He woke by the grace. His body was whole once again, but his spirit carried the weight of every death. He stood before the fog wall without trembling. The hesitation was gone.
This was no longer terror he felt. It was clarity.
He stepped through.
Godrick roared, the axe already rising.
But he no longer saw chaos in the Demigod's strength—he saw structure. He saw the wind-up, the slack before the snap, the dead angles where the axe would always fall too heavy to correct.
The colossal weapon came screaming down. He pivoted, feet light, steel sliding off stone where he'd stood an instant before. His greatsword snapped out, not in desperation, but with measured precision. The edge hacked into the meat of Godrick's knee.
The giant staggered half a step.
The grafted arm lashed like a whip. He leaned, body folding past the swipe with breath to spare. In the opening, he angled his blade in a brutal upward cut that split grafted flesh and tendon, drawing a spray of blood.
Godrick bellowed and spun, axe carving a wide arc that could have flattened him. But he was already under it, rolling smooth and rising just inside the giant's reach. His greatsword struck twice in the space of a heartbeat—first across the ribs, then high at the shoulder where steel and flesh met clumsily.
The blows didn't stagger Godrick, not yet—but they cut deep enough to mark him.
For the first time, the fight was not about survival. It was a duel.
Godrick stomped, the ground fracturing beneath his heel. Dust and shards of stone burst into the air, masking his lunge. The axe descended like a mountain.
The blade would have crushed him before.
Now—he stepped into the swing.
Greatsword raised, he deflected the arc just wide, sparks flying as steel screamed against steel. The deflection jarred his bones, but his balance held. He slid along the weapon's path, weaving past the axe's bite.
And in that single instant, he struck—the tip of his blade carving a brutal line across Godrick's wrist.
The Demigod howled, staggering back, blood spattering the stones.
The man did not smile. He did not shout triumph. He simply breathed, calm and steady, blade raised.
Godrick was seemingly strength incarnate.
But skill could cut strength to pieces.
The axe came again, faster this time, the weight of it splitting air with a shriek. He dropped low, blade scraping sparks as he slid under the swing, stone biting at his knees. As he rose, his greatsword lashed across Godrick's thigh, severing more of that patchwork flesh.
A roar. Spittle and blood. The Demigod lurched, grafted arms swiping wild. One claw caught his shoulder, the impact cracking bone and throwing him sideways. Pain flared hot, but already bone re-knit, muscles twined back together. He rolled to his feet just as the axe came to crush him.
He darted left, close—so close the edge hissed past his cheek, wind tearing at his hair. He surged inside the arc and hacked upward, carving across the soft meat beneath Godrick's arm.
The Demigod reeled, bellowing.
Every blow was costing him now. Every lumbering swing that missed left a mark in return. Shallow at first, but accumulating. Carved lines of blood streaked his vast frame, crimson dripping onto shattered stone.
Godrick stomped again, shockwaves buckling the ground, but the man leapt free, sliding along the cracks, momentum carrying him back into striking range. He hammered his greatsword into the Demigod's hip, forced to recoil before the axe cleaved downward with ruinous strength.
Barely evading. Barely surviving.
But each evasion left an opening.
And each opening he took.
Bit by bit, he cut the giant down.
Godrick staggered now, great chest heaving, patchwork arms twitching with strain. His gaze burned with fury, but beneath the madness, something colder seeped through—fear.
The Demigod snarled, voice breaking into guttural growls. "CURSE YOU… miserable mongrel!"
The axe rose for another swing—but faltered. Too slow. Too heavy. The man had already pivoted behind the stroke, carving deep into the back of Godrick's knee. The Demigod nearly buckled, massive frame leaning, patchwork muscles failing him.
And in that desperate sway, Godrick chose.
He staggered back, retreating, snarling through blood-flecked teeth. His grafted arm tore violently at his cloak, dragging forth the rotting carcass of a dragon's head, limp and lifeless save for sparks of dead flame.
The man's chest rose and fell, greatsword slick with blood. He braced himself. He knew this wasn't over.
With a scream that rattled the hall, Godrick jammed the severed neck of the beast against his shoulder stump. Flesh tore, bones cracked, sinew fused by madness and sorcery. The corpse writhed, half-dead eyes flaring with hateful fire as Godrick grafted it into himself.
Flame sparked from between yellowed fangs.
Godrick straightened, taller, more monstrous than before, his patchwork form crowned with dragon fire.
The dragon's head reared, jaws crackling with fire. Godrick threw his new limb wide, a torrent of flame washing over the arena.
Stone blackened. Iron warped.
But the man was already moving. He dove into the gaps, rolling just ahead of the fire's reach, cloak smoking as embers licked at him. His greatsword lashed out in the aftermath, carving along Godrick's shin before darting back into cover.
Godrick snarled, swinging the axe in a horizontal sweep. The sheer force of it tore chunks from the walls, a storm of shattered stone filling the air. The man ducked beneath the debris, eyes sharp, watching—not the chaos—but the rhythm. The weight. The slowness hidden behind Godrick's fury.
The axe came again, overhead. He braced, sidestepped late—too late, it seemed—until his greatsword rose just enough to deflect the monstrous blade wide. Sparks exploded. His knees buckled, arms screaming with strain, but he held. Then he twisted, driving his weapon upward into Godrick's ribs before rolling clear.
The Demigod roared.
The dragon head snapped low, fangs clashing inches from his skull. He dropped flat, sliding across the dust, greatsword stabbing into Godrick's ankle as he passed beneath. Blood rained down, heavy and hot, but he was already on his feet, circling, breath steady.
Every dodge was tighter now. Every counterattack had to be placed with precision. One mistake here wasn't pain. It was annihilation.
The fire came again, sweeping in a great arc. He darted sideways, just outside the furnace's edge, boots scraping against scorched stone. In that narrow sliver of safety, he surged forward, blade biting deep into Godrick's forearm.
The grafted giant reeled, staggering back, clutching his ruined limb, dragon head snapping wildly as if in rage. His bellows shook the chamber.
But the man pressed in, relentless. Strike, evade. Strike, deflect. Each swing of Godrick's axe met empty air or was knocked just wide, answered by a punishing slash. Every gout of flame ended with a cut carved into tendon or grafted flesh.
And slowly, impossibly, the Demigod faltered. His steps dragged. His swings grew ragged. His flame sputtered.
Blood poured from a dozen wounds. His patchwork frame, so proud, so defiant, was unraveling before the man's eyes.
Still, Godrick raged, his voice breaking into madness:
"I… am the Lord of all… that is… GOLDEN!"
The axe rose for one last wild, ruinous swing, dragon jaws flaring with desperate fire.
The man did not flinch.
He stepped into the storm, pivoted past the falling axe by inches, steel screaming as it split stone behind him. His greatsword surged upward with all the weight of his strength, cleaving through Godrick's chest.
The Demigod's bellow turned into a choking gasp. His dragon head sputtered, flame dying to smoke.
Godrick staggered, fell to one knee, and with a final, shuddering groan, collapsed.
The chamber stilled.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no fire, no steel, no sound but his own breathing. Then Godrick's corpse began to glow. The air thickened, heavy with power.
Runes tore free of the Demigod's broken body, a torrent of golden fragments spiraling upward before crashing down into the man. They sank into him one after another, endless, like a river of life funneling into a bottomless well. Each was a shard of existence, fragments of long-devoured lives. They poured into his chest, into his bones, into the core of him—weightless, yet unshakable.
Coins in a well. Dropped, one after another, until he thought he might drown in them.
He staggered, bracing himself with his sword. Breath ragged. Skin hot with their touch. No sudden surge of strength came, no flash of revelation. The runes simply were. Inert, waiting. But their sheer number pressed against him, vast and immeasurable compared to any he'd absorbed before.
And then—something deeper. A single rune remained, not scattered into shards but whole, vast enough to eclipse the fragments that had come before. It hovered in the air above Godrick's corpse, its glow steady, regal, commanding.
The Great Rune.
When it fell into him, it did not scatter. It sank like a crown upon his soul, vast and heavy, its edges sharp, its weight undeniable. For an instant, he felt his body reject it, felt his veins burn as though his blood were too thin to carry it. Then the weight settled. It did not empower—it claimed.
It was his now.
And with its claiming silence came once more.
Godrick the Grafted, Demigod, Shardbearer… lay still. His patchwork body, once bloated with stolen strength, was nothing more than butchered meat. The dragon head twitched, jaw slack, flame gone cold.
The man stood over him, chest heaving, sword dripping.
He had done it.
Not through grace. Not through fate. Through skill, and will, and a blade he refused to let fall. He had faced a Demigod—something the lands themselves bent knee to—and prevailed. A mortal, cut from no grand line, no chosen blood.
A laugh escaped him, dry and sharp. Not joy. Not mockery. Something else. Something halfway between disbelief and the sheer weight of what he had accomplished.
His grip on the sword tightened. The ache in his limbs sang with every blow he'd survived. His body screamed with pain where fire had charred him, where the axe had nearly caved him in. But still, he stood. Still, he lived.
And in that moment, he felt a truth settle deep in his chest:
He was strong enough to topple even the mighty.
He was dangerous.
He was becoming something else.
The corpse at his feet was proof.
But the victory was not clean. His hands trembled, his breath shuddered. Beneath the pride, beneath the raw satisfaction, there was unease. The violence of it, the desperation, the way he'd torn through another being with such fury—it echoed in him, heavy, cold.
A mortal had killed a godling.
And it felt good.
Too good.
He let his sword lower, the tip clanging against the blood-soaked stone, and exhaled.
"Remember what you're fighting for… a good ending" he whispered to himself. The words sounded small against the vast chamber. Almost fragile.
But he clung to them, because without them, there was nothing left but blood.
He turned toward the golden shimmer of grace now flickering in the arena, its glow warm against the carnage, and walked to it.
The grace shimmered at the far end of the chamber, a beacon in the ruin of Godrick's fall. The man's steps toward it were heavy, almost reluctant, his boots crunching over fragments of shattered stone and charred bone.
He dropped to his knees before it. The golden warmth spilled across his face, cutting through the smoke and the stench of blood. He shut his eyes, let it wash over him.
The silence here was deafening. After days of battle, after death and return, after the roar of Margit and the endless storms of Godrick's might—quiet now pressed in like a blanket.
And beneath that quiet, loneliness.
No ally stood at his side. No voice congratulated him. No hand reached out to share in the victory. All that remained of the Shardbearer was a corpse, a legacy of cruelty, and the weight of his runes now buried in the man's chest.
The satisfaction of triumph warred with something darker. He had set out seeking… he doesn't even know what. A life free of chains, perhaps? Yet the path that delivered him here had been violence upon violence, a climb built on slaughter. Soldiers. Giants. And now, a Demigod.
"Peace through blood," he muttered, bitter on his tongue. He hated how natural it sounded.
For a long while, he simply sat there, bathed in grace, until his heartbeat slowed and his thoughts no longer clawed at him. He breathed deep. Centered himself.
Then he reached inward.
The runes within him stirred. Coins in a well—countless, inert, but waiting for his will. He focused, and one by one, they yielded. The fragments of life, of power, sank into him, knitting tighter with his flesh, binding deeper into his marrow.
His body drank them greedily.
Muscles thickened, taut with new strength. His skin hardened, blood flowing hotter and cleaner, bones humming with density. The ache of battle eased, replaced by something fierce, alive. His greatsword, resting against his shoulder, suddenly felt lighter, less a burden and more an extension of his will.
He exhaled, a shiver running through him.
So this was what it meant to grow. To take the strength of others and forge it into his own. It was intoxicating. Dangerous. He could feel how easily he might lose himself to this—how good it felt to be stronger, faster, untouchable.
But he gripped the blade in both hands and forced the thought down. Power was a means, not the end. Peace. Happiness. Those were the goals. He couldn't forget that.
Stormveil was quiet now.
Without Godrick's roar to shake its bones, the castle seemed less a fortress and more a carcass. The winds howled through broken halls, carrying the smell of ash and blood. The man walked its corridors slowly, sword in hand, every step echoing in stone spaces that once shook with the boots of soldiers.
Here and there, remnants of Godrick's forces lingered. Soldiers—shaken, leaderless, still clutching their arms out of instinct. Once, they were a trial. Now, they were nothing.
A man rushed him with spear lowered. The greatsword blurred once, and his head toppled from his shoulders. Another raised a shield, only for the sheer weight of his swing to fold the metal inward, snapping bone beneath. Where once he had needed cunning, positioning, careful breaths, now there was only inevitability. His strength carried him through every clash, each kill swift, absolute.
And yet, as he struck them down, the weight of what he'd become pressed on him again. These were soldiers—men clinging to their own survival, as he once had. Against him now, they had no chance.
He pushed on, through rubble-choked halls and shattered keeps, until he came to a half-collapsed chamber deep within the castle. Broken beams lay scattered across the stone. Among them, something heavy and black jutted at an angle, half-buried in dust and grit.
He knelt. His hand wrapped around the haft, and with a single pull, he dragged it free.
A hammer. No, more than a hammer—a slab of stone affixed to wood, brutish, unrefined, a weapon built not for finesse but for overwhelming force. It looked as if it had been torn straight from the castle itself.
He turned it in his grip. The weight was immense, enough to have crushed the arms of the man he used to be. But now—now it felt possible. Even natural. His muscles thrummed at the challenge, his blood stirring.
He hefted it once, and the air shuddered as he brought it down against the stone floor. The impact cracked the ground, dust pluming upward in a sharp burst.
He stared at the fissure with a faint, wolfish smile.
This was no knight's blade, no noble's weapon. This was raw destruction, a tool for shattering bone, steel, and earth alike. With his strength, with his regeneration, he could wield it as few ever could. Against foes like the giants, against armored knights, against Demigods themselves—this was a weapon meant for killing.
His hand lingered on the rough shaft, knuckles tightening.
He knew what it meant, choosing such a thing. There was no pretense of elegance here, no art. Only brutality. And yet, as he looked at it, he felt the truth settle inside him: this was what his path demanded. Not flourishes, not beauty. Survival. Victory.
And this hammer… promised both.
He slung the Lordsworn's greatsword across his back and hefted the Brick Hammer in both hands. It felt like the next step. Like an answer.
Like the weapon he was always meant to find.
The hammer rested heavy in his grip, rough wood and raw stone biting into his palms. He tested its weight again, a measured swing that whispered destruction with every inch of its arc. The very air groaned at its passage before it slammed into the earth, shattering stone and sending vibrations up through his boots.
It was crude, inelegant—ugly, even. Nothing about it spoke of knights or heroes. But that was the lie of his old weapon. He was no knight. He was no hero.
The Lordsworn's Greatsword had carried him far, a blade he had learned to master through repetition, death, and endless perseverance. But in his hands now, it felt like a relic of who he had been—an echo of the desperate fighter clawing his way through soldiers and beasts.
The hammer, though…
This was different. This was not for fencing with equals or for meeting another warrior's strike. This was for crushing. For erasing. For breaking things that thought themselves unbreakable.
He drew the greatsword one last time, stared at its worn edge, and felt its weight in his hand. It was not contempt he felt—only acknowledgment. It had done its work. It had brought him here.
But his path was no longer the path of a man meeting his foes head-on, parrying and countering, scraping for survival. His strength had outgrown it. His purpose demanded more.
He set the blade aside on a pile of broken stone, leaving it there, a grave marker for the man he had been.
And then he raised the Brick Hammer.
His muscles sang under the weight, the rhythm of his body finding something deeper, something truer. He moved with it—testing swings, arcs, slams. It was not graceful, no. But it was absolute.
He could already see it breaking giants' legs with a single blow, see armored knights folding under its crushing arcs, see even Demigods reeling from its weight. With every motion, he felt his path narrowing into something sharper, clearer.
He was becoming less man, more force.
And the hammer was the instrument of that force.
He breathed deep, steadying himself, letting the truth of it settle into him. Yes—this was who he was now. This was how he would carve through the Lands Between.