For a long while he said nothing. Just listened: to the hum of the Grace, to the rasp of wind rattling the shack's rotten boards, to the quiet drum of his own pulse.
The greatsword lay across his knees—Lordsworn steel, heavy, chipped, looted from a man whose face he could still remember. His hand ran over its flat, fingertips finding every nick, every scar of battle.
In the beginning, the weight had nearly broken him. Every swing dragged like a boulder through water. Every missed strike had left him gasping, stumbling, vulnerable.
But now…
Now, he lifted it with one hand, rolling the blade in a slow, deliberate arc. His wrist was holding strong. The air hissed as steel cut through it, not clumsy, not wild, but guided. His arms no longer quaked under its burden. The sword was no longer a foreign thing—it was his measure. His rhythm.
He stood, planting bare feet against the earth, and breathed deep. The stance came to him without thought. Broad shoulders square, blade angled low, hips shifting with the weapon's weight.
A test swing. Then another. Faster. The cuts were not elegant. They were not knightly. But they were his. Heavy, direct, punishing—every strike had an intent.
He grinned, breath sharp with exertion.
Margit.
The name rose unbidden, and with it, memory. A figure of twisted horns and cruel laughter, a hammer that could shatter stone, words that scalded like prophecy. In the game, Margit had been a wall, a lesson carved in pain and repetition. Hundreds had faltered there.
But this wasn't the game anymore. This was flesh. This was blood.
And still—he knew what awaited. Margit would be faster than he looked, his hammer coming down with a storm's weight, his words needling into the cracks of the soul. One mistake and it would end in ruin.
He closed his eyes. The runes inside him stirred, that golden current he had spent months wrestling into obedience. They flared faintly in answer, like breath before battle. Not a maiden's gift—his own work, his own theft, his own blood-forged strength.
The climb to Stormveil began in shadow.
He kept low in the grass just off the main road, every breath measured. A pack of wolves prowled the slope above—he timed his crawl with their howls, shifting only when they scattered toward some distant scent. Ahead, soldiers marched their lazy patrol, torches casting long stripes of light down the stone path. He waited, counting the beats of their steps, slipping forward only when their backs turned.
The cart came next, half-smashed in the mud. He ducked behind it as two more soldiers passed, their spears dragging lazy lines. One stopped, glanced into the field. His hand tightened on the hilt. But the soldier just trudged on.
The real danger sat higher: the ballista emplacement on the ridge. He hugged the cliff wall, staying just below their sightline. Every creak of the siege engine made his heart thump. He froze when the rope twanged, a bolt smashing down into the road where he'd stood seconds before. Splinters and dust rained across his back. He crawled forward on hands and knees until the sound of reloading covered his escape.
The area narrowed as he pressed on. A pair of soldiers paced the approach to the gate. He stalked them one at a time, sliding from one crooked rock to the next. When they both turned to warm their hands, he slipped past, flat against the wall. His breath steamed in the cold.
When he finally reached the archway beneath Stormveil, sweat soaked his shirt, though the night air was sharp as knives. He wasn't spotted, not this time. His body knew the rhythm now.
And just before the fog wall, just before the point of no return, there it was: another Grace.
He dropped before it like a pilgrim. The golden current wrapped around him, humming in time with his pulse. His greatsword lay across his lap, heavy but steady. He closed his eyes.
This is it.
Every hour of hiding in grass. Every month of fumbling through blood and silence. Every rune burned into his flesh until he thought he'd shatter from within. It all pointed here.
Margit. The Fell Omen.
He knew the name like a curse, the shape of the fight burned into memory from another life—hammer swings that broke the ground, knives that punished every greedy move, that cruel, taunting voice. He had died here, once. Again and again. Dozens of times.
But that was when he was only a player.
Now he was here. Flesh. Blood. Strength he'd carved into himself.
He pressed a hand against the soil, the Grace pulsing beneath. His heartbeat calmed, the trembling in his chest hardening into something sharper.
He rose, the sword slung across his back, shadow tall in the golden glow. The fog shivered ahead, waiting. He didn't pray. He didn't hope. He only breathed once more, deep and steady, and stepped forward.
The bridge opened to storm and distance. Wind came in stripes across the stone, bringing the smell of wet moss and sea. Far below, the world fell away to a writhing gray. Above, a figure unfolded from the air like a lie becoming true.
Horns. Cloak. A scepter like a twisted staff. Eyes that saw through him.
Margit.
The words he spoke scraped like iron nails—judgment, mockery, prophecy. He let them pass. Words couldn't kill him.
The greatsword slid free with a hiss. His stance rooted to the bridge, every lesson burned into his muscles.
Margit struck first.
The staff lashed out faster than sight, a blur of wood and iron. He dove aside—the blow shaved the air past his ribs and cracked the stone where he'd stood. Dust sprayed his cheek. The second strike came instantly, downward like a falling tree. He rolled, came up low, blade angled to meet the third. Steel rang against the staff, shock tearing through his arms.
No opening. Not yet.
Then came the knives. Golden light flared into a dozen blades, hissing through the air. He advanced instead of retreating. His sword swept wide—two shattered against it, one carved his arm open, another buried itself in his shoulder. Pain burned cold, but he was closer now. Close enough to see Margit's sneer.
The staff swept toward his head. He ducked under, all weight behind his counter. The greatsword roared upward in a brutal arc, hips, shoulders, wrists all aligned. The cut met the staff. Iron screamed. Margit staggered half a step.
A small victory—but proof. He could move the monster.
Margit's hand clenched. From nothing, a hammer bloomed, vast and golden, swinging down with a storm's fury. He didn't try to block. He vanished sideways, the hammer detonating stone where he'd been. Shards skittered across his skin. He darted forward, driving his blade into the creature's thigh. Light spilled from the wound like torn cloth. Margit turned with a roar—
—and the tail lashed. The impact crushed his ribs, blasting the air from his lungs. He crumpled, vision sparking. The staff slammed down where his head had been; instinct rolled him clear, stone chips biting his face.
The knives returned, faster, crueler. He raised the sword cross-body, deflecting one, two, three, but the fourth raked his ear, filling it with blood and ocean-roar.
Still moving. Always moving. He stepped into another hammer swing, inside the arc, the haft clipping his side but sparing him the full force. He spent the bruise to land his own strike—downward, brutal, into Margit's shoulder. The bridge groaned at the sound. Margit reeled, surprised not by the pain, but by his refusal to break.
He pressed. One strike, then another, pommel slamming into the jaw, edge biting light from the chest. Runes in his veins flared like wildfire, urging him to spend them all in one glorious burst. He held them steady, feeding only what the moment needed. Breath. Pulse. Blade.
Margit faltered, one knee bending. He raised the greatsword high, set for the heaviest cut he knew—the ender. The months of training behind a single swing.
The wind shifted.
Danger prickled his spine. He broke his own attack and flung himself aside just as a spear of light, longer than a tree, tore down where he'd stood. The blast rattled the bridge. His body rolled, scraped raw, but alive and healing.
Margit rose from the half-kneel with new fury, new weapons blooming behind him—swords, spears, the hammer, a storm of choices all at once.
He dragged himself upright, blood dripping, lungs dragging fire, sword clutched in both hands. His ribs screamed, his vision swam.
The storm broke loose.
Margit's weapons multiplied—knives by the dozen, spears of light hurled like javelins, the great hammer blooming again and again. He met them all with grim precision, muscles obeyed the months of practice. His blade rose and fell in heavy arcs, breaking conjured steel, biting into monstrous flesh.
He drove forward, step by step. A gash opened along Margit's thigh. A cut split the shoulder. The monster faltered, cloak snapping as the wind pressed it back.
He saw it. An opening.
The greatsword came up, weightless in his hands. All his patience, all his discipline, all his suffering fused into one strike. The blade carved deep across Margit's chest, and light spilled like torn banners. For the first time, Margit gave ground.
A thrill surged through him—he could do this.
But Margit's eyes changed. No mockery now. Fury. Recognition.
"You, little wretch…" the voice growled.
The staff slammed against the stone ground. Sparks leapt skyward. Behind Margit, radiance coiled, condensing into one terrible shape. The hammer returned, not flicker, not half-born, but whole—a weight of sanctity and wrath given form.
The holy hammer.
It bathed the bridge in gold. He braced, both hands tight on the hilt, ribs flaring with pain but his resolve burning steady. He had faced a thousand blows. He had survived every wound. His flesh always knit, no matter the ruin.
He met it head-on.
The hammer descended.
The bridge erupted. Stone screamed apart. His blade snapped in his hands. The impact drove through his body, crushing ribs into pulp, driving spine into powder. His lungs collapsed before he could even cry out.
And his body, stubborn as ever, tried to rise. Shards of bone crawled toward each other, meat knitting over splintered ends. Skin bubbled, tore, stretched to close. Just as it always had before.
But the hammer's weight lingered. Not just crushing—consecrating. The light burned deeper than flesh. It seared marrow, shattered skull, reduced every spark of him to ruin faster than he could mend. For each bone that began to knit, ten more were pulverized to dust. For every breath his chest tried to drag, the holy fire smothered it.
Regeneration failed. Delayed by the remnant of holy power.
He twitched once. Twice. Then nothing.
The last thing he knew was the taste of iron on his tongue, the thunder of the storm above, and the unbearable knowledge that even with all his stolen strength, even with his cursed gift of endurance—Margit had snuffed him out utterly.
And then, he was gone.
—--
Darkness peeled back.
He gasped awake on the stones by the Grace just outside the fog. His chest rose and fell—whole again, lungs working—but the memory of the hammer's weight clung to him. His ribs still remembered the shattering.
The Grace glowed, impassive, uncaring.
He sat up slowly, flexing his hands, feeling the unbroken lines of bone beneath skin. His regeneration had undone everything—but Margit's hammer had undone that. And when it came down on him, it hadn't just crushed him. It had smothered the very act of healing.
The fog wall rippled before him, waiting.
He entered once more.
The staff came first, wide swing, fast. He dodged late—splinters of bone jutted from his arm as it broke, only for the fractures to stitch back together mid-roll. Knives of light followed. Two punched into his chest, shredding lungs. His vision tunneled—then cleared as new flesh sealed the wounds.
He was already running forward. Sword high.
He struck—too shallow. The tail whipped him off his feet, spine snapping like glass. He felt nothing below his waist. Then heat surged down his nerves, vertebrae grinding, melting, reforming. He staggered upright.
Margit's hammer appeared.
He tried to retreat. Too slow. The light came down. His chest collapsed. Heart burst. The shockwave scattered his body like a ragdoll. Regeneration fired wild, pulling scraps of him back together, but the hammer's holy weight pressed the healing flat.
Darkness. Grace.
Again.
He learned to roll into the staff swing, not away. It clipped his shoulder, shattered the collarbone, but bone mended before his boots hit stone again. He carved a line across Margit's thigh.
The knives came. He braced. Five buried in his torso. His stomach tore open. He dragged them out and flesh knitted behind them even as blood spilled.
He survived another minute. Then the hammer came.
Chest caved. Skull flattened. The holy light burned through every nerve. His healing slowed, crawled.
Darkness. Grace.
Again.
His timing improved. His footwork sharpened. He learned to bait the tail, to dodge inside the arcs of swings, to punish that short window in Margit's recovery. For every rib broken, he grew faster at letting them reform mid-move. For every knife that skewered him, he learned how long until it slipped free on its own.
But the hammer—always the hammer.
Sometimes it shattered him in one blow. Sometimes his regeneration almost kept pace, healing crushed bones as more were splintered—but eventually the pressure and the holy fire always stacked too high. His healing would sputter, then stall, and the next strike would finish him.
Darkness. Grace.
Again. Again. Again.
Each return, Margit's words were the same. Each death, the same blinding light. But his memory carried forward, and his regeneration refused to yield until it was truly overwhelmed.
And with every run, he was lasting longer.
By the tenth, he'd always survive until the hammer came out.
By the thirtieth, he'd managed to last ten minutes after the hammer came out.
By the fiftieth, he could feel the rhythm in his blood—the cadence of Margit's style, the ebb and surge of his monstrous power.
Even when his skull was crushed, even when his chest was pulped, he rose again, whispering the same thing as he staggered back toward the fog wall, and let it embrace him again.
The storm broke, Margit's cloak thrashing, voice spitting its ritual curse. The staff came, fast and low. This time he was ready. He rolled into the swing, the shaft grazing his shoulder but missing the spine. Pain flared, bones cracked—but already he was up, already cutting.
Steel met flesh. A shallow line across Margit's thigh. Enough to stagger the creature for half a heartbeat.
The knives followed. He sprinted forward. The first two dug into his side, white fiery agony searing through the wound. His regeneration slowed, stuttered—but he ripped them out, teeth clenched, and pressed on.
The greatsword arced in both hands. He punished the opening. Margit roared.
The staff swept low again. This time he jumped, not rolled. Boots cleared the arc by inches. His ribs screamed from the strain but he landed sure, blade biting deep into Margit's arm.
The tail lashed. He read it—he had seen this a hundred times. He ducked, let it whistle overhead, and rammed his sword home into Margit's gut.
Then came the hammer.
Light flared, holy gold burning the sky. The weight of inevitability bore down. He braced, heart hammering, every scar on his body screaming in memory.
The hammer fell.
He didn't run. He rolled into the arc, as he had trained himself to. The edge of light grazed his shoulder, seared flesh down to bone—but not enough to crush him. He came up under Margit's guard, sword high, and carved across the monster's ribs.
Margit howled. The cloak lashed. Knives filled the air.
He forced himself to calm down. Each step, each strike, was predictable now. He ducked, weaved, and was punished. His sword tore lines across Margit's legs, arms, and belly. Blood—black, glowing—splattered the bridge.
The hammer rose again. He was already moving.
The second strike missed. The third clipped his leg, broke a bone, and drove him to one knee. He bit back a scream, forced himself up. Regeneration stitched the limb even as he charged forward.
The hammer came down again—his blade met it. Steel rang. His arms nearly gave. But he held.
Teeth bared, he shoved upward, body breaking under the strain, and wrenched his greatsword free. Margit staggered back.
Now.
He drove forward, every ounce of strength in his body, every rune spent, every scar earned in blood and failure behind him. His blade split cloak, split flesh, tore through the monstrous chest in one final, desperate thrust.
Margit staggered, half-impaled on the Lordsworn blade. The hammer guttered out, the light in his eyes dimming. Still, his words came ragged, dripping with venom even as his monstrous form unraveled.
"…Tarnished wretch… thou shalt find no crown, no throne. The Erdtree spurns thee still… as it spurns all…" His lips curled back, a last grimace of defiance. "Even shouldst thou crawl that far, naught awaits thee… but rejection."
Then the body failed. Flesh tore into ash, cloak sloughing into tatters. The staff clattered, hollow and spent. A breath later, Margit was gone.
The silence pressed heavy.
And then the runes came.