Lucian heard the cry for help, then glanced around at where he stood.
This was the Saintsbridge—the only road leading into Caelid.
In that instant, he knew exactly who it was.
Without a doubt, Alexander had gotten himself stuck in a hole… again.
Lucian hadn't expected that in this world, too, the great warrior jar would still end up trapped, unable to climb out.
It seemed he could never escape his fate.
And judging by Alexander's words, he'd been stuck here for days already? What was this—plot inertia? A forced convergence of world lines?
No matter. Since they had met again, Lucian would of course lend a hand.
He urged Torrent up a nearby slope. The spectral steed leapt lightly across rocks, carrying him up onto the hill.
But once they reached the top, Lucian couldn't spot Alexander right away.
After all, this world was far larger than the game; even one hill stretched vast. And now it was already dusk.
Torrent had run all day without rest, galloping ceaselessly down the highway. Even with the mount's stamina, they had covered only a third of the road. That alone showed how vast this world truly was.
The darkening light made the search harder, but eventually Lucian followed the voice to the edge of a cliff.
There, half-buried in the ground, loomed an enormous jar.
The body was massive, its clay-yellow surface smooth and round. Two arms of stone jutted from its sides like muscular limbs, and atop it rested a great red lid.
There could be no mistake. This was the warrior jar, Iron Fist Alexander.
He braced himself on both arms, posture oddly like a man leaning in thought.
Since hearing news of the Festival, he had rushed toward Caelid in great haste. But while pausing here on the hill to peer ahead, he had misstepped and tumbled into this pit.
And for some reason, something inside the hole had caught and held him fast. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free.
He had tried—oh, he had tried countless times—but to no effect. So, with resignation, he had resorted to calling for aid.
At first, he had shouted ceaselessly, hoping someone would hear. But no one ever came. Exhaustion forced him to ration his cries to once every ten minutes.
As the festival drew nearer, his anxiety only grew.
Being a jar, he neither ate nor drank, so hunger was no danger. His true fear was missing the festival entirely.
The warriors inside him clamored, restless. They had waited long enough.
Warrior jars were created by ritual—blood and flesh of men bound into clay vessels. Their vitality was unlike anything else, not sustained by food or water, but by a kind of inner magical cycle, much like golems.
They were born with choice, each jar free to take its own path. In Jarburg, some became oil jars, others medicine jars, each housing what they carried within.
But for those who became warrior jars, the path was clear: to contain the remains of warriors, and inherit their will to fight toward glory.
Alexander feared disappointing the warriors he bore.
But at last, fortune had smiled—Lucian rode into view upon Torrent.
From his vantage, Alexander saw only four horse hooves planted before him.
"Oh my stars I'm so happy to see you!" he called. "As you can see, I'm stuck here.
Please, can you help me out of this?"
Lucian dismounted, approaching with curiosity. He placed a hand on the jar's rough surface—solid and coarse, like stone weathered by ages.
"Of course," Lucian said. "Tell me what to do."
Delight lit Alexander's booming voice. "My thanks! a thousand thanks! Just give me a good smack from the rear, with something nice and big. Put those doubts to rest, I'll be just fine. I'm very well trained. Give it your all, I say!"
He added, almost proudly, "And by the way—yes, you're facing the right way. That side is my face."
Lucian circled him once, but could find no difference between front and back. No eyes, no mouth—nothing to distinguish. Truly, how jars perceived the world was one of life's mysteries.
In the end, Lucian stood behind Alexander.
He considered using the Dragonslayer Swordspear, but thought better of it. At this stage, Alexander was not yet the mighty warrior jar he would one day become—likely only barely at the level of a true hero.
If Lucian struck even gently with his current strength, the jar might shatter.
Instead, he raised his foot high, then stomped down.
Magic flared beneath him, spreading through the ground and rippling into the ground around Alexander.
It was a move he had practiced with the Crucible Knights—the same technique he'd used against the Night's Cavalry.
This time, he tempered the force. Rather than strike Alexander, the land itself buckled and heaved, hurling the jar from its trap.
"Uwaaaaahhh!" Alexander bellowed as he tumbled free.
With a resounding thud, he crashed onto the ground nearby.
Then he laughed—a hearty, booming laugh. "Marvelous! What a strike! Never thought this heavy old body could take flight, hahaha!"
Dusting himself off, Alexander turned to study his savior.
And his surprise deepened.
This man was clad in resplendent armor, regal yet fearsome, with a presence like the heroes sung of in legend. Power radiated from him—power that made even Alexander's inner warriors stir.
Clearly, this was no ordinary Tarnished.
Lucian smiled warmly at him. He had always liked Alexander in the game, for his hearty spirit and open nature.
"Your body is remarkably tough," Lucian remarked. "The same material as common cracked pots, yet far sturdier."
Alexander folded his arms proudly. "Indeed! I train diligently. And besides, the warriors within me would never permit me to fall apart so easily. But your stomp—ha! Astonishing. Even without striking me directly, I nearly cracked from the force. Wahahaha!"
Lucian chuckled at the exaggeration, recognizing a warrior's friendly banter.
"You're bound for Caelid's festival of combat, aren't you?" he asked.
Alexander's eyes—unseen though they were, seemed to light with delight. "Oh-ho! So you too are going to the festival?"
Lucian nodded. "Yes. I wish to test myself—see just how mighty the Starscourge truly is."
Alexander roared in approval. "Exactly my thought! We are of one spirit, you and I. Surely we shall get along splendidly. Allow me to introduce myself properly—I am the warrior jar known as Alexander. Iron Fist Alexander."
"And I am Lucian," he replied simply.
The name stirred faint memory in Alexander—perhaps he had overheard it on the road. But no matter.
"Well met indeed, Lucian! To meet such a strong warrior is fortune indeed. Here—take this, as thanks for your aid."
He pried open the red lid atop his head, reached inside, and withdrew a large hunk of meat.
"This is an Exalted Flesh, a delicacy said to be savored only by champions and kings. Eating it grants strength for a time!"
Lucian accepted the hefty slab, turning it over in his hands. It resembled the leg of some beast.
But then he paused, glancing from the meat to Alexander.
Warrior jars were known to store corpses inside them, absorbing strength from fallen fighters. So this so-called Exalted Flesh… was it a delicacy, or the flesh of some unfortunate warrior?
Lucian's expression faltered.
Alexander noticed. "What is it? Is the gift unsatisfactory? Too bad, I have little else to offer at the moment."
Lucian shook his head. "No, no. I was only wondering—about the meat itself. Since warrior jars… keep bodies within them…"
At first Alexander blinked, not understanding. Then, with a booming laugh, comprehension dawned. "Hahaha! I see your concern. But worry not—this is no human flesh! It's merely preserved beast meat, something I acquired elsewhere. If you doubt me, come—look within my body, and you'll see!"
Before Lucian could decline, Alexander lifted his lid and leaned forward, revealing his insides.
What Lucian saw astounded him.
The inner walls were woven with blood-like vessels and ritual sigils—the remnants of the rite that birthed living jars.
A net of stitched cloth divided the interior. In the upper section, nestled various trinkets: glowing stones, intact weapons, even the Exalted Flesh. These were trophies collected on his travels, offered as gifts to warriors he deemed worthy.
Beneath the net lay heaps of mangled corpses, still clad in broken armor and clutching shattered weapons. The stench of blood hung heavy.
Lucian marveled quietly at the bizarre anatomy. At least he now knew the Exalted Flesh was genuine—and not what he had feared.
Satisfied, he tied it to Torrent's pack. "Then, shall we journey to Caelid together?"
Alexander hesitated. His spirit leapt at the thought, but he knew he could not match the steed's pace.
He patted his jarred chest. "No need, friend. I could never keep up with your mount. Go ahead—I'll see you at the festival. Hahaha! There, we'll fight side by side as comrades!"
Lucian nodded, bid him farewell, and spurred Torrent onward.
Alexander watched as the knight crossed the Saintsbridge.
"Hmm? His direction seems a bit off… Ah well, perhaps just a wrong turn. I only hope he makes it in time."
With that, he too rolled on—unknowing that his chosen path would lead him astray, toward the Gael Tunnel's side gate, nearly barring him from Caelid altogether.
Lucian pressed forward into the night. Rest could wait; he meant to reach Caelid as soon as possible.
Torrent did not slow.
Suddenly, a large wooden sign caught Lucian's eye, planted beside the road.
Upon its face, scrawled in crooked letters:
"Treasure ahead →"
Lucian froze, baffled.
What in the world…? This looked entirely out of place, like something dropped in from another realm.
He followed the sign's arrow with his gaze.
In the darkness, faint torchlight flickered—people at work, perhaps, among ruins surrounded by graves.
Treasure was possible there, yes. But in the Lands Between, graveyards far more often meant deathbirds and restless corpses.
Lucian sighed, pressing a hand to his brow.
If he had to guess, this was yet another "marker" left behind by a certain familiar someone.