The 'Old Man' sat cross-legged in the plaza. Across his lap lay a sheathed blade, its name whispered with dread—Rivers of Blood. At his waist rested a shorter companion blade, still tucked into its scabbard.
Yet no sheath could contain the murderous aura that clung to that sword. Especially not when it had so recently been bathed in blood.
The old man himself sat motionless, eyes closed, as though resting. Before him knelt two of his own disciples, the Inaba.
They sat in seiza, torsos leaning forward slightly, left hands pressing against their scabbards with thumbs poised on the tsuba, right hands gripping hilts tight. From Lucian's vantage, he could see their blades already drawn partway, cold steel glinting in the light.
But the strike they prepared would never come.
For they were already dead, their throats each opened by a single stroke of Okina's blade. Blood sprayed freely from the wounds, soaking their death-armors a vivid crimson.
Iaijutsu was the art of the ambush. A strike unleashed from stillness, faster than the eye could follow, impossible to guard against.
Yet when the two disciples had made their move, they hadn't even fully unsheathed their swords before the old man's effortless counter left them lifeless—frozen in the very posture of their final exertion.
Lucian studied him carefully. In terms of sheer strength, Okina was no match for him now. But in technique, pure mastery of the sword—this man stood at the very peak.
The killing aura rolling off him was proof enough of a life steeped in slaughter.
Jerren pushed through the crowd, striding towards Okina. With a casual glance at the corpses, he tapped the ground with his massive greatsword, its blade wreathed in flame like rippling waves.
"You know those two?" Jerren asked.
At that, Okina finally opened his eyes. He first gazed fixedly at the greatsword in Jerren's hand, then lifted his stare to meet Jerren's face.
Recognition dawned, and from behind his wooden mask came a voice—aged, cold, and remote.
"Yes. They were once my disciples. Abandoned by me long ago… yet they still followed me here."
"Alas, they were unworthy. Disappointing to the end."
"To think I have caused such a commotion here, I must apologize."
Jerren hadn't expected the man who had just slain his pupils in the open square to speak with such courtesy.
"I see. Well, your grudges are none of my concern. But do not drag innocents into them."
"If you do, I'll have you driven from Redmane Castle."
With that, Jerren sheathed his flame-patterned sword and turned to leave.
The festival was meant for one purpose only—to grant General Radahn an honorable death. As for the rivalries and vendettas among the gathered warriors, those were their own business.
Jerren would never claim that enmities should be set aside for the sake of the festival. If there was a score to settle, let it be settled—eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.
So long as no Redmane soldiers were harmed, and no chaos disrupted the castle grounds, even killing was tolerated.
If one had the strength, there was no need for tricks or cheap tools to insult the general's name. Strength alone decided all.
Okina suddenly rose to his feet, halting Jerren's departure.
"You are Lord Jerren, are you not?"
Jerren turned back, puzzled by the formality. "That's right. I am he."
Okina slid his long blade back at his side, then lowered both hands respectfully and bowed deeply.
When he straightened, his eyes burned with intensity as he fixed them on Jerren.
"I have long heard your name. They say you are a warrior of great power.
"So, when this festival is done, if we both yet live, would you honor me with a duel?"
Though his tone was polite, the killing aura erupting from him soared into the sky, pressing down on all around.
The weaker warriors nearby faltered, some so overwhelmed they began to hallucinate—In their vision, a four-armed asura loomed over a sea of corpses, Okina's blade dripping with hunger, choosing its next victim.
Many trembled, legs shaking beneath them.
But Jerren, standing firm before the old man, was unmoved. He had seen worse—after all, he had campaigned alongside General Radahn himself, facing even demigods in battle. Such malice was nothing new to him.
This man was formidable, yes. But not enough to cow him.
'I'll have matters to attend to after the festival…But I cannot refuse. To turn him down would disgrace Redmane's honor.'
After a brief moment of thought, Jerren gave his answer.
"Very well. When the festival ends—if you still live, I will meet you in battle."
The reply satisfied Okina. Once again, he bowed low.
"Then I shall await it eagerly."
The tension broke, and the weaker warriors around them let out long-held breaths of relief.
Lucian glanced again at Okina, considering.
Perhaps when the festival ended, it would be best to see this man never leave Redmane alive.
For he was more than a master swordsman—he was a Shura, a demon of slaughter.
He had honed himself as a great sword saint, casting aside all but the blade and the self. And the path he found was the path of carnage, the Way of the Asura.
Since joining Mohg's Mohgwyn Dynasty, he had only grown more pure—purely bloodthirsty.
Had this gathering of warriors not taken place, he would surely already have begun killing. The Dynasty's followers were mad with murder, and this old man was among their finest.
When Lucian encountered them, he rarely let them live.
But since Jerren had already agreed to the duel, Lucian decided to wait and see it through.
Once the bodies were cleared away by Redmane's soldiers, the plaza returned to normal. Save for the circle of empty space left around the old man, where no one dared tread, lest they become the next corpse at his feet.
Elsewhere, warriors gathered—meeting old comrades, making new allies. All shared one thing in common: anticipation for the coming festival.
A Redmane knight once more mounted the stage to recite the rules to those newly arrived.
The arena served as a warm-up before the festival proper, a place for sparring matches.
By default, bouts were considered non-lethal. If combatants desired a fight to the death, both sides had to sign a pact beforehand.
If anyone violated this rule and suddenly struck to kill, the Crucible Knights and Leonine Misbegotten Warriors stationed nearby would cut them down without mercy.
Lucian had no interest in the dueling stage. The combatants were far too weak.
But Alexander and Blaidd seemed eager to test themselves, so they stayed behind. Lucian, meanwhile, went alone in search of Jerren.
The Crucible Knights recognized him immediately and escorted him up to the second tier of the plaza, where Jerren kept his chambers.
Those unfamiliar with him whispered among themselves, curious. Why would Lord Jerren grant such an audience? For the castellan rarely met with anyone without cause.
Though Lucian's fame as the Storm King of Stormveil had spread through Limgrave, beyond it few knew his deeds.
So those who had come from Stormveil recounted them proudly, retelling the stories until they passed from mouth to mouth.
Soon, the entire plaza buzzed with the knowledge: the Storm King himself had come to join the Festival of Combat.
Unaware of the growing murmur, Lucian reached the second tier.
Jerren was not in the church hall as usual, but seated by the open-air altar. Beside him sat the giant smith, Iji—too large to enter the hall, so Jerren had joined him outside.
Once Lucian arrived, the Crucible Knight departed.
"Oh? Lord Lucian!" Iji greeted warmly, his booming voice carrying across the terrace. "It has been some time."
Lucian smiled and inclined his head. "Indeed it has, old friend. The armor you forged for me has served me well, I'm fond of it."
Even for one so seasoned, praise warmed Iji's heart.
"I'm glad you think so. There is still time before the festival. Shall I repair it for you? I see it's endured much battle already."
It was true. The armor had suffered damage more than once, repaired hastily at Stormveil but never with Iji's craftsmanship.
"In that case, I'll trouble you with it. And my weapon as well, I'd like it strengthened."
He meant, of course, his Dragon Slayer Swordspear, which could not be neglected.
Iji nodded firmly. "Leave it to me. I've brought little with me, however, so you must provide the materials yourself."
"That's no problem." Lucian agreed readily.
With that settled, he turned his gaze toward Jerren, who had listened in silence.
"Lord Jerren, that man from before… he did not come with good intentions."
Jerren stroked the white beard bristling beneath his metal mask.
"No. He reeked of blood, through and through. But for Redmane's honor, I cannot allow myself defeat."
Lucian saw the confidence in him and did not press further. "Still, be cautious. He will not be an easy foe."
Jerren let out a hearty laugh. "Haha! I thank you for the warning. But I may be old, yet I am no frail weakling to be trampled at will."
That much was certain. Jerren was among the greatest warriors of Redmane's host, one of the few even the Crucible Knights and Misbegotten respected.
Even Sellen, that proud sorceress, had deemed him an adversary worth preparing for.
But Okina who bore Rivers of Blood was no common foe either. Who would prevail remained uncertain.
Lucian shook his head—best to wait for the outcome.
"By the way, what of the perfumer who accompanied me here?" he asked. "I went to her quarters, but found no one."
Understanding lit Jerren's eyes. "You mean Lady Hildegard. At your request, we placed her in a more secure residence for safety. We left notes in both her room and yours to guide you."
Lucian recalled—he hadn't actually entered his own chambers, and Hildegard's door had been shut. He scratched his chin awkwardly.
Seeing this, Jerren chuckled. "Rest assured, she is safe. Likely speaking with other physicians about remedies for the scarlet rot. Her neutralizing incense has been a great aid to us."
That was enough for Lucian. With her safety ensured, he remained at ease.
The three of them sat together, speaking of the festival. From Jerren, Lucian learned that hundreds of warriors from across the Lands Between had already gathered at Redmane Castle.
Some were weak, but dozens were strong—heroes in their own right.
Three days remained before the festival began. On the eve of battle, the plaza would host a grand feast, a banquet to open the Festival of Combat in fire and joy.
Lucian decided not to leave until then. A feast would pass the time nicely.
As they spoke, hearty laughter echoed up the stairway.
Without escort, a broad-shouldered woman strode up as though she owned the place. She wore golden armor beneath a black wool cloak, bearing the air of a gladiator.
A deep scar marked the visor of her helm, unpatched and proud.
"Ha ha ha! Old Jerren, I've returned!"
Jerren rose at once, stunned. He strode forward, scarcely believing his eyes.
"Freya?! You're alive?"
Lucian studied the woman—Freya, he had never seen her before. Clearly she was no ordinary figure.
Behind her came two more.
One, a man in simple robes and a broad hat, with the look of a wandering seeker. The other, a knight in golden armor draped with a white cloak, bright and striking.
Lucian's gaze was drawn to him at once.
Noticing it, the knight met Lucian's eyes and offered a nod of greeting.