Lucian followed the wooden sign's arrow with his eyes.
From the ruins shrouded in night, strange noises drifted out. Torches swayed back and forth, as if those who carried them were locked in combat.
He urged Torrent a little closer, careful but curious.
If his guess was right, this place was none other than Summonwater Village.
And Summonwater meant danger—for here lurked the Tibia Mariner, summoner of spectral revenants, and on the outskirts, their physical kin, the Deathbirds' twisted spawn.
For a Tarnished—or anyone else—wandering too close meant peril.
As Lucian drew near, the scene grew clear.
A band of Tarnished, each holding a torch in one hand and a weapon in the other, were fighting desperately against an endless tide of skeletal revenants.
The enemies were frail, mere skeleton militias and bandit bones, easily cut down in two strikes.
But no matter how many were shattered, they rose again.
A few blows, a clatter of bones, and yet the fallen began to knit themselves back together. Their numbers only grew.
Before long, the Tarnished were surrounded, their formation splintered apart.
"Why won't these things stay dead?!" A young fighter's voice cracked with terror.
An older one barked back, "Stay calm! Find an opening to break through!"
"Close ranks! Fall in on me—we'll push out together!"
But the others were too green, too panicked. They failed to regroup, leaving gaps that the revenants exploited mercilessly.
Lucian had already steered Torrent forward, ready to intervene—
When something unexpected happened.
A band of men appeared suddenly from the darkness, dressed in matching mercenary garb.
From their midst stepped a bald man with a sly grin, his laughter sharp and grating.
"Heheheheheh—your savior has arrived! The one and only Patches the Untethered!"
Lucian nearly sighed aloud. Of course.
Patches' men rushed forward, hurling jars with wild abandon. They smashed against the skeletons, spilling glowing liquid that splashed across their bodies.
Holy Water Pots.
Wherever the water touched, revenants collapsed and stayed down, their cursed bodies unable to revive.
The rest shrank back, hissing, recoiling instinctively from the holy substance.
Soon, shards of shattered pots littered the ground.
"We're saved! We're saved!" The Tarnished cried out, breaking through the crumbling encirclement to join Patches' group.
"Thank you!"
"Incredible! You saved our lives!"
Patches flashed a crooked smile, his voice dripping with pride.
"Wahaha! But of course! Who else but I, the great Savior Patches?"
He puffed out his chest, then leaned closer as though sharing a secret. "Oh, and by the way—did you know? I happen to be sworn brothers with none other than the Lord of Stormveil—the Storm King, Lucian!"
The Tarnished gasped.
They'd never heard of a "savior" before, but Stormveil's King and Storm King were names whispered far and wide.
Many of them had even set out intending to seek refuge at Stormveil.
If this man truly counted the King of Storms as a brother, then his words carried weight.
And had he not just demonstrated immense generosity, expending so many rare and precious Holy Water Pots?
Who wouldn't believe him?
The rescued Tarnished were instantly won over.
"Patches the Savior is too kind!"
"A true hero…"
None of them noticed the sinister grin tugging at Patches' lips as he turned away.
"Alright! That's enough for tonight. Don't throw your lives away pointlessly. We'll come back another day to settle the score."
He jabbed a finger at the retreating revenants. "If not for the need to protect you greenhorns, I'd have wiped out the lot of you already! Mark my words—I, the Savior Patches, will drive every last revenant from the Lands Between!"
With that declaration, he led his troop and the rescued Tarnished away from the cursed village.
Lucian, watching from the shadows, pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had expected those "Treasure Ahead" signs to be Patches' handiwork. But this… self-staged rescue routine? That was new.
Is he really trying to play the hero now?
The old trick had always been to lure victims into deadly spots with promises of treasure, then kick them off cliffs or leave them to monsters.
But now? Bait, ambush, "heroic" rescue, and extortion.
Lucian shook his head with a helpless sigh, spurring Torrent after them.
Worse still, Patches had dared to drag his own name into the scam—claiming brotherhood! Lucian couldn't remember ever sharing so much as a drink with the man, let alone calling him brother.
Farther down the road, the rescued Tarnished were still brimming with gratitude.
"Thank you, Savior Patches! We owe you our lives."
"We don't know how we could ever repay you."
Patches waved them off with mock modesty. "Heheheh, no need, no need! I ask no reward—for I am your savior, after all."
But then he extended his hand with a sly grin.
The Tarnished blinked, confused.
Was this… a demand for payment? But hadn't he just said otherwise?
The seasoned Tarnished in their group cleared his throat cautiously. "Er… Lord Patches, what do you mean?"
"What do I mean?"Patches scoffed. "Isn't it obvious? Those Holy Water Pots I used to save you weren't free! Each one is precious—we had prepared them for tomorrow's battle against the revenants. And now? Spent, for your sake."
He leaned in, voice rising. "You think such items just appear out of thin air? We were commanded by the Two Fingers themselves to purge the revenants from this land. And yet, because of you, our grand mission has been delayed, our resources depleted!"
He slapped his chest dramatically. "No, no, I won't demand a reward for saving you. But surely you don't expect us to shoulder the cost of the pots as well?"
The Tarnished faltered. His speech tumbled over them, fast and heavy, until they found themselves nodding.
It was true—they had seen the pots used with their own eyes. And if the mission truly came from the Two Fingers, then failing to replenish them might doom the effort.
The seasoned Tarnished bowed his head. "Very well… Lord Patches, how much did the Holy Water Pots cost?"
Patches smirked inwardly. Hook, line, and sinker.
With exaggerated seriousness, he held up one finger and then another—forming the number eight.
"One pot, eighty runes?" the Tarnished asked hopefully.
"No, no, no. Eight hundred. Each."
Patches' grin split wide, unable to contain itself.
The Tarnished paled. Eight hundred! That was no small sum—but survivable, if it were just one or two.
But hadn't he thrown dozens?
"How many… did you use?" someone whispered, dread creeping in.
Patches scratched his bald head, pretending to count. "Oh, twenty or so. But I'll be generous—let's call it exactly twenty."
The Tarnished despaired. Twenty pots at eight hundred runes each… nearly ruinous.
Still, could they deny him?
Patches folded his arms, satisfied. Ah, truly I am a genius.
But before he could relish the moment, a cold, steady voice cut through the night.
"Lies."
The Tarnished spun around.
A warrior stood there in strange armor—half gold, half silver, as though two figures had been fused into one. Reliefs of entwined forms ran across his breastplate, and from it extended a silver helm, crowned by a golden hand cradling its head.
It was none other than D, Hunter of the Dead—or rather, the elder brother, Darian.
Drawn by the tremor of the Beast Eye and the stench of Deathroot, he had come to cleanse the land—only to find fraud instead.
"Holy Water Pots," Darian said evenly, "cost a hundred runes to make, materials included. With labor, perhaps a little more. But not much. And this man," he pointed a gauntleted finger at Patches— "is no savior. There has never been such a title. He seeks only to exploit your desperation."
The Tarnished gaped, realization dawning.
Patches' mask slipped. His face twisted with rage as he hefted his greatshield and spear. "Damn you! Meddling bastard! You'll regret spoiling Patches' business!"
Darian drew his own blade, the twin-hued Inseparable Sword of gold and silver. "If you tarnish the name of those who truly fight for the Golden Order, then I'll teach you a lesson myself."
The mercenaries behind Patches drew their weapons; the Tarnished hesitated, torn between gratitude and doubt.
But before blades could cross, the ground itself shuddered.
A low, mournful horn echoed through the air, dirge-like, accompanied by an eerie crimson glow rising from the marsh.
Revenants clawed their way up in droves.
From the heart of the waters drifted a pale, spectral boat. A red-robed skeleton sat aboard, blowing a massive brass horn.
The Tibia Mariner had come.
"Damn it!" Patches spat. "This is your fault, you cursed meddler!"
"If not for your greed," Darian shot back, "we wouldn't be in this mess." He raised his blade, golden-silver light sparking. "Stay out of my way if you value your skin."
With that, he plunged into the revenants, his holy blade cutting cleanly through. Unlike ordinary strikes, his blows left the dead unable to rise again.
The mercenaries hurled the last of their Holy Water Pots. The rescued Tarnished followed, weapons drawn, desperate not to be left behind.
The Mariner vanished, only to reappear across the marsh, summoning spectral warriors with each blast of his horn.
The battle thickened, the dead pressing in. Darian grimly tightened his grip. This would be no easy fight.
And then—
Lightning split the sky. Thunder roared.
A single thunderbolt crashed down, illuminating the marsh. It struck a mighty Swordspear planted in the land, its length alive with crackling light.
In the brilliance of storm and steel stood Lucian, armor gleaming.
"I've enjoyed the show long enough," he called. "Now, let me join the stage."
The true savior of Stormveil had arrived.
Patches, seeing that familiar armor, felt his heart seize.