Lucian once again sat upon the throne of Stormveil. His left hand propped up his head, while his right toyed idly with a black horn taken from the Night's Cavalry.
Nearly every squad of those black riders carried one, and after this last battle he had gathered seven or eight of them. The sound was loud enough—he even thought about distributing them among his own troops.
But then another thought struck him; what if, during a muster, the horn called more Night's Cavalry instead? Better to have his craftsmen make their own versions.
Lucian himself did not fear the Night's Cavalry; if they came, he would simply cut them down. But his soldiers could not face them as easily.
He tossed the horns aside and began to think over what he had learned from this battle.
The foremost figure was that large, twisted knight whose head bore the horns of Omen. He wielded yellow-and-black Cursed-Blood flames and could summon spirits of the damned. Without doubt, he was one of the Omen King's cursed offspring.
And clearly, he commanded this host of riders. That meant he was likely one of Morgott's trusted lieutenants. His strength was considerable, and both his cursed fire and summoned wraiths required great caution.
When Morgott led the Night's Cavalry, he did so as the "Fell Omen," Margit. They themselves bore no fear of the omen, so to bring one of their kindred sons into their ranks was only natural. In terms of blood, the ties ran close.
Ironically enough, Morgott's true identity was hidden—he was in truth the The Veiled Monarch of Leyndell. Only when moving as Margit the Fell Omen could he reveal his real face. Lucian could not help but find the thought darkly amusing.
What surprised him most was the sheer number of Night's Cavalry. This time alone, more than fifty had been drawn out.
Counting them all—the first ten he himself slew, the dozen cut down by the Crucible Knights, and the fifty lost in this last clash—nearly eighty black riders had already been laid to rest in Limgrave.
For a force of their caliber, this was no small loss. Morgott's gamble had backfired. The Night's Cavalry were not the strongest of warriors, but their numbers and coordination made them deadly. On a battlefield, eighty of them would be a spearhead none could withstand.
Morgott had likely sent them only to harry the Tarnished in Limgrave, not to mount a full assault. But their decision to hunt Lucian had brought about their ruin.
By contrast, the Carian Knights and Crucible Knights were few. Neither group numbered more than twenty, yet each one was a true hero, capable of standing against a hundred men. The Night's Cavalry were lesser in individual might, but they had numbers—and that was their greatest advantage.
If Morgott had only dispatched half of his riders here, then the true host of the Night's Cavalry was terrifying indeed. Even eighty more, held in reserve, would be near impossible to match in open war. And who could say how many more he truly commanded?
In truth, had it not been for the terrain of Stormveil, which hindered cavalry, and the lack of supplies or siege engines, they might have taken the castle already—if Lucian had not been there.
And they were not the only threat. Leyndell's strength was unmatched; not only its great numbers, but the quality of its soldiers as well. There were the Tree Sentinels, Gargoyles, and the Leyndell Knights. And beyond them, constructs, trebuchets, perfumers—an arsenal of devastation.
This battle left Lucian certain; he still had to bide his time and grow stronger. Against the Royal Capital, his forces were still far from ready.
First, he had to mold his Tarnished into a true army. And his high-ranking warriors were too few. Besides himself, only Elyssa and the two Crucible Knights could be counted as powerful heroes, and three was not enough.
The Storm Knights were his next strongest force—among knights, they stood at the peak. A handful among them had even brushed against the threshold of herohood. But they numbered only thirty.
The Drakeblood Knights and Silver Knights were more numerous, and could hold the field, but they were still green, their potential not yet fully realized. Time and tempering would be needed.
True, the Silver Knights had proved themselves this time, turning the Night's Cavalry into pincushions from afar. But that had been under very favorable conditions.
The black riders had already been bloodied and scattered, many wounded by Lucian himself. And Lucian had laid his plans carefully; over a hundred Silver Knights were sent to lie in wait, ten bows leveled at each fleeing foe, while Crucible and Storm Knights pressed them hard. They had not expected the ambush. They died in shock, caught before they could even rally.
Long against short, first strike against none, many against few—of course they were slaughtered. In a fair fight, the Silver Knights would not have fared so well.
Lucian sighed. Building an army was a long, weary task. Perhaps he had been too impatient. He had not even held Stormveil for long.
Enough of brooding. He forced his thoughts toward something brighter.
Though he had burned two uses of Wind Spirit Moon Shadow, the bounty from the Night's Cavalry was immense. Each yielded around seven thousand runes, some closer to eight. A few had fallen to the Crucible Knights, but the majority were his kills. With the fivefold rune boon active, the total haul reached over 1.5 million.
Adding the scattered thirty thousand he had carried, and another hundred thousand gathered from battles between his last leveling and this one, he now held nearly 1.9 million runes. More than when he had defeated Godrick.
Quantity had made up for quality—weak foes in mass could match even lords in their worth.
If he ever abandoned his conscience, if he butchered towns and cities… In short order, he could claim dominion over the Lands Between.
An ordinary villager carried fifty or sixty runes. A trained soldier or knight, several hundred to several thousand. One storm unleashed upon a town would wipe out an entire swath of the weak.
But Lucian had no intention of stooping so low. He wanted peace, not tyranny. The people of the Lands Between had suffered enough.
He set such thoughts aside and considered his growth. This windfall of runes could raise him twenty levels at least.
His Vigor, Endurance, Strength, and Dexterity were already solid, especially with the Great Rune augmenting his body. When he grew in size through the rune, it redistributed its blessings into his flesh—effectively giving him another seven points across the board.
Instead, he looked elsewhere. More Mind would mean more magic and skill usage. Intelligence was already high; in fact, with the rune's bonus, he sat at thirty-seven. Only one short of wielding the Night Comet of Sellia.
He put a single point into Intelligence, raising it to thirty-eight, just enough. As for the rest, he chose Faith.
Through the Great Rune he had already parsed Agheel's heart, unlocking dragon incantations—flame, claws, and bite. With thirty Faith, he could wield them freely, and begin learning others as well.
He knew the strength of Incantations. Buffs like Golden Vow and Flame, Grant Me Strength; weapon enchantments like Sacred Blade, Black Flame Blade, Electrify Armament, or Barrier of Gold. All potent, all versatile.
So he poured fourteen points into Faith, reaching thirty. The remainder went into Mind, eleven points, raising it to forty.
His level leapt from ninety-five to one hundred and twenty-one.
With the Great Rune's extra sevens, and Radagon's Seal adding five more to his core stats, his spread now stood at; Vigor 52, Mind 40, Endurance 35, Strength 42, Dexterity 33, Intelligence 38, Faith 30, Arcane 14.
Not a master of one, but a true jack of all trades—a bucket build, as he mused with a grin.
He rose and strode to the courtyard.The Dragon Communion Seal flared upon his hand, and he channeled mana into it.
The image of Agheel filled his mind, and a phantom dragon's head loomed behind him, belching forth searing fire.The cost was high, but the power was undeniable.
Lucian summoned a storm to swirl the flames, birthing a towering fire tornado that charred the very stones of the square.He twisted it further, guiding it outward, scattering the blaze.
Nodding at the sight, he thought: with this, he could clear hordes or reshape the battlefield with ease. Later, in Redmane Castle, he would learn to wreathe his spear in fire—then, with its natural lightning, he would wield a blade of thunder and flame.
Still, one question gnawed at him: how did Faith truly work? He had no devotion to the gods behind these Incantations, yet by raising the stat he could wield their power. It felt strange.
In the past, survival left no time to dwell on such mysteries. But now, with strength enough to breathe, his mind turned to questions long ignored.
He gazed up at the sky. Was this all the work of the Greater Will?
He shook his head. Such riddles had no answers, not now. Better to set his sights on something practical.
For example, the Academy of Raya Lucaria. Morgott was already his enemy. The Academy could have remained hidden, yet they had chosen to interfere. They had even sent Sellia to strike at him.
Why?
He intended to find out.
After a night's rest in Stormveil, Lucian set forth again, his path leading north—toward Liurnia.