The medallion half secured, he drifted back into the swampy clearing — and paused.
There she was.
Greyoll, the Elder Dragon. Her body lay draped across the earth like the corpse of a mountain, though she still breathed. Each exhalation rattled the air, spreading rot and dampness like a disease. Her wings sagged like tattered sails, scales broken and peeling, flesh swollen with age and corruption. She did not move, did not rise, yet the sheer presence of her pinned him in place.
Around her, her brood stirred. Five lesser dragons, scattered at intervals in a loose perimeter, their wings twitching, eyes blazing with protective fury. Any fool who tried to approach from the front would be torn to ribbons by tooth, claw, and flame before they ever touched her.
But she was huge. Too huge for her children to cover every angle.
He circled cautiously, watching their movements, measuring the distance of each roar and snap. And then he saw it.
Behind her right leg, where the curve of her wing slumped down and touched the ground, there was a hollow of shadow. A blind spot. A place where Greyoll's head could not reach, her children could not strike, and her ruined wing concealed him from the wider clearing.
He crept into it, heart pounding, until the impossible bulk of her body filled his vision. Here, pressed beneath the sagging canvas of her ruined wing, he was safe. The brood beyond roared and paced, but they could not see him, could not reach him. To them, he was gone.
He pressed a hand against the haft of the Brick Hammer. This was it — the perfect spot. He could strike, again and again, shattering ancient flesh that could not move, could not defend itself. With patience, he could kill her. And the runes… the runes that would pour from her would be like nothing else he had ever claimed. Enough to elevate his strength once again to another level.
He lingered in the shadow of Greyoll's ruined wing, the Brick Hammer heavy in his grasp. Her sheer scale dwarfed him utterly, but in this pocket of concealment, he was untouchable. The brood beyond shrieked and roared, but their fury only underscored how immobile their mother had become.
Up close, he saw her clearly. The scales once brilliant now dulled and cracked. Flesh beneath them seethed with pustules, tumors of scarlet rot eating her alive from the inside out. Her wings sagged and peeled, unable to lift her skyward. This was a dragon grounded forever, bound not by chains, but by decay.
Her chest rose in slow, shuddering breaths, a pitiful echo of power long gone. The air around her reeked of sickness, and each exhale seemed to spread more of the blight that had hollowed Caelid.
His grip on the hammer tightened.
He had the perfect position. One swing after another, and he would be the end of Greyoll. The runes inside her body would pour into him, more than any giant or shardbearer had ever yielded. Strength beyond measure.
But still, he hesitated.
This wasn't a fight. There was no challenge, no desperate gamble between hunter and prey. She was dying already, locked in a prison of rot and time. Her offspring clung to her like carrion birds, as if sheer devotion could hold her together. To strike her down would be… no, it was a mercy. An end she could never give herself.
Slowly, he raised the Brick Hammer, breath steadying. His eyes lingered on the mountain of her ruined body, the faint quiver of her chest.
"Rest."
The hammer fell.
And again.
And again.
Each swing shook her, shuddering through her ancient frame. Her brood wailed from beyond the wing, but they could not reach him, could not stop the blows. Stone met flesh, again and again, until the rot-eaten body of the Elder Dragon collapsed in final stillness.
The earth trembled.
And then it came — a surge of light, a river of runes bursting free from Greyoll's corpse. It washed over him, flooding his body with runes, more than he had ever felt before. His knees almost buckled.
He stood there in the shadow of her corpse, breathing heavily. Greyoll was gone, freed. And he stepped out from beneath her broken wing.
The last of her breath rattled out and then… silence. For the first time since he had entered her shadow, the brood ceased their endless wails. The runes burned faintly across his skin before settling deep, a tide of strength he didn't yet dare measure.
When he stepped from beneath Greyoll's wing, he looked toward her children.
One by one, they lowered their heads. The dragons that had thrashed and roared moments before now seemed hollowed out, bereft of the presence that had anchored them. Their mother had been their heart, their purpose, and with her gone, there was nothing left to bind them to this world.
They did not attack. They did not even cry.
Instead, each of them slowly collapsed in place, bodies slumping into the rot-scorched earth. Their forms shimmered faintly, as though the very life inside them was unraveling. No violence, no grand fight — only resignation.
He watched in silence as the last echoes of their strength guttered out. Even the air seemed heavier with their absence, Caelid's crimson sky swallowing the end of an ancient line.
There was no triumph here, no exhilaration. Only quiet.
He tightened his grip on the hammer, turned his back on the corpses, and began walking toward the grace that glowed faintly in the distance.
The quiet followed him all the way to the grace. He lowered himself before it, the pale gold light wrapping him in its warmth. After the sound of dragons dying, it felt impossibly soft, almost gentle.
His mind turned, not to the weight of Greyoll's death, but to the truth it revealed. Even the mightiest fell to rot and ruin here. What had once been awe-inspiring and eternal had become a monument to decay, half-alive, left to suffer until someone strong enough chose to end it.
That was this world.
And unless someone tore out its rot, it would only grow worse.
He flexed his fingers, watching the faint pulse of runes still burning through him from Greyoll and her brood. He had already claimed three Great Runes now. A mortal, where once only demigods walked. He could feel the path ahead more clearly than ever.
Not Godrick's madness. Not Rennalla's delusions. Not Radahn's doomed strength.
No — the Elden Ring itself. The fractured will of a god, scattered, broken. He would gather it, piece by piece. Not to restore it for the Greater Will, not to uphold some hollow order, but to wield it himself. To shape it into something that would never again rot as this world had.
He opened his eyes, and the grace shimmered back at him. His resolve held sharp as steel.
The Elden Ring would be his.
When his rest was finished, he rose from the grace and turned his thoughts forward. One half of the Dectus Medallion rested in his pouch, pried from the chest in Fort Faroth. The other, he remembered, lay far from this rotten land — tucked away in Fort Haight, in the eastern woods of Limgrave.
The journey would not be swift. Caelid's decay clung to him, the rot staining the soil and the air, but he pressed through it without pause. He would not linger here longer than he must. Past blasted trees and pools of scarlet filth, past roads patrolled by dogs swollen with disease, he forced his way back west. By the time Limgrave's green returned, it felt almost alien — bright grass and clear winds carrying no scent of death.
Fort Haight rose above the woods when at last he reached the Weeping Peninsula's edge. Half-broken stone, streaked with vines and moss, its walls cracked but still standing. Yet it was not unguarded. Soldiers of Haight's rebellion still clustered at its base, blades at their sides, some laughing low, others silent and watchful. Their commander's banner, frayed and dull, drooped along the battlements.
He adjusted the grip on his hammer, eyes narrowing on the gate. Somewhere inside that ruin lay the other half of the medallion. With both, the Grand Lift of Dectus would open, carrying him up to the Altus Plateau — the road onward to Leyndell, and another demigod's power.
The gates of Fort Haight splintered under the weight of his shoulder, the rotten wood exploding inward with a crack that sent every soldier inside jerking to attention. They scrambled for blades, for shields, for bows — but it was already far too late.
He was upon them in an instant, hammer raised high. The first man he struck didn't fall, didn't crumple — he came apart. A wet mist of blood burst against the stone as the soldier's body flattened beneath the crushing weight. The ground shuddered from the blow, dust rattling loose from the ceiling above.
Cries rang through the fort. Steel hissed from scabbards, arrows loosed with trembling hands. But he was a storm now, sweeping through the narrow corridors with no care for restraint. His hammer smashed the air as it fell, shaking the very stones beneath each strike. Men were thrown aside like ragdolls, bones snapping in grotesque chorus. Their shields split in two as if struck by a siege engine. Arrows that found their mark snapped or bent against his flesh, wounds closing almost as quickly as they opened.
One soldier tried to rally them, shouting for a push — but the shout died with him, his head and shoulders collapsing into the flagstones under a sideways swing. Blood sprayed across the walls, streaking them red as the rest broke, panic scattering through their ranks.
He gave them no escape. Every blow carried finality, a brutality so absolute that no armor could resist it. The stone floors cracked beneath the force of his strikes, chips of rock flying up with each swing, until the fort echoed with a rhythm of ruin — a cadence of hammer against flesh and stone.
When the silence came, it was thick and heavy, broken only by the soft drip of blood sliding down the walls. Broken weapons and broken bodies littered the narrow halls, and he stood alone in the ruin, the weight of his hammer resting against the ground.
Up the ladder, near the fort's crest, the chest waited. Its metal fittings rusted, its wood warped — but when he cracked it open, the other half of the Dectus Medallion gleamed inside, untouched by time.
He took it in hand, feeling the halves now complete. The Grand Lift of Dectus would answer him.
The chest shut with a dull thunk, the medallion half heavy in his hand. He had both pieces now — the way north would open to him.
And yet… his eyes drifted back to the carnage he had left behind. The stone walls were slick with blood. The air was thick with the copper sting of it, mixed with dust from the shattered floors. Bodies lay where they had fallen, twisted in unnatural ways, broken by his hand.
He tightened his grip on the medallion. The memory of the fight still pulsed in his veins — the surge of power, the way each strike had shattered men as though they were brittle clay. A part of him relished it. That part unsettled him.
It was too easy now. Too natural. Swinging the hammer, crushing lives, silencing resistance — all of it felt like breathing. Once, he had thought strength was a tool, a means to survive in a hostile land. But here, surrounded by the dead, it looked like something else. A truth stripped bare. Violence had become his language. His way forward.
He lowered his head, closing his eyes briefly. He could not afford doubt. The path he'd chosen — to claim the Elden Ring, to rebuild this fractured world — would demand this from him again and again. If he faltered here, if he let himself soften, all of it would be for nothing.
"Necessary," he whispered, voice rough. Whether he believed it or not, he forced the word into his chest until it took root.
Turning from the carnage, he stepped out into the night air. The medallion halves, united now, were proof of his progress. Proof that the Grand Lift of Dectus awaited him.
And behind him, Fort Haight stood silent, a tomb of his making.
He found the Grace outside the ruined fort, its pale light flickering against the dark canopy of Limgrave's trees. The silence here was sharper than within the walls he had just left behind. No screams, no steel, no shattering of stone. Only the quiet hum of the Grace, steady and eternal.
He sank to the ground before it, planting the hammer beside him. His hands still trembled faintly from the fight, not from exhaustion, but from the force that had coursed through him — the power that broke men as if they were nothing.
The Grace's glow washed over him, soft, almost forgiving. He stared into it, trying to let it ease the coil of unrest inside. Yet all he saw in its light were the dead faces in the fort. All he heard was the sound of bones shattering under his hammer.
He rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. The unease lingered, a shadow beneath his resolve. But even as it gnawed at him, the purpose he'd set for himself only sharpened. The Elden Ring. A world rebuilt, not rotting like Caelid, not brittle and blood-soaked like the one around him.
If that was to be real, then he could not waver. Mercy, hesitation, regret — none of these would carry him forward. Only strength.
He pressed his palm briefly to the earth, drawing away from the Grace's light. Then he rose, hammer in hand, gaze turning north toward the path ahead. The Grand Lift of Dectus awaited.
The path northward carried him out of Limgrave and into the foothills where the Grand Lift of Dectus loomed. The land here felt different, the air heavier with expectation. A colossal structure carved into the cliffs, the lift was no simple bridge of stone—it was a gateway, a throne of giants turned into machinery, towering pillars of carved rock and metal mechanisms humming faintly even in stillness.
He walked up the long, broken steps, each one echoing under his boots. The silence was uncanny; no guards, no beasts, no sorcerers lurking. Only the forgotten grandeur of the place, as if the land itself had conspired to let him pass.
At the base of the twin statues, he pulled the medallion halves from his belt. Cold bronze and iron, heavy in his palms. He pressed them together, and with a muted click they locked, one whole once more. The ground beneath him trembled in answer, as though the lift itself had recognized him.
The twin statues groaned, ancient gears beginning to churn. Slowly, with a rumble that shook dust from the stonework, the great disc of the lift began to rise. He stood in its center, hammer braced against the ground, the world falling away below him.
The view widened as the platform ascended, away from the treetops, above the cliffs and ruined battlements.
The lift shuddered to a stop, its great disc locking into place with a final, grinding echo. He stepped forward, the air changing at once—cooler, cleaner, as if the Plateau breathed differently than the lands below.
The sight opened before him, and he halted without meaning to.
The Altus Plateau stretched in every direction like an untouched canvas of gold. Grass rippled under the wind in waves, each blade shimmering as though dusted with sunlight. Ancient trees, their trunks thick and gnarled, stood scattered across the fields, their leaves burning with autumn fire. Rivers traced silver threads across the land, bending and glimmering in the light.
And above all of it loomed the Erdtree.
From here, it was closer than it had ever been—so close that its golden boughs seemed endless, weaving into the very sky. Its radiance drenched the Plateau, a living sun whose brilliance swallowed the horizon. He had seen it before from Limgrave's cliffs, from Liurnia's misted waters, even from Caelid's rot-stained ground. But here… here it dominated everything. Majestic. Terrifying. Eternal.
He felt something stir in his chest. Not awe—not anymore. Resolve.
This world had once been magnificent. It still was, in fragments. But just as beauty lingered here, rot festered elsewhere, unchecked. Scarlet decay in Caelid. Madness rising in Liurnia. Famine and ruin spread through Limgrave. The balance was broken, and the brilliance of the Erdtree only mocked the suffering beneath its glow.
He tightened his grip on the brick hammer until his knuckles whitened. The Elden Ring was shattered, and because of it, this fractured beauty was all that remained. But it did not have to stay broken.
He would claim the runes. He would claim the Ring. And then—he would make this world whole again.
For a long moment, he let the wind roll over him, grass swaying, leaves whispering, light washing every stone and tree. The Plateau was a promise of what could be.
Then he exhaled, heavy, and began his march forward.
He turned his back on the Erdtree and the gleaming road that wound toward Leyndell. His goal lay elsewhere. Not upward into the capital, not yet. West, through Altus's golden fields and crag-strewn highlands, into the mountains where fire and stone swallowed the sky.
Volcano Manor.
Rykard's domain. Another demigod. Another shardbearer. Another step toward the Elden Ring.
The Plateau shifted as he pushed westward. The vibrant grass gave way to slopes dotted with jagged rock, the land cut with deep fissures where streams ran dark and slow. The warmth of the Erdtree's glow thinned with every mile, replaced by the distant haze of smoke. He could smell it even from here—sulfur, ash, and the faint sting of brimstone clawing at his throat.
The land was not lifeless, but hostile. Armored patrols of Leyndell knights roamed the road, their spears gleaming like warnings in the sun. Wandering nobles, hollow-eyed and clutching scrolls, muttered half-mad prayers to the Erdtree. Off the beaten paths, demi-humans and perfumers lurked, striking from behind shattered walls. He cut through them where he had to, conserving his strength, his hammer cracking bone and earth with every swing.
But with each rise in the land, the sky told the truth of his direction.
Smoke gathered above the mountains. Not the clear blue of Altus, nor the golden haze of Erdtree light, but thick, black, and roiling, spilling into the heavens as if the mountain itself bled fire.
His jaw clenched. The Erdtree towered still in the east, radiant and whole. But here, the western horizon was dominated by another force entirely—Mount Gelmir, seething, its peak shrouded in a crown of smoke. Somewhere beyond its ridges and rivers of stone waited the lord of this realm: Rykard, the Blasphemous.
The idea of it stirred something hard in his chest. Each demigod had taken a piece of what power could be in this broken world. But Rykard was different. Not just a demigod. He had fed himself to a serpent. He had become something unnatural. Something profane.
Another trial. Another chance to test his strength against the corruption eating away at the world. Another Great Rune closer to his goal.
The wind carried the smell of ash down the slopes. He pulled his cloak tighter against it, eyes fixed on the smoke-drowned horizon.
The slopes of Mount Gelmir were treacherous, carved into ridges and sheer cliffs by centuries of volcanic fury. The air grew hotter the higher he climbed, the Plateau's golden fields giving way to scorched earth and blackened stone.
He did not take the long, winding paths that skirted the mountain's edges, nor weave through the camps of demi-human warbands or man-serpents. Instead, he cut upward, scaling rock and broken ledges with brute force. His fingers found holds in jagged stone, his boots grinding as he hauled himself higher and higher. Each breath was fire in his chest, each gust of wind carrying ash that stung his eyes.
At the summit, the world opened. The peak of Gelmir was not a crown but a wound: a gaping, sunken maw where the earth had split itself apart. From its depths belched smoke and fire, the fumes so thick they rolled like stormclouds over the mountainside. Rivers of hardened magma twisted through the rock far below, glowing cracks betraying the living furnace at the mountain's heart.
And down there, in that abyss of ash and flame, was his destination. Rykard.
Without hesitation, he began his descent.
He clambered down jagged switchbacks of stone, leapt across fractured ledges where molten rivers hissed beneath, his body a silhouette against the glow of the earth's wounds. Ash fell like snowflakes, clinging to his hair and skin. The closer he drew to the mountain's core, the heavier the air became, pressing against his lungs as though the land itself sought to smother him.
The ruins of battle dotted the way—collapsed siege engines, blackened bones, weapons twisted by heat until they bent like branches. No one had claimed these grounds for long. Even knights and sorcerers who once pressed into Gelmir had been consumed. Only echoes remained.
At last, the path narrowed into a descending throat of rock, where the air pulsed with an almost physical pressure. He stopped, gripping the haft of his hammer, feeling the thrum of something vast stirring deep below.
Rykard was not a foe who would meet him in gilded halls or open fields. He waited in the belly of the mountain, where earth and fire conspired to devour all who entered.
The throat of the mountain gave way to a cavern so vast it seemed carved by gods. The walls glowed faintly, veins of magma pulsing like arteries, lighting the chamber in a dull red haze. A stench of brimstone and rot clung to the air, thick enough to choke.
And there, sprawling at the heart of it all, was the Serpent.
Its body was a mountain of coiled flesh, scales cracked and broken, its hide slick with pus and molten blood. Dozens of mouths lined its form, gnashing endlessly as if starved for eternity. The great head lifted from the coils, jaw unhinging wider than any beast should be capable of, its fangs glistening in firelight.
The echo of its hiss rattled the stone.