After hearing the woman's words, Lucian swiftly recalled her story.
She was Bernahl's maiden—a woman who had once offered herself to the flame, but had never been granted the right to become kindling.
So she lingered here, endlessly searching for a way to burn. Even when her flesh split and peeled under fire, she did not falter, waiting for the day she might sacrifice herself for Bernahl.
Bernahl…
Back when Lucian first entered this world, Bernahl was the very first battle arts master he had hoped to seek out.
Though a recusant, he still bore the dignity of a knight and the pride of a hero. Unlike most recusants, who slew any Tarnished without mercy, Bernahl patiently taught those who sought to learn the art of war.
Unfortunately, Lucian had yet to meet him in person.
Among all the near-kings of this age, Lucian respected Bernahl and Vyke the most. His feelings toward them were not affection but respect—admiration reserved for those who bore themselves with unyielding will.
Their stories in the game were few, but from those brief threads, one could glimpse lives vast and tumultuous.
Both had walked closest to kingship. And both, for the sake of their maidens, strayed upon forbidden paths.
Vyke, branded by the Frenzied Flame, sought to burn the Erdtree itself. Bernahl, standard raised, defied the Golden Order outright.
Right or wrong—such judgments mattered little. What was undeniable was their resolve.
This was not the tale of heroes. Yet such choices would, inevitably, forge heroes.
As for Bernahl's maiden… she existed only in abandoned drafts of history. Lucian knew little of her.
For now, he had not yet found Bernahl. But he knew where to.
If he journeyed to Volcano Manor, he would meet the knight without fail.
Should he tell her?
Lucian hesitated, then shook his head. "…No. Sorry. I haven't seen any other Tarnished nearby."
He chose not to reveal Bernahl's location. If the future allowed, he would aid them both. But not yet. Not now.
The maiden lowered her head, disappointment shadowing her bandaged face. "I see… then Bernahl does not wish to see me."
Her voice faltered, bitter. "And why would he? I am useless. I cannot aid him in battle… I could not even become kindling… To be abandoned by one so noble is only natural."
Lucian fell silent. This was not his place. This was between the knight and his maiden.
At last, he asked gently; "Will you leave this place? It's dangerous here—you shouldn't stay."
But she shook her head, resolute. "No. Not until I have burned. If I cannot become kindling… I cannot leave. This way, when Bernahl returns, he will find me."
There would be no persuading her.
Lucian's gaze lingered on her bandages. The cloth was scorched black, stained with dried blood. Her hands still oozed fresh, searing blood-flame.
"…Are your wounds serious?"
He had only meant to keep the conversation going, but regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.
For he knew what they meant. Bernahl's maiden sought to ignite herself with Flame of the Redmanes, to kindle the cauldron of fire. If she spoke of it here—before Melina—then…
Melina was still at his side. She had yet to reclaim her purpose, yet to remember her role. If she heard of the flame too soon, would her memories stir? Would she realize the truth of her existence?
But the maiden did not speak further. She only offered a small, broken smile."…Thank you for your concern. These burns come from the fire itself. As long as I do not quench the flame, healing incantations can mend the flesh. But… forgive me. I cannot say why I must endure them."
Her silence was telling.
The Elden Lord she dreamed of was Bernahl alone. If she spoke more, she risked revealing secrets. Another Tarnished might covet them. And so she fell silent.
Lucian exhaled softly. She had revealed nothing dangerous.
Good. He wasn't ready for Melina to know—not yet.
"I should be going," he said at last.
He had thought to rest within the Smoldering Church. But the air was too heavy, the atmosphere too suffocating.
So Lucian took Torrent and departed, choosing instead to camp just before the Smoldering Wall.
There, still in Limgrave, he sat down to rest. Better here, where the air was free of Scarlet Rot.
Torrent lay upon the ground, belly up, utterly relaxed. Horses were supposed to sleep standing when alert. But Torrent, being Torrent, trusted enough to rest without care.
Lucian smiled faintly, leaning against the spectral steed's warm belly as though it were a cushion.
Not long after, Melina too sat beside him. Lately, her presence felt stronger—perhaps his heightened Arcane was to blame. Once his Arcane had been seven. Now, with a Great Rune, it had doubled.
What did Arcane truly mean in this world? It was not like in the game—where it raised item discovery or status buildup. In reality, those were decided by keen eyes and dexterity, not a number.
Perhaps Arcane was more like spiritual vision. Like a measure of the soul.
"Lucian," Melina said softly, "may I take your hand?"
He removed his gauntlet and offered his right hand. Warmth stirred through his soul.
She was thinking of the maiden.
"…Her burns," Melina whispered. "They are the same as mine."
She looked down at her own hand—her spirit-form marred by old burns.
"When I saw her, I felt… a strange foreboding. As though it were a sign. If she burns for her Tarnished, then perhaps… it is of great aid to him. Yet she failed."
Her voice trembled. "I do not know why she must burn, nor what it would accomplish. But strangely, her words did not shock me. Instead… it felt natural. As if I, too—"
"Enough."
Lucian interrupted firmly. "No. There is no such fate. They must have strayed, that is all. There is no need for anyone to burn. There never will be."
Melina squeezed his hand. "…Yes. I believe you."
The Erdtree's light flared anew, cascading across the Lands Between.
Torrent leapt, clearing the Smoldering Wall.
At last, they entered Caelid.
—
The land reeked. The faintly sweet stench of Scarlet Rot. The rot of corpses. The bitter smoke of fire.
All blended into one nauseating miasma—an odor that matched Caelid's ruined state.
Everywhere his eyes turned, Scarlet Rot devoured the lands.
Ahead rose a crude wooden platform and several ramshackle huts. Beyond them, a Minor Erdtree, vast despite its name.
Yet beneath Caelid's crimson sky, even that golden giant looked lonely.
Lucian recalled the tomb below that tree. Worthless. Not worth the detour.
So he pressed onward along the great road. He lacked a map of Caelid, and Hilbert, though long familiar with the region, had never cared to draw one. So she had simply given him directions—follow the road.
Better this way than risking shortcuts. Caelid was no place for wandering blind.
As he passed the huts, the stench grew heavier.
He glanced inside. Within the broken houses, heaps of flesh pulsed and crawled, bones writhing within. Wild dogs with glowing red eyes feasted on the meat.
These were once undying wanderers.
Once blessed with immortality, now cursed to linger without end. The system of death had collapsed, leaving them without release.
Beasts tore them apart, ground them into slurry, devoured and excreted them—and still they lived. Fused into grotesque heaps of flesh, they shuffled on.
Pitiful. None wished this fate. Yet their immortality forced it upon them.
Further on, he met more. Rotten Wandering Nobles, naked as their garments had long decayed. Scarlet Rot clung to their flesh, blooming into tumors and strange growths.
Still they marched, aimless yet following a leader—one who carried a decayed staff, once a banner, and fragments of golden ornament. Perhaps they had tried to die in the Swamp of Aeonia, only to fail. Now they drifted toward the Smoldering Wall, seeking death elsewhere.
Lucian frowned but did not intervene. Until death returned properly to the Lands Between, there was nothing he could do.
And then—the road itself struck back.
Torrent nearly fell as a vast maw gaped beneath his hooves. The spirit horse leapt clear, just as a monstrous hound burst from the side.
Its forelimbs were stunted, its skull grotesquely large, bounding on hind legs like some nightmarish tyrannosaur. A T-Rex dog [Monstrous Dog].
It lunged.
But Torrent was no common steed. With a second jump, he vaulted upon its head. Lucian drove his Swordspear straight through its skull.
The beast collapsed, twitching.
"…Joint hunting?" Lucian muttered.
He glanced aside. The road shimmered strangely. A flower.
Not like the usual Miranda blooms. This one was flat, its petals pressed wide like a snare.
When disturbed, it spread further, blending seamlessly with the stones. A perfect mimicry.
"…So plants too have learned deceit," Lucian murmured. "And without a trace of killing intent. As expected of vegetation."
The Scarlet Rot had not only warped the undead but the very ecology of Caelid.
Lucian opened his pack, withdrawing a vial—Withering Perfume, a concoction Hildegard had given him.
He scattered a few grains, then summoned wind to carry them to the lurking flower.
Within moments, the plant shuddered. Its leaves blackened, shriveled, until only a husk remained.
"…Effective," Lucian noted.
A tool worth remembering. Plants were weak alone, but in numbers they became troublesome. Better to cull them swiftly.
Stowing the perfume, Lucian pressed onward.
Hildegard's home lay near the Swamp of Aeonia, within the ruins close by. A place where the Scarlet Rot flowed at her doorstep.
"Convenient for experiments," she had said.
Lucian could scarcely imagine how she endured it.
But soon, he would find out.