Marika erupted into pure, unrestrained laughter while floating lazily on a ribbon of Grace. "Th-that was always an option, you dolt!"
Golden motes swirled around her as she nearly doubled over in midair, her regal poise forgotten. Her melodic voice cracked through between gasps. "Thou couldst have simply said the first part of thy name this whole time! 'John Elden Ring,' was it not? But nooo, thou wert too embarrassed to try! For days!"
John's brow twitched as the vein on his forehead bulged ever so slightly. He grit his teeth and looked anywhere but at the golden Goddess howling with undignified laughter in the corners of his mind.
Melina raised a single eyebrow, her tone flat but pointed. "That's the name you chose after having days to think about it?"
Millicent tilted her head, whispering the name under her breath like she was testing the flavor of it. "Odd… but kinda unique, at least."
Old Maesin blinked at him, lips pursed. "Huh. Can't say I've ever heard someone called such a strange name before… But it's nice to meet you all the same."
John just stood there silently, quietly seething. For he was a man enduring the divine equivalent of being laughed at by the cosmos. He gave the smallest, tightest nod of greeting, jaw clenched as Marika's wild, unqueenly howling rang through his skull like a choir of bells that only he could hear.
"It's nice to meet you as well…"
And he knew she would never let him live this down.
John exhaled through his nose and turned back to Maesin with the thinnest thread of patience holding his face together. "If you'd be willing, Miss Maesin… could you guide us toward Fort Haight? Mayhaps we can take a look at the village along the way."
There was a subtle tightness in his voice. That trembling sort of restraint one had when they weren't sure whether they wanted to scream or laugh at themselves until they keeled over like a man fraying at the seams of his own composure.
Marika's laughter was only just beginning to wane as she wiped a glowing tear from her golden eye, the kind of radiant joy that could shake the heavens if left unchecked.
"Nay, but truly…" She began, her voice still breathy with amusement. "How in all the Lands Between wast thou so embarrassed to merely utter the first part of thy name for so long? Doth thy boundless shamelessness and recklessness only apply to courting women and hurling thy life about like some overzealous jester?"
'…I didn't think to try it, okay?' He grumbled mentally as his eye twitched subtly, doing his utmost to keep a straight face. 'It wasn't a big deal to me. I was fine being called "Tarnished"…'
Marika snorted in disbelief.
"'Tis the equivalent of me walking about and introducing myself simply as 'Queen'." Her tone was rich with unimpressed scorn. "Tarnished is not thy name. It is barely a title. It applieth to any and all of thy wayward brethren. And 'tis referred to as a derogatory word by this age, I presume."
He mentally sighed, watching Maesin gesture for them to follow her down a narrow trail veiled by trees and moss. Melina walked quietly beside him, and Millicent hummed just behind, but his thoughts were on the woman lounging above.
'The core difference here.' He mused. 'Is that I've got something none of them do.'
There was a moment of silence. Then, curiosity laced her tone as she asked, "And what might that be, mine Champion?"
A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
'I know more about this world than their own Goddess. That... And I'm outrageously handsome.'
Marika let out another amused snort as she leaned back into her ever-drifting cloud of Grace. Her radiant legs crossed with relaxed poise, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders like a river of light.
"Mayhaps thou know'st more of the broad strokes," she admitted, a slight smirk playing at her lips. "Thy knowledge doth indeed carry surprising weight. I shall not deny thy... curious insights. No doubt born from thy strange perch beyond our stars, where thou didst watch our tale unfold like a play."
She shifted, tilting her head with a smug sort of elegance. "But thou know'st naught of the finer threads. The little details. The whispers of names thou ne'er cared to read. That which goeth unrecorded. And thou art hardly a scholar."
John's smirk grew. 'Fair. I'm more of a vibes-based historian.'
"And besides." She added, her voice dripping with regal confidence. "We both know I far outclass thee in terms of looks."
He gave her a mental shrug without argument. 'Duh. You're you. I'm me. Comparing you to me is like comparing an SSR pull to an SR pull.'
She blinked once at him, slowly.
"…A what?"
He sighed internally. 'You know what? Never mind. We're gonna have to work on expanding your cultural lexicon at some point.'
Marika stared blankly, then exhaled through her nose like a queen politely declining another serving of nonsense.
"I am fine, thanks."
The trail Maesin led them down was narrow and overgrown, barely more than a game path swallowed by the woods. Vines curled like lazy serpents across low branches. Wildflowers bloomed in unexpected colors, pale golds and deep violets, peeking out from the green with an almost deliberate vibrancy.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming moss, the morning dew still clinging to the leaves in glittering beads.
Light filtered through the high canopy like dripping gold, piercing the green gloom in quiet beams that made the forest look almost sacred. There was an otherworldly hush here, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird, or the distant rustle of leaves as something moved just out of sight.
Millicent walked with her eyes wide in wonder, her one hand held up near her chest as if trying to feel the magic in the air. Melina was more composed, but her gaze was attentive, absorbing every detail with quiet reverence.
John, walking at the front with Maesin just ahead, kept his senses alert. His draconic eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, noting the claw marks on tree trunks, the scratchings of demihumans on bark, and the remnants of broken supply crates long since abandoned. He could tell this path had once been a trade route. It seemed overgrown now, but not forgotten.
Behind his eyes, Marika's voice murmured quietly.
"'Tis a strange comfort to see this land breathe still. Even through war… even through ruin."
They walked for nearly half an hour before the forest began to thin, and the sound of human life reached their ears. There were low voices, the clatter of wood, the bark of a dog. The trees parted, revealing a view that made even John pause.
A village lay nestled in the embrace of the forest, half-hidden by ivy-draped walls and the massive roots of the Erdtree that coiled protectively around its edges like the fingers of an ancient god.
Stone cottages sat in neat, winding rows, each roof tiled with clay so old it had moss growing in patches atop it. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Lanterns hung on ropes between buildings, adorned with dried herbs and golden ribbons. They were wards, perhaps, or blessings to ward off the rot and the wild.
The paths were dirt but well-kept, lined with planks in areas prone to mud. Children played beside a shallow stream that cut through the village's southern side, their laughter faint but clear. Farmers worked in small fields along the outer ring, guarded by makeshift wooden palisades covered in wild ivy.
And patrolling those edges, standing near the village gates and the larger buildings, were soldiers.
Men clad in Godrick's dull green and red, their armor battered but maintained, their weapons clean. They stood watch with practiced discipline, eyes sharp and movements efficient. Most of them wore the twisted crest of the grafted lord on their tabards.
The symbol was a haunting reminder of Godrick's grotesque ambitions, even here, far from his throne.
As John and his companions stepped out of the treeline behind Maesin, the soldiers immediately tensed. Their spears lowered slightly, hands drifting toward hilts as a half dozen sets of eyes locked onto the group.
A few muttered to one another as they recognized the Night's Cavalry armor John wore, their expressions turning from suspicion to thinly-veiled hostility with a hint of fear.
But none of them moved to attack. Not with Maesin walking ahead of the group, her small frame and familiar presence was a protective barrier that no soldier seemed willing to disrespect.
"Don't mind them," the old woman said with a dismissive wave. "They're jumpy. Still remember when some Tarnished types came through here weeks ago and caused all manner of trouble. You lot don't look like saints either, dressed like that."
John grinned faintly. "We get that a lot."
One of the soldiers, a broad-shouldered man with a missing ear and a scar running from brow to jaw, narrowed his eyes as they passed.
"That armor don't belong to no normal adventurer." He muttered under his breath, "How does a mere Tarnished get his hands on that…? The captain's gotta hear about this…"
Melina kept her face neutral as they watched the soldier turn from them and sprint towards the Fort. Millicent stuck close to John's side, her gaze flicking from soldier to soldier.
Marika's voice was quiet in his mind. "Keep thine eyes peeled, mine Champion. These men reek of discipline… but not loyalty. If they turn blade against this place, thou must strike swiftly."
He gave a subtle nod to himself and walked on.
The village square opened before them: a large circle of cobbled stone centered around a tree stump that had been hollowed into a shrine. Children gathered there with little charms and ribbons, tying them onto the trunk's roots like offerings. A well stood nearby, flanked by carved wooden statues of long-forgotten saints.
Maesin slowed her steps and pointed toward a path leading up a low ridge behind the village. "Fort Haight is that way. A short hike, but a steep one."
John turned to Maesin, offering her a small smile and a nod of genuine thanks. "We'll take it from here. Appreciate the guidance."
"Go easy on them, would you?" she said with a raised brow, but her tone was laced with knowing amusement.
He just chuckled and waved for his companions to follow. "No promises."
With Millicent and Melina at his sides, they stepped beyond the village square and followed the well-worn dirt road that curved uphill, leading straight to Fort Haight's main gate. The rising path was lined with moss-covered stones and broken carts abandoned long ago. Cracks in the old road gave way to sprouting wildflowers, nature reclaiming what it could.
As they crested the final ridge, the full silhouette of Fort Haight loomed before them: weather-worn walls of sandstone and timber, patch-repaired ramparts, and banners bearing Godrick's twisted crest fluttering above.
They didn't even make it to the main gate before noticing something strange.
A small battalion of soldiers had gathered just inside the fort's walls, clustered near the inner yard gate. There was shouting, frustrated, tense, and one voice rising above the rest, commanding attention. That voice belonged to a knight clad in full armor, his shield slung on his back and his hand resting on the pommel of a massive greatsword.
From atop the watchtower above, a sentry spotted them and let out a shrill whistle.
The commotion halted instantly.
The knight stepped forward, turning sharply as the soldiers formed up behind him in a loose, instinctive defense line. At his side stood a grotesque, towering Mad Pumpkin Head, its iron helm rusted with age but still imposing as ever, its giant flail thudding quietly against the stone ground.
The knight stepped past the gate just enough to meet them, his voice loud and formal as he called out, "I am Sir Caelan, Head Knight of Fort Haight and loyal servant of Lord Godrick the Golden. By his command, I safeguard this land and its people."
There was a slight waver in his voice despite his practiced tone, and though his helm masked his expression, John could feel the man's eyes locked onto him. They were fixated on his face, more specifically, his slitted draconic eyes.
He was afraid. Even if he wouldn't say it.
Caelan straightened his posture and asked, "State your business. Why have you come here?"
John's smile came easy, too easy. "Oh, nothing too dramatic. I'm just here for the half of the Dectus Medallion you've got stashed in that fort. Also wanted to check in and make sure you're not torturing the locals for Lord Grafty."
That landed. Even through the helmet, John could feel the slight recoil in Caelan's body, the tension in his shoulders spike. That pause, though it lasted barely a second, still spoke volumes.
He knows. Caelan knows the medallion is there. And now, he knows I know.
Caelan's voice, though forced back into calm, faltered just enough to betray him. "Did… Kenneth Haight send you?" His tone tried to sound dismissive, but it was more of a desperate grasp for understanding, an attempt to find the logic in an otherwise terrifying scenario.
John shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, him? Yeah, I suppose we've met. Man wouldn't shut up about how the fort was 'stolen from him'. Wanted us to help. Begged, really."
He didn't confirm anything outright, but the implication was clear.
Caelan stiffened.
John tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting over the soldiers behind the knight. They were disciplined enough, organized by the looks of it. But he knew they weren't true elites. Not compared to him.
Not anymore.
'Hm… Normally, I'd just run through the place, cut down everyone in my way, grab the medallion, and be gone before they knew what hit them.' His gaze lazily swept across their formation. 'I'm probably still more than capable of that after my evolution… But…'
His hands flexed at his sides. 'Do I even need to?'
Marika appeared beside him then, her arms crossed under her golden mantle, her form radiant even in the noonday sun. She stared straight at Caelan, her divine gaze dissecting him in moments.
"Thou need not lift thy blade," she said calmly. "The man trembleth behind his helm."
John glanced to her. 'How can you tell?'
She raised her chin, lips curling into a confident smirk. "Experience. One doth not become God-Queen of entire realms without mastering the art of reading men. His voice shaketh, his breath halts and he dare not meet thy gaze, not truly. He feareth thee, mine Champion, because he knoweth that he is not thy match."
John's lips quirked into a smile.
Marika turned toward him, her tone sharpening with a regal edge. "Thou holdeth the advantage. Press it. Assert thy will. If he feareth thee, make him bend the knee. If not for thee, then for the people he claimeth to protect."
Melina stepped lightly beside him, her voice low and firm in his ear. "If you can avoid killing them… please do. The villagers still rely on these men, whether they trust them or not."
John's expression didn't shift, but he gave the smallest nod to show he heard her.
Millicent, on his other side, hummed softly. Her hand drifted to the hilt of her curved blade, fingers wrapping loosely around the grip. "It's your call," she murmured, her tone unreadable. "I'll follow your lead."
John exhaled slowly, grounding himself. Then he stepped forward.
"I'm not here to kill anyone," he began, his voice calm but layered with steel. "I've got no personal grudge against you or your men. I couldn't care less about helping Kenneth Haight reclaim this place. He's a clown."
His draconic eyes flared gold as he tilted his head slightly, those molten irises narrowing as he locked eyes with Caelan. The sun caught in their depths, casting a faint shimmer over their inhuman shape.
"As long as the people in Mistwood Village are safe," he continued, "then I don't give a damn who's in charge."
He paused, the air thickening around him.
"But," John said, a chill entering his tone, "you have something I want. So we can do this the easy way…"
His lips pulled into a sharp, predator's smile.
"Or the hard way. The choice is yours, 'captain'."
The moment those words dropped, every soldier behind Caelan tensed, hands flying to hilts and spearshafts. The Mad Pumpkin Head growled deep and low. The whole courtyard shifted, one spark away from bloodshed.
Caelan didn't move.
His breathing deepened inside the helmet, the rasp of his breath audible as he steadied himself. For a long, tense moment, he said nothing.
"I'm… Willing to hand over the Dectus Medallion half," he said, each word a grind against his pride. "And I give you my word. So long as I draw breath, the people of Mistwood will be protected. As long as-"
A murmur of shock rippled through his men before he could finish his words.
"What?!" one of the soldiers barked, stepping forward. His eyes were wide beneath his helm, disbelief and fury coiling in every word. "With respect, Sir Caelan! How can we submit to this Tarnished? Who's to say he didn't just scavenge that armor off a dead Night's Cavalry?"
He swept a hand toward John, then turned, gesturing broadly to the dozens of armored soldiers around them. "We outnumber them! We can take them-!"
"Enough!" Caelan snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. He rounded on the man, stepping forward with enough force to make the soldier flinch.
"Don't you think I've already considered that?" the knight growled. "It doesn't matter! Look at his eyes!"
He pointed with a trembling hand.
And suddenly, they all saw it.
John's eyes were a deep, starlit azure, touched with golden flame. They were Draconic, ancient and deeply wrong. The kind of eyes that didn't belong to mortal men.
One of the younger soldiers took a step back, his voice shaking. "Those're the eyes of someone who's consumed multiple dragon hearts. H-He's… he's already started to transform… Like the Magma Wyrms...!"
John smirked, barely restraining a chuckle. 'Not quite, buddy.'
Marika sighed audibly in his mind, her tone full of regal exasperation.
"Fools." She muttered. "He hath surpassed such lowly Wyrms already."
Caelan, to his credit, nodded faintly. "That's part of it," he admitted. Then his hand twitched toward the hilt of his blade, but not to draw it.
He looked straight at John.
"It's not just his eyes. It's the pressure. Just standing in front of him… it makes my godsdamn skin crawl. I felt this once before, from Lord Godrick himself."
Gasps rippled through his soldiers as the comparison landed like a hammer.
A Tarnished, compared to a Demigod? To a Great Rune bearer?Madness.
Whispers started to spread. Doubt. Fear. One of the men finally broke the tension with a hesitant question. "Even so… what will Lord Godrick say when he learns we handed the Dectus medallion half over to a stranger?"
John laughed, it was loud, sharp, and cut clean through the tension like a blade.
Every head snapped toward him.
One of the braver soldiers stepped forward, glaring. "What's so funny?"
John's smirk returned, but this time it was wide and full of fangs.
"Oh, it's simple," he said, voice velvet over iron. "In the next few days, I'm heading to Stormveil Castle myself."
He raised his gauntleted thumb to his own throat and drew it across slowly.
As he did, a fiery orange glow surged from his gullet causing embers to lick out from between his teeth. A single flame escaped his lips and danced into the air.
"And when I do, I'm going to kill the Grafted Runt where he stands."
The soldiers froze.
"Then I'll take his Great Rune for myself."
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Author's Note:
I know, shit is crazy, the protagonist finally used his name after 130k words.
Anyways, stones please~
…
Next Chapter Title: Apex Predator.
…
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