Lucian watched with keen interest as the black-armored rider lifted a horn wrought of pitch-dark steel and blew.
He had never seen such an item before, but its purpose was easy enough to guess.
It was a tool of signal and summons, used to call the other Night's Cavalry to gather.
Lucian did not interrupt them. Instead, he uncorked a long-neglected Cerulean Flask, letting the sweet blue tears refill his FP reserves. With every upgrade, the flask grew more fragrant, almost too pleasant to drink, and he found the taste strangely unfamiliar on his tongue.
For the Night's Cavalry to gather was no misfortune. In truth, Lucian welcomed it.
If they came all at once, he could cull them in a single harvest.
You like overwhelming the few with the many? Then tonight, I'll show you what it truly means to be unshakable.
Yet Lucian did not simply stand idle. He used the waiting moments to instruct the nearby Tarnished to find shelter.
He could not know from which direction the riders would arrive, so he forbade them to leave his sight. Even if he might not be able to protect them once the battle began, huddling together in a defensible spot at least gave them a chance.
The Tarnished pressed their backs against the stones of a rocky slope, forming a knot of bodies to block one direction of attack.
Night fell heavy, Limgrave drowned in darkness.
Leaves rustled under a faint breeze.
From all sides came faint hoofbeats, joined by the scraping of armored metal.
Amid the silence of night, these sounds rang clear and sharp—ominous in their clarity, like the whisper before a storm.
The Tarnished clutched their weapons, knuckles white, clinging to a fragile sense of safety.
The hoofbeats grew louder, bolder, no longer veiled or cautious. The Night's Cavalry rode openly now, at full gallop.
The pounding of hooves shook the ground, hammered the hearts of those who listened.
From the distant woods emerged the first squad of black riders, then another, and another still.
Black steel devoured what little moonlight there was.
The Tarnished could not bear to look at those dreadful knights, yet their eyes were drawn, trapped like insects before a flame.
Even at distance, the pressure was suffocating. The Night's Cavalry were like a gathering storm, each step heavier than the last.
Fear spread through the Tarnished like a plague. Despair clutched their hearts, threatening to tear free from their chests. Their blood ran cold, numbed by hopelessness.
A squad of five thundered past above their rocky refuge. The Tarnished could smell the stench of slaughter still clinging to them—iron, blood, death.
The Night's Cavalry were more than soldiers. They were nightmares made flesh, hunters who stalked the battlefield through fear.
They were death itself to soldiers, knights, even heroes.
Courage drowned in their presence.
But in the center of that dark sea, Lucian stood unmoving, letting their dreadful aura crash against him. He did not falter. Instead, his battle spirit only burned higher.
The riders took their positions, surrounding him on all sides, weapons lowered in silent readiness.
Lucian swept his gaze around the encirclement. By his count, there were at least forty, perhaps fifty. Likely, this was every last Night's Cavalry remaining in Limgrave.
And yet, surrounded as he was, Lucian felt not a shred of tension.
In fact, he had the leisure to calculate how many runes this would yield.
One Night's Cavalry was worth over seven thousand runes. Multiply that by fifty…
He summoned the Wind Spirit Moon Shadow's blessing; Fivefold rune gain.
[Ding.]
Rune Gain Multiplier ×5 (Time remaining: 60 minutes).
Lucian's eyes narrowed. Tonight, he would exterminate every last one of them.
Now, it was not they who surrounded him—He had surrounded all of them.
The night was utterly still. The riders made no needless words, no idle gestures. They simply stood, waiting for the signal to strike.
Then he appeared.
A towering rider strode forth—a Night's Cavalry unlike the rest. His massive frame dwarfed his brethren, and the funeral steed beneath him was broader, taller, monstrous. He loomed half a body higher than the others.
From beneath his helm curled grotesque Omen horns, marking him as one accursed.
In his grip was no halberd nor flail, but a gigantic chain-hammer, an iron ball spiked and chained to its rear.
This was their commander—the Omen-blooded Night Cavalry.
He raised the great weapon and leveled it toward Lucian. As one, the Night's Cavalry lifted their arms and surged forward in charge.
The land quaked beneath their thunder.
Lucian did not laugh, but his lips curved upward regardless.
This—this was the battlefield he longed for.
More. Let more come. No matter their number, he would stand until all of them lay dead.
He raised his Swordspear high.
Golden lightning split the heavens, striking down to wreathe his weapon, thunder booming in its wake.
In the darkness, the stormlight revealed his fervent face.
The silence of night shattered beneath the roar of thunder. The battle began.
Lucian gripped his Swordspear with both hands and cleaved forward.
A blast of thunder smote a rider, charring him black before the storm winds tore apart his half-burnt corpse.
The others did not hesitate, vaulting over the body to continue their charge.
Lucian knew such strikes would not halt them all. He swept his Swordspear sideways, unleashing a stormwave that lashed at man and horse alike.
The tempest staggered their charge, forcing them to slow. Yet even through the gale, they pressed on.
But not all attacks came from the front.
From behind, two riders had already drawn close, their steeds unnaturally fast.
They bore no halberds or flails, but lances, absurdly long, meant to skewer foes in a single thrust.
One from left, one from right, they drove their weapons forward. Grey phantoms manifested alongside them, sealing Lucian's avenues of evasion.
Lucian did not dodge.
His Swordspear spun, batting their thrusts aside, stormblades tearing flesh as they swept past.
Clinging to life, the pair flung chains in desperation, hoping to ensnare him.
But the storm rose, and their last gambit was consumed, bodies and horses collapsing at his feet.
They were the first to reach him—but not the last.
The others closed in, darting in and out with swift strikes, never lingering in his range.
Unlike common cavalry, who fought in lines, these riders had mastered the art of surrounding and harrying a single mighty foe. They had trained countless times against the very idea of a powerful enemy.
And so they came, wave upon wave.
But Lucian cut them down in every fleeting moment between clash and retreat.
Pierced, severed, torn by storm, they fell one by one.
And though their weapons struck home as well, carving wounds into his flesh, Lucian stood immovable as stone, a rock against the tide.
Around him, corpses piled—man and beast, twisted in death.
Blood slicked his armor. Wounds stung, his flesh torn and bruised. His right thigh was gashed, his left arm cut, his back crushed by a spiked flail. The Radagon's Soreseal upon him deepened every injury.
It had been long since he bled so freely. Long since he had truly felt pain.
And still he fought on.
The Omen rider upon the hill watched, astonished.
By their drills, even a weak demigod—like Godrick the Grafted—could never withstand such an assault.
And yet here stood the Storm King, still unbroken.
Thirty riders remained. To slay him seemed… impossible. Yet the blood he shed proved he was not untouchable. Not like Lord Margit, whose terror had drowned entire hosts in blood.
If they could wear Lucian down, exhaust him, they might yet topple him.
Hope flickered.
The commander urged his massive steed forward, joining the fray.
The chain-hammer whistled down, smashing into Lucian through the storm, spikes tearing into flesh.
Lucian staggered, shoulder bloodied, yet when the Omen rider met his gaze, his heart chilled.
Lucian smiled—a beast's hungry grin.
The hammer fell again, but Lucian caught it on his Swordspear, pressing back.
The ground tore beneath the Omen's steed, unable to advance. Lucian's form swelled, stormlight engulfing him, towering until he looked down even upon the rider's three-meter frame.
The Omen's eyes widened.
He wheeled his steed, casting a chain to Lucian's leg in desperation, but when the beast pulled, Lucian did not budge. Instead, the Omen was dragged screaming from his mount, hurled to the ground at Lucian's feet.
For the first time, fear seized him.
Lucian's Swordspear fell, cleaving another rider in two as he shielded his commander. Blood and entrails rained down.
Panic surged.
Desperate, the Omen invoked cursed flame, yellow and black fire consuming his body as he roared and struck once more.
Spectral wraiths swarmed from his side, shrieking as they surged at Lucian.
Lucian frowned. His storm passed harmlessly through them—they were incorporeal.
He struck the Omen back, retreating several steps. He would not meet the curse head-on without knowing its nature.
Grabbing a rider, he hurled him into the spirits. The man screamed as the wraiths devoured him, fire bursting from within until only a charred husk remained.
The Omen bellowed, "Scatter! Escape! Carry word to Lord Margit!"
But half his riders refused. They rallied at his side, unwilling to abandon him.
The rest turned, spurring their steeds to flee.
They did not escape far.
From the horizon came the Crucible Knights, silver-clad Storm Knights, dragging corpses bristling with arrows—the very riders who had tried to flee.
Lucian had foreseen this, and arranged his own net.
Now the Night's Cavalry were surrounded utterly.
The Omen rider roared, charging in a last stand with his men.
Lucian met him head-on. Spears, flails, phantom doubles—all clashed at once. Lucian seized chains, flung riders aside like dolls, and stamped down the burning hammer, pinning it.
His Swordspear flashed. The Omen's horned head flew.
The others threw themselves upon him, willing to die if only to buy their commander's hope of escape.
But one by one they fell, bodies broken and burned, until silence reigned.
Lucian walked among them, delivering final thrusts, harvesting their runes.
The last host of the Night's Cavalry in Limgrave was no more.
His storm-spear pierced the night, scattering Morgott's shadows.
And still, the fire of Lucian's ambition burned bright.