With a way to cure Caelid's Scarlet Rot finally within reach, Lucian's spirits soared. As he left the Roundtable Hold, he was even humming a tune.
It was only a possibility, not a certainty—but far better than wandering aimlessly.
As for Caelid, if there was a way to heal it, Lucian would not turn away.
The lives dwelling there had been struck by a disaster they should never have borne. These lives—unimportant, ignored in the game, unseen by most… Who cared for their suffering? Who would ask on their behalf, "Why?"
Lucian wanted to save them.
He had decided as much ever since Castle Morne.
Not because he thought himself a savior, nor with the arrogance of guaranteeing success. But simply because he wanted to. Because he was bold enough to think he could change the world.
Not from selfless nobility, but from his own resolve.
And Caelid was vast—large enough that the word "sprawling" was no exaggeration. If such a land could be healed, reclaimed, restored—that would be a marvel indeed.
But he was not doing it for territory.
Even if he stood in Caelid's heart and burned away the rot with the Flame of the Fell God, it would take years, decades perhaps, before the land produced life again. By then, Lucian would already be Elden Lord.
He knew this. So he treated the land itself as secondary—the lives upon it were what truly mattered.
Lucian was, undeniably, an idealist. But he was also one with the strength to make ideals reality.
Caelid now was a mire, abandoned. No one governed it. No one would govern it.
Why would they? The cost outweighed any return.
Only someone like Lucian would even consider it. But someone had to.
Among the other demigods, only two might have ever cared: Radahn and Morgott.
Radahn, of course—Caelid was his realm. Yet he had long since gone mad, leaving only his soldiers to fight the rot in his stead. Morgott, perhaps, once all was settled—for he was The Grace Given Lord, kind in his way.
Having secured Hildegard's aid, Lucian prepared to depart for Caelid. But first, he would fetch her back. She was vital to the land's restoration.
Lately, Hildegard reported strange creatures near her refuge.
They resembled insects, with pallid white exoskeletons, but walked upright like men. She had not fought them, but their sickly bodies disgusted her. Their rustling, scratching movements made her skin crawl.
Lucian knew at once what they were; Lesser Kindred of Rot.
Caelid was riddled with scarlet blight, and so the cultists of rot gathered there, dragging their kin to worship.
Among them, the mushroom folk were almost friendly by comparison. But there were others—more fanatical, more cruel. And to them, cleansing the rot was a blasphemy beyond forgiveness.
Lucian frowned. He needed to reach Hildegard quickly. She could not be risked.
—
He stepped into a site of grace.
Melina's golden right eye studied him as he gripped his weapon. His presence had sharpened, steeped in power, exuding a dangerous aura.
"Mmm," she said softly, "this armor suits you well. Handsome."
Praise from her struck differently than from anyone else.
Lucian scratched at the gray hair crest upon his crown, suddenly self-conscious.
Only with Melina did he allow himself such unguarded gestures.
She laughed lightly, lashes fluttering as she hid a smile. Lucian met her gaze, and smiled as well.
And in his heart, his resolve deepened once again: He would find a way to restore Melina's body. This time, she would not endure the agony of flame.
—
Back in Stormveil, Lucian immediately sought out Lancelot.
As vice-regent, Lancelot managed the castle's affairs well, guiding Stormveil's steady growth.
Lucian's departure for Caelid would last weeks, perhaps months. Orders had to be set, duties arranged.
He went straight to Lancelot's office.
At the sight of his lord, Lancelot leapt from his chair and bowed deeply.
Lucian wasted no time. "Lancelot, I'll be leaving Stormveil. Caelid calls. I'll be gone weeks at least. Perhaps longer. I trust you to keep the city running."
Lancelot paled. "What? You mean to leave Stormveil for so long?"
Lucian often wandered before, studying sorcery or traveling, but he was always close, always able to return quickly. This was different.
Anxiety flooded Lancelot's mind: visions of sieges, disasters, calamities—even bizarre fears, like the King's Army storming Stormveil's gates.
But Lucian was calm. He had no such imagination.
"Don't worry. I trust your hand."
Still, Lancelot hesitated. "It isn't that, my lord… I fear for you. Caelid is… no good place. Even with your strength, the rot holds dangers no blade can guard against."
Lucian raised a brow, touched by the concern. He clapped Lancelot's shoulder.
"Warriors are meant to bleed. Besides, my aim is to join the Festival—to face Starscourge Radahn. To come away unscathed would be the stranger outcome."
Yet Lancelot persisted. "Without you, Stormveil stands weakest. Even thriving, it would be but meat on another demigod's board."
He was not wrong. Some might attack.
Not Morgott—he was bound to Leyndell. But Mohg, Lord of Blood? That thief knew well the art of striking unguarded homes.
Still, Lucian would not turn back. To halt for fear of risk was cowardice.
Stormveil and the forces he gathered were meant as strength, not shackles. If without him they collapsed, they were not worth having.
He chuckled. "Enough. You'll manage. If anything urgent happens, I'll leave marks within the city. Have Tarnished watch over them—touch one, and I'll return through grace at once."
Then he outlined orders:
Distribute the dragon-blood meat among the volunteers. Train them harder. Those who consumed it had shown real gains—small on paper, but vital for ordinary soldiers. Strength, vitality, endurance—raised by random degrees. For men of modest stats, even two points meant a gulf.
The first was Hakkan, bold enough to try. Others followed. Results proved reliable.
These would be his Drakeblood Knights.
For them, Melina had designed a new armor set—full coverage, ornate with dark engravings.
At first, Lucian considered giving them Lothric armor, for its striking image. Lothric Knights fought beside wyverns, after all. He could not give his soldiers dragons, but he could give them dragon flesh within.
Yet in the end, the Drakeblood Set was the truest fit.
They would be his swiftest elite, though only for a time. In the future, properly trained armies would take their place.
"Also, begin trials in the training grounds," Lucian added. "Record their strengths, endurance, skill. These records will guide how we shape each unit—so they can complement one another in war. We will need more, stronger armies."
Lancelot bowed, taking the blueprints.
Lucian continued, "Beyond the army—carry on as before. Develop the city. Manage the races. Drill the guard harder—Stormveil grows, and so do its needs. Patrols, construction, repair—all must advance. Send soldiers into Limgrave's caves to clear beasts and bandits. After, plant cave moss—crystalline kind, as much as possible. Fill the caverns."
Satisfied that nothing more was left unsaid, Lucian departed.
He bade farewell to those closest to him. Elyssa and the two Crucible Knights wished to follow, but he refused—they were needed to guard Stormveil, should true danger strike.
Thus Lucian rode out upon Torrent.
The steed still bore the ceremonial garb from Lucian's coronation, stripped now of smaller ornaments. When asked if he wanted proper barding, Torrent refused—he liked his own dress better.
Through Stormhill, Lucian passed several villages—Stormveil's new vassals. Their leaders had been granted symbolic titles after his coronation.
This was his first time truly inspecting them. Some numbered thousands, almost towns, with crude defenses. Others were mere hamlets of dozens.
Under Lucian's push for agriculture, fallow land had been reclaimed. Stormveil's swelling population required it—an army could not live by hunting alone.
Deeper in the woods, he found a ruined hut beside a site of grace. Likely someone had built there because of the grace.
This must have been where Bernahl once lingered—the Recusant who would be a lord. But now, it was empty. Perhaps he had returned to Volcano Manor.
Onward, toward Caelid.
The land grew barren. Settlements dwindled to scattered outposts, then vanished.
Crossing a bridge near a soldier's camp, a loud voice rang out:
"Hello-o? Can you hear me?
Help me! I'm stuck.
Hello? Hellooo! Anyone! Save me, I'm starving!"
A pause.
"Oh, wait—no I'm not! I'm a pot! Pots don't starve! Hahaha!"
"…Still! Please, someone come help!"