From sky to sea, the slash reached all. Where the blade of wind passed, none could stand.
The heavens split apart, clouds torn into two great halves. The ocean was cleaved, the waters refusing to flow back together. It was as though the world itself had been sundered, leaving a straight scar behind—as if a painted canvas had been torn down the middle.
Godwyn's grotesque body was utterly erased by that sword. Godrick, bound within such an abomination, perished as well; snuffed out with his ancestor's corpse.
The sky and sea slowly returned to their natural state. No trace of that terrible sword remained—save for one.
Behind where Godrick had stood, the walls of Stormveil bore a straight, vertical gash. Its surface was smooth, polished like a mirror.
This was the outermost wall of Stormveil. Weathered and battered by countless years, it had already been half-collapsed when Godwyn's body erupted from below. Now, after receiving that blade, it could scarcely be called a wall at all. And yet, it still stood. And it would stand forever.
It was witness. It would tell to all who looked upon it what had transpired here.
Lucian descended lightly to the ground, sheathing his sword with calm ease. He was satisfied with that strike.
Though there was no way to quantify exactly how many times greater its damage had been, the results spoke for themselves. The number hardly mattered anymore.
After restoring himself with a Sacred Flask, Lucian had drunk of an aromatic, one that bolstered his strength. The boost was not overwhelming on its own, but under the multiplier of a Super Damage that defied reason, even the smallest increase was magnified to the extreme.
His body, restored to full health. His FP, unleashed without restraint. His strength, enhanced by the draught. And most of all—the Wind Spirit Moon Shadow.
All combined into that one sword that made the world itself change color.
The two Crucible Knights landed beside him. Elyssa and Lancelot also approached, standing behind Lucian in silence.
They looked upon his back with awe, still reeling from what they had witnessed.
That single strike had overturned everything they thought possible.
Of them, only Lancelot was young, last-born of the Storm King's bloodline. The others were ancients, beings born in bygone ages, who had seen countless powers rise and fall. They searched their memories for a technique of equal might—but none came close.
Lucian stood with arms folded, gazing through the gap in the wall, his eyes fixed upon the far horizon.
He was not posing or aura farming. His thoughts were turned inward.
For at the moment Godwyn's body was obliterated, a dim and lifeless Great Rune had entered into him.
Four interwoven rings, dull yet immense, now lingered within his mind.
A deep satisfaction welled within him. After all this time in the Lands Between, he had finally claimed his first Great Rune.
Once so distant a goal, it was now reality.
Lucian reached out to it with his mind. Nothing happened.
The Great Rune remained inert, resting silently within his thoughts. No matter how he touched it with his will, it would not stir. It did only one thing—it pointed.
He followed its guidance, turning his head toward the distance.
There, piercing the clouds, stood a towering stone spire—a Divine Tower.
"So. I'll have to go there after all… But not yet."
His plans were clear.
Before setting foot within the Divine Tower, Lucian would first become King of Limgrave.
Godrick had fallen. The path lay open.
"Two days from now," he declared, "I shall be crowned King of Stormveil."
"Let this message be spread throughout all of Limgrave."
The city had fallen into chaos since the first sighting of Tarnished attackers. When Godwyn's body had risen from the deep, shaking earth and stone, panic had consumed all.
Most of the townsfolk had not even seen the monstrous shape for themselves. But rumor was enough—fear spread swiftly, and despair followed. Cries and wailing echoed through the streets.
Yet then, from nowhere, a pillar of force had split heaven and 'earth'. The burning yellow flames were quenched. The suffocating shadow of terror lifted from Stormveil entirely.
Every resident had seen it. The soldiers and knights were the first to cry out. Then even Godrick's men, surrendered and broken, joined in. And though the common people did not understand what had truly transpired, they too joined the chorus.
Stormveil had a new master. A king who was strong—yet merciful.
Hakkan and the young Tarnished with him heard the cries of the city and felt their hearts lurch.
He had always known Lucian's goal was to become Elden Lord, and that the throne of Stormveil was but a stepping-stone. But to see it come so soon, so suddenly, before his very eyes, Hakkan could not help but feel adrift.
He was happy for his friend. Truly.
And yet… what should he call him now? Lord? King? Or by his name?
Though he still thought of Lucian as a comrade, the gulf between them was undeniable.
If already there was this distance—what would it be when Lucian ascended as Elden Lord? Even if Lucian invited him to drink, as he had promised, would he still have the heart to lift the cup?
Beside him, Nepheli's thoughts were far simpler. She only regretted that she had not been able to witness that world-splitting strike with her own eyes.
And she thought: Lucian becoming King of Stormveil, wasn't that incredible?
—
Two days later, the coronation began.
A vast procession marched from the gates of Stormveil.
At its head were more than twenty Storm Knights. Once banished, they were now restored to their rightful station, knights of the storm in truth.
Behind them came countless soldiers once condemned to exile.
They had removed the cowls that marked their shame. Faces shriveled, bodies like the living dead—but no matter. Their long wait was over. Their king had returned.
They were no longer 'Exiles'. They were soldiers of Stormveil. Soldiers of the Storm.
At the center of the host rode Lucian.
Two Crucible Knights marched before him, clearing the way. Torrent bore a new saddle, its mane brushed to brilliance, its gait proud.
Lucian himself wore no armor, but a deep crimson garb fit for kings. His hair and face had been arranged to project a regal dignity far beyond his youthful appearance.
He bore no greatswords. Instead, he wore upon his side the Ornamental Straight Sword—meant for rites of the Erdtree.
Behind him walked Elyssa. At her feet, crystalline blossoms of frost bloomed and melted, painting his path in cold beauty.
Nepheli, Hakkan, Lancelot, and the others followed after.
At the rear marched the remnants of Godrick's army. They were spared, granted place as soldiers of Limgrave once more.
The people of Stormveil lined the roads within the castle, awaiting their new king.
When he passed, they looked up to him. His visage, his bearing—they memorized it, indelibly.
"Rejoice, people!" cried Lancelot, heir of the Storm King. "Give cheer for your new sovereign—Storm King Lucian!"
The soldiers struck sword against shield in thunderous rhythm. The crowd's cheers followed, echoing the name of their king.
Lancelot had insisted on conducting the coronation himself. Not for vanity, but because of his heritage.
As heir of the Storm King, his recognition would lend legitimacy. Lucian would not only be king by conquest, but by lineage, blessed by both storm and steel.
Lucian agreed. Why not?
The procession reached the throne hall. There, waiting already, was a peculiar guest.
Finger Reader Enia, smiling, cane resting at her side. She had come to witness the coronation in the name of the Two Fingers.
Lucian greeted her with a nod. "My thanks."
The ritual began.
Before the throne, Lucian lowered his head. Enia lifted the crown high, and placed it upon him.
Lancelot presented golden rings, a scepter, a necklace—symbols of authority. At last, Enia anointed his brow with sacred oil from the Two Fingers.
It held no power, yet it was everything. Legitimacy, divine recognition.
When it was done, Lucian raised the golden ornamental sword high into the air.
At once, every knight and soldier mirrored him, weapons lifted skyward.
The king's voice rang out, carried by the storm itself, heard in every corner of Stormveil:
"All the good of this world, I shall uphold. All its evils, I shall bear.
Soldiers—your lives you give to me. And I will lead you to victory, and to glory.
I, Lucian, am crowned your King!"
The straight sword blazed with the golden mark of the Erdtree.
Stormveil thundered with cries of triumph.
And upon the throne, Lucian sat—as the storm above roared, proclaiming to all the Lands Between:
A new king has risen.