Although Lucian could feel Alexander's heartfelt emotion, he couldn't deny that being embraced by a Warrior Jar was… not the most comfortable experience.
He gently patted Alexander's massive body.
"It's all right. I wouldn't want to see a warrior stop here for such a reason either."
"Now then, since your body's more or less mended, you should rest well."
"When your wounds are fully healed, recover the corpses of those mighty warriors you mentioned. Your strength will surely rise even further after that."
"I'll be waiting for the day you reach your peak."
Alexander finally loosened his embrace and laughed heartily.
"Mm! Then please witness it yourself — the growth of me, Iron Fist Alexander!"
"One day, I'll become a true hero in every sense of the word!"
"When that time comes, I'll be the first Warrior Jar in history to become a hero! Wahahaha!"
It was the dream he had always cherished.
If he truly succeeded, Alexander would be the one to shatter the prejudices of the Lands Between — to show the world that even a Warrior Jar could be a true warrior, a true hero.
Lucian watched the cheerful jar and couldn't help but smile sincerely.
"Yes. I'll be there to witness the day you become a hero."
"May you succeed."
—
Alexander departed first, returning to the Wailing Dunes to continue collecting the contents he needed.
Lucian, meanwhile, remained in Hildegard's laboratory. He had something new he wanted to try — something that might prove useful in curing the Scarlet Rot.
"Hildegard," he began, "I've recently acquired a new kind of power."
"I think it might have a special effect against the Scarlet Rot, though I haven't tested it yet."
"How should I go about testing a power's effect on the Rot?"
Hildegard's curiosity was immediately piqued.
A power that could affect the Scarlet Rot? What could possibly have that kind of influence?
"Hmm… that's simple enough to test," Hildegard said, taking out a special containment vessel filled with a sample of the Rot used for experimentation.
"All right, give it a try."
Lucian summoned the Flame of the Sun, and the searing heat distorted the air around them.
When he directed the solar flame toward the sample, the Scarlet Rot and the container were both incinerated in an instant — utterly annihilated.
Hildegard rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"No doubt about it, that's an incredibly powerful flame… but I can't tell if it had any special effect."
"Fire can suppress the Rot — that much we already know. But that seemed like it was just too strong."
"Honestly, I think it burned too fast to see any difference."
Lucian nodded in agreement.
Indeed, that strike had been too destructive — the Rot had vanished before any observations could be made. Ordinary Scarlet Rot could already be purged by fire; his solar flame, so powerful it could distort space, was far beyond what was necessary.
So he asked Hildegard for another sample.
This time, instead of the blazing sunfire, Lucian released a 'gentle sunlight' upon the Rot.
Almost immediately, the Rot began to writhe… and then grow — spreading outward like a living thing.
Startled, Lucian considered stopping. But then he thought again, this small amount of Rot wasn't dangerous, and since sunlight clearly had some effect, it was worth continuing to see what would happen.
Under the unrelenting radiance, the Rot spread until it overflowed from the vessel, forming a thick mat across half the tabletop.
And then, something changed.
Its color lightened from dark red to pale crimson, and finally to a faint pinkish white. The texture, too, began to shift — its structure altering before their eyes.
Soon, tiny sprouts began to emerge from the Rot's surface.
One after another, delicate green shoots stretched upward, fragile yet full of life.
What had once looked like a mass of parasitic fungus now appeared to be fibrous, almost like roots — as if it were transforming into the base of a tree.
Hildegard was stunned.
This was no minor alteration, the Scarlet Rot's entire nature had changed.
Before, it had resembled an invasive fungal organism, consuming everything it touched. Now it was stabilizing, evolving into something plant-like.
Further analysis would be required, of course, but the initial results suggested that sunlight had stripped away its toxicity.
Lucian was equally astonished.
He had expected the sunlight to kill it outright, to burn it away like mold under a magnifying glass — yet instead, it had transformed.
But then, thinking deeper, it began to make sense.
The Scarlet Rot represented both decay and abundance, the two sides of a single law, a cycle of death and renewal.
From decay comes nourishment. From the fall of one life, countless others are born — much like the saying, "When the whale falls, it becomes a source of life".
Perhaps the Rot itself was merely the means by which this cosmic law achieved 'abundance', not the end.
Its corruptive influence forced change upon life, compelling survival through adaptation. Those unable to endure became nourishment, feeding the next cycle.
If so, then it was possible that the Rot itself was not immutable — that it could, too, evolve under the right conditions.
Maybe the sunlight made it feel that its cycle of abundance had been fulfilled… and thus, it transformed.
Still, the requirements seemed absurdly high.
That small sample had to grow to cover half a table before the change occurred — no wonder the Rot across Caelid spread so endlessly, devouring everything to reach its 'abundant' state.
For now, sunlight was the only factor Lucian had found that could alter it, but that was enough.
Because the power of sunlight was now his to command.
Once he purified Caelid with Wind Spirit Moon Shadow, then blessed it with sunlight, perhaps that blighted land would truly become a place of birdsong and bloom once again.
But all of this rested on one critical condition —
That these sun-touched Rot samples were indeed harmless.
Lucian turned to Hildegard.
"I'll need you to study these samples carefully," he said.
"If you can confirm that this transformed Rot has lost its toxicity and aggression, then I'll begin the cleansing myself."
"And don't stop your other research — the neutralizing incense, and the rest."
Hildegard nodded gravely.
The Rot's transformation was too significant to take lightly. If stable purification was truly possible, this would be a monumental breakthrough.
Just then, there came a knock at the door.
Lucian went to open it, outside stood one of Redmane Castle's Crucible Knight.
The knight bowed respectfully.
"Lord Lucian, the Lord General Jerren and the challenger have both arrived at the field."
Lucian nodded. "Then take me there."
The Crucible Knight unfurled his wings, grasping Lucian's hand before soaring into the night sky.
As they ascended, the knight was surprised to feel the warmth of flame beneath Lucian's skin — the lingering scars of embers.
That fire carried life within it, reminiscent of the Crucible's own primordial power.
And yet… not quite the same.
—
The reason for the knight's arrival was, of course, the duel between Okina and General Jerren.
Lucian had arranged with him beforehand to be notified when the battle began.
Ever since the conclusion of the Festival of Combat, Lucian had been waiting for this moment.
After long deliberation, he had decided — once their duel ended, he would eliminate Okina himself.
He wouldn't interfere in their fight; victory or defeat would depend solely on their own strength.
But once it was over — especially if Jerren fell, Lucian would act.
He would not allow the servants of the Mohgwyn Dynasty to continue running rampant across the Lands Between.
And Okina… was none other than Mohg's right hand.
Such a threat had to be erased early.
When dealing with enemies, one must be as cold and merciless as the dead of winter.
Before long, Lucian and the Crucible Knight arrived at the battlefield — the Wailing Dunes, once again.
It was still night. The silhouettes of two figures stood facing each other amid the vast desert, shapes barely visible until he drew near.
Lucian and the knight stopped atop a distant dune, observing quietly.
Jerren held his Flamberge across his shoulders, glaring at the man before him — Okina.
"You're certainly impatient," Jerren said. "The banquet's barely over, and here you are already."
Okina bowed deeply.
"My apologies. But feasts and ceremonies have never held my interest."
"What stirs my heart is battle, and slaughter."
"The banquet only made me restless…"
Jerren nodded slowly. "For someone like you, I suppose that makes sense."
"So should I be thanking you for at least waiting this long?"
Okina straightened, smiling faintly.
"Heh… such things hardly matter anymore."
"Come, let us begin our carnage."
With that, he drew his beloved blade — Rivers of Blood, the crimson katana bathed in the essence of blood.
Jerren, seeing his eagerness, ignited his greatsword in roaring flame.
Then he charged.
Okina stood firm, both hands tightening around the hilt of his blade.
From his body surged an overwhelming aura of death and malice.
Behind him, something began to take form — a towering, four-armed Ashura of Slaughter, forged from pure killing intent.
Okina's most powerful technique demanded time to gather strength—he could only use it before the battle truly began.
Though a distance still separated them, the energy around Okina was already surging to a climax. Just as he locked onto General Jerren, preparing to release his strike, he caught a glimpse of movement—Jerren's left hand reached behind his back, pulling out a compact hand crossbow.
With a sharp click, a burst of flaming bolts shot forth, hissing through the night air, their fire reflecting against Jerren's iron mask.
Okina thought he saw a faint hint of mockery in that expressionless faceplate.
The flaming bolts slammed into him—most were deflected by his armor and the aura of malice surrounding him, yet the impact disrupted his concentration.
And since Okina's technique depended entirely on momentum, once his rhythm was broken, he had no choice but to swing regardless—lest the backlash cripple his next moves.
The blade came down in a blazing arc, but Jerren slipped aside with startling agility.
Discarding the empty hand crossbow, Jerren gripped his massive flame-patterned greatsword in both hands and charged straight at his foe.
Okina drew his short blade from his side scabbard and stepped forward, stamping down upon the oncoming sword.
Flames roared along the blade beneath his foot, yet Okina ignored the searing heat. Using that foothold, he lunged forward, both Rivers of Blood Katana and short blade slashing in tandem.
The strange dual-blade technique from the Land of Reeds caught Jerren off guard, forcing him into a defensive position.
Seeing the edge draw near, Jerren roared, and an explosive wave of flame burst from his body.
The shockwave blasted Okina backward—just enough for Jerren to counter.
With both arms straining, Jerren brought his sword upward in a sweeping slash.
Okina had calculated the range precisely—his armor caught flame at the hem, but his body was spared.
Then, before he could recover, Jerren unleashed Lion's Claw, a fan-shaped surge of blazing fire that slammed into Okina's torso.
His mask's pale hair caught flame—but rather than retreat, Okina pressed forward, his dual blades crashing again and again against Jerren's flaming greatsword.
Sparks and blood mingled as metal screamed against metal.
Finally, Jerren spotted a flaw in the rhythm of Okina's strikes.
With a sudden thrust of his body, he forced Okina back, lowered his stance, and drove forward—his blade lunging from below in a piercing upward arc.
"Giant Hunt!"
The burning greatsword struck home, its edge crashing into Okina's chestplate and lifting him bodily into the air.
He tumbled across the sand, rolling twice before regaining his footing—only for another Lion's Claw to descend toward him like a falling meteor.
Desperate, Okina dove aside, but a volley of Glintblade Phalanx shards struck him mid-roll.
Panting, he stumbled to his feet again, blood dripping through scorched armor.
In a duel between masters, the slightest mistake spelled disaster.
Jerren's last chain of strikes had nearly slain him outright; had it not been for the accursed blood's blessing, he would already be dead.
Okina touched his chest where the greatsword had pierced through. He had to admit—the Redmane general's variety of techniques was impressive.
Swordsmanship, war skills, pyromancy, sorcery… all woven seamlessly together.
But to him, such things were impure.
He needed only his blade—and himself.
Nothing more.
A crimson flame ignited across his body as accursed blood burned through his veins, coating the blade of Rivers of Blood in infernal fire.
He had once faced Mohg, Lord of Blood, and forced even him to acknowledge the madness of his blade.
Since then, he had walked the true Path of the Asura.
"It seems I've not chosen wrongly this time…" he muttered, smiling through the blood that trickled down his chin. "You are strong, truly strong. I'm glad."
"Since you are a worthy opponent, I'll give you the honor of being slain by my full strength."
Jerren frowned beneath his mask.
His Giant Hunt had pierced the man's chest, and the Glintblades had struck true—yet Okina stood as though nothing had happened… if anything, he looked stronger.
Before he could piece it together, Okina surged forward—his speed more than doubled from before.
Jerren barely raised his sword in time to block the short blade, only for the Rivers of Blood to crash into his weapon a heartbeat later.
He managed to deflect the slash, but droplets of burning blood splattered across his armor, clinging and igniting.
The Bloodflame wasn't as overwhelming as Mohg's, but it still burned with cruel persistence.
Jerren gritted his teeth, the agony wracking his body.
Still Okina pressed on—his dual blades carving relentless arcs, faster and heavier than before.
Forced backward, Jerren realized he couldn't keep defending.
Taking a risk, he charged instead.
Steel rang—his armor split at the chest, but the strike opened space between them.
Jerren slapped his hand against his wound, whispering an Incantation.
"Flame, Grant Me Strength."
A pure flame rose from within, consuming the bloodfire and restoring his composure.
Okina retracted his short blade and unleashed his war art—"Corpse Piler"
Dozens of crimson blades of cursed blood erupted from his katana, forcing Jerren to roll and dodge amid the exploding sand.
Despite his battered state, Jerren realized something crucial—Okina's madness came with a cost.
Though his swordsmanship remained precise, his judgment was slipping.
Their blades clashed again. Watching carefully, Jerren confirmed his suspicion—the man's attacks were growing wilder, less deliberate.
So, Jerren baited him.
He opened a false gap in his guard.
Okina fell for it—raising the Rivers of Blood high for a killing blow.
Jerren lunged in, closing distance instead of retreating.
In his off-hand, a Carian Glintblade Staff shimmered into being, and from it, he conjured a blade of pure light.
The Carian Piercer stabbed upward like a dagger, plunging repeatedly into Okina's abdomen, shredding his organs.
Realizing too late, Okina abandoned all defense, letting the attack land as he brought his katana down.
Jerren's back armor split apart like paper, a deep wound tearing from shoulder to spine.
He coughed blood beneath his mask, staggering but not falling.
The exchange had nearly cost him his life—but it had broken Okina's madness.
Now, it would end with the next blow.
They faced each other, silent but resolute.
Okina stepped forward, right foot stabbing into the sand, sword raised high with the blade toward the heavens. His left hand did not grip the hilt—instead, two knuckles pressed against the blade, steadying it.
Then his entire body went still, like a corpse.
The air froze. His killing intent condensed into an invisible spear.
Jerren had never seen such a stance before.
He knew dodging was pointless. There was only one choice—to fight to the death.
He exhaled, and charged.
The flame-patterned greatsword thrust first, its reach greater than the katana's. If he timed it just right—
A flash of blood-red light split the night.
Okina's sword descended, faster and longer than it should have been.
The blade tore from Jerren's shoulder to his abdomen, disemboweling him in a single, impossible stroke before burying itself deep in the dune.
Jerren stared in disbelief.
'Why… did his range suddenly increase? The power… the speed… could it be the left-hand hold?'
As consciousness faded, he saw the truth—Okina's right hand now gripped only the pommel with two fingers.
'It's the handle… he shifted the grip to extend reach…'
Jerren fell, his sword dropping beside him.
Okina staggered, barely standing.
Still, he raised the Rivers of Blood, preparing to take Jerren's head.
But just as the blade fell—his body dissolved into cursed blood and vanished.
Moments later, he reappeared elsewhere in the dunes, gasping, laughing madly despite his wounds.
"This time… truly worth it," he chuckled hoarsely. "Only in battle between equals can one savor the edge of life and death!"
Weak foes no longer stirred his soul—only worthy adversaries could.
And yet, such opponents grew rarer by the day.
As that thought passed, dread gripped him.
A searing spear of light fell from the heavens, piercing straight through his chest.
"Gaaahhh—!"
The burning lance erupted into a miniature sun, swallowing him whole in incandescent fury.
The dunes were engulfed in blinding radiance—cursed blood vaporized before it could even scream.
When the light faded, only silence remained.
From a distant ridge, Lucian watched calmly, nodding in satisfaction.
"…Power output, acceptable."
He stepped forward, examining the place where Okina had stood. Only a charred silhouette remained.
That was all that was left of him.
Lucian confirmed the erasure was complete, no trace of the man remained in this world.
"A shame about the Rivers of Blood," he murmured, finding only molten fragments.
He had rather liked that sword. But no matter—it bore Mohg's mark anyway. Best not to risk letting that infection linger.
Besides, he had more weapons than he could ever wield.
Earlier, he had poured four or five Crimson Tears into Jerren's mouth and layered him with Golden Sunlight Healing—barely saving the general's life before chasing after the fleeing Okina.
Now, seeing the battle's end, he couldn't help but admire it.
It had been a true duel—two equals fighting with everything they had.
Pity that Jerren's level had fallen just short.
Still…
Lucian's eyes lingered on the spot where Okina's final technique had cut the air.
That last explosion of power—
"…A fascinating art indeed."