The next strike hit him square across the back. The world went white-hot with pain, his lungs collapsing as he was hurled forward, rolling across dirt. He coughed blood, staggered, and the hooves were already on him, trampling with brutal weight.
Bones crunched. His scream never left his throat before darkness swallowed him.
He woke at the Grace, gasping, body whole, skin clean. But the memory lingered—the crushing weight, the helplessness.
And there, on the field ahead, shimmered the faint golden glow of his fallen runes.
He spat, stood, and grabbed his sword. "I'm not leaving them."
The second attempt went worse. He made it to the runes—just a touch, just a breath—and they sank back into him. The relief was fleeting. Then the halberd scythed through his chest, lifting him off the ground. He landed broken, vision tunneling, hearing his own ragged breath cut short.
Another death.
Another return.
Another glow waiting on the grass.
The cycle repeated.
He learned to dodge left, then right, to roll under the wide sweeps. Learned that the horse's charge came faster than his legs could carry. Learned that his regeneration was strong but not invincible—there was no healing through a weapon swung with the force of a storm, destroying his weak frame.
Every time, he picked up the runes. But, every time, he lost them again.
Hours bled away in death. His breaths grew tighter each time he woke, his hands shaking not from pain but from rage. From humiliation.
And then—finally.
The Sentinel's halberd screamed down, and he rolled just far enough—feeling the rush of wind skim his cheek but not his skull. His hand shot out, fingers brushing the ground, and the golden light surged into him. His runes—safe.
Before the knight could turn, he forced himself up, legs pumping, lungs burning, sprinting for the far slope. Grass whipped his face. Dirt clung to his heels. The horse thundered behind him, a wall of steel and fury—but the hill came closer, and then his boots hit the incline, momentum dragging him down into safety.
He stumbled, slid, hit the ground hard—and kept crawling behind the piece of cover until the sounds of pursuit dulled, replaced by the lonely whistle of wind through the trees.
He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, sweat and fear clinging to his skin. His heart hadn't slowed. His hands trembled still.
But the runes were his.
And he was alive.
He pushed himself up, spat blood into the grass, and looked back toward the ruined wall where the golden knight still patrolled, silent and eternal.
"You win this round," he muttered, voice raw.
The grass grew softer as he walked, though every step was a small war against the shaking in his legs. His lungs still ached, his bones hummed with the phantom echo of the halberd's blows. No regeneration could erase the memory of pain.
The road wound gently down through the trees, sun breaking over his shoulders, the Erdtree's golden boughs catching every ray. For a moment, the world seemed to forgive him. The sound of water trickling nearby, birdsong flitting between branches, the distant shimmer of butterflies. After the nightmare of the Tree Sentinel, the Lands Between suddenly felt alive, unscarred.
And then he saw it.
The Church of Elleh. Half-broken, its roof long surrendered to time, but still standing proud on its hill. Stone walls clung to the earth like the bones of a saint. A great anvil stood beneath its arch, worn by countless strikes. The soft hum of Grace shimmered within, a beacon.
He approached slowly, reverently, almost afraid it would vanish if he moved too quickly. His feet dragged, but the glow pulled him forward. When he touched it, warmth unfurled in his chest, like breath returning after drowning.
A sound stirred inside the church. Not hostile—strings. A slow, steady pluck of notes carried on the air, human and fragile in its gentleness.
Kalé.
The man sat in red, the wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. Thin fingers danced across a lute, the melody simple but patient, the sound of someone who had survived by learning to wait. His pack was heavy, overflowing with trinkets, weapons, bones of journeys untold.
The merchant looked up as he entered. His voice, when it came, was calm but measured.
"You're Tarnished, I can see it. And I can also see… that you're not after my throat. Then why not purchase a little something? I am Kalé. Purveyor of fine goods."
He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand down his still-stiff arm. "Don't worry. I've had my fill of blood for the day."
"I am of a nomadic people. Selling wares as I travel. The land has been tainted by madness since the shattering of the Elden Ring. It is only Tarnished like yourself, who keep things from drying up entirely. Let's say you're a very welcome customer."
The words settled heavily. Madness. Shattering. He'd known it as lore before, words on a wiki page. Hearing it spoken aloud—soft, weathered, from the lips of someone who had survived it—made it sting.
"You know… if you can spare the runes, you should buy yourself a crafting kit. A crafting kit allows you to make basic items on your own. Essential really, if you intend to survive out here for any duration. The kit costs a bundle, and I admit I do take my cut, but the important thing is that you survive. Every customer counts, after all."
He chuckled despite the ache still in his ribs. "Survive first, profit second, huh? Sounds fair enough. Better than handing everything to the Tree Sentinel again."
The merchant's gaze flickered just slightly at that, but his smile returned.
"That knight patrols these lands with purpose. You've done well to make it here intact."
—
He had a goal now: Gatefront. That was where Melina would appear. After that is when the true journey will begin.
The path wound north through open plains. At first, it felt deceptively calm — patches of wildflowers, rolling hills, the Erdtree's gold spilling endlessly across the sky. He moved cautiously, crouched low in tall grass when the wind bent it in his favor. He wasn't alone. Wolves padded silently in the distance, ears twitching, muzzles raised toward the air. He gave them a wide berth, circling until his thighs burned from crouching so long.
Then came the first patrol.
Three soldiers in battered armor walked the dirt road, spears clinking against their shields, torches bobbing. He pressed himself into the grass, heart hammering. They passed close — close enough that he could see the mud caked on their boots, hear the low murmur of a tired joke one told the other. Not faceless mobs. Men. Alive. Breathing.
The knowledge dug at him as they passed: he could kill them. He would get runes for it, like before. But they weren't monsters. They weren't Grafted horrors or hollow beasts. Just soldiers stranded in a broken land. He let them go. For now.
The closer he came to Gatefront, the more dangerous it became. He knew this place from memory — the ruined camp straddling the road, a dozen soldiers or more, a hulking knight with a massive halberd standing watch near the fire. In the game, you could rush through. But here? In the flesh? If he were spotted, he could easily be hit with a well-aimed shot from a crossbow.
He crouched in the brush, watching. Soldiers sharpened blades by the fire, their armor catching the glow. Two more paced the camp's perimeter. A hunting horn hung on the neck of one — a single blast could bring the whole camp down on him.
He swallowed hard.
So he moved slowly, around the edge of the ruin toward the Grace he saw not far away. Painfully slow. Inch by inch, sliding from cover to cover. He timed himself with the soldiers' rotations, waiting until one turned his back before moving to the next bush. His breath caught every time the brush rustled louder than it should, every time a helmeted head twitched like it might turn toward him.
Once, a soldier stopped, peering out into the night. His heart nearly stopped. The man stared straight into the grass where he lay. Seconds dragged. Then the soldier spat, muttered something under his breath, and turned away.
By the time he cleared the camp's far edge, sweat slicked his back, and his legs ached from crouching. He glanced behind him once, just once, to see the flickering fire of the soldier's camp. The knight still stood watch, unmoving, like a statue wrapped in steel.
Only then did he dare breathe freely again.
The Grace at Gatefront blazed faintly ahead, golden threads spiraling into the sky. He nearly collapsed into it, relief flooding through him as he sat cross-legged in its glow. His whole body trembled — not from wounds, but from nerves stretched taut over every step.
The Grace pulsed gently, almost expectant. He knew what that meant. This was it. Melina's place. The maiden's place.
He sat there, staring into the light, heart thrumming.
Any moment now.
Any moment.
But the clearing stayed empty. The night stretched on. Wind sighed through grass and broken stone, but no figure appeared. No quiet voice offering accord.
He waited until the waiting itself became unbearable.
"…Why isn't she here?" he whispered.
The Grace only flickered softly, silent.
He sat by the Gatefront Grace until his legs numbed. Until the fireflies drifted low and the distant hoot of owls marked the turn of night.
Still, she didn't come.
"Maybe I got here too soon," he murmured. His voice cracked in the emptiness. "Maybe I need to prove myself first. Or… maybe…"
The other thought hung, sour in his chest. Maybe she wouldn't come at all.
He stared at the Grace, that rising stream of golden light, willing her into being. The game had always been certain—Melina would arrive, offering accord, unlocking the path of strength. It was a scripted moment. Guaranteed. But here? This wasn't a game anymore. Nothing was guaranteed.
What if his wishes had broken the script? What if his near-immortality had marked him as something other than Tarnished, something that didn't qualify for a maiden's accord? Or worse—what if she simply chose not to appear, because his soul was… other?
That thought burned deeper than he expected.
He waited longer. Hours bled into days. Days into weeks. And still, no figure approached through the moonlight, no quiet voice rose above the whispering grass.
Eventually, he accepted it. She wasn't coming.
When despair cooled into something sharper, he turned inward. If no maiden would help him channel runes into strength, then he would have to do it himself.
So he began to experiment.
The runes inside him were more than currency—they pulsed faintly in his veins, each one a glimmer of stolen life and memory, harvested from the fallen. He sat cross-legged for hours, eyes closed, drawing his awareness to that golden current. At first, nothing. Just silence, hunger gnawing at his belly, the numbness of sitting too long.
But days stretched into weeks. Weeks into months. Hidden beneath the protective veil of Grace, he practiced. He pressed runes into his skin until they dissolved into threads of light, only to let them dissipate without aim. He traced the currents through his body, following how they tangled with his breath, his pulse, his thoughts.
The process wasn't clean. More than once, he burned himself from the inside out, collapsing to the grass in agony as golden fire raced through his nerves. Sometimes he screamed himself hoarse. Sometimes he blacked out for days, waking in the same patch of light, Grace knitting him whole again.
But slowly—slowly—under the endless patient months of failure, a pattern revealed itself.
Runes weren't just energy. They were memories. The distilled essence of will, knowledge, strength, the very being of those who fell. And if he could align that memory with his own flesh, with his own intent, it fused. Not wasted, not currency—growth.
The first time he succeeded, truly succeeded, he nearly wept. His arms shook as he held them before him, veins glowing faintly gold before dimming back to flesh. Not much had changed yet, but he felt it: his grip firmer, his stance steadier, the simple act of standing suddenly slightly… easier. Stronger.
—--
At first, it was nothing but fear.
The Gatefront loomed like a wound in the land—torches, iron, banners snapping in the night. He crept close, heart hammering against his ribs, thinking stealth would be as simple as silence. It wasn't.
A snapped twig. A footfall too heavy. A breath held too long. The soldiers heard him, again and again. Horns split the night, and he fled, stumbling back into the woods with spears grazing his back and curses chasing him into the dark.
The first month was nothing but failure. His blade found no throats, only air. His lungs burned with terror as he slipped back to grace's glow, alive but unchanged.
But he endured.
By the second month, he began to see. The patterns revealed themselves—not just where the guards walked, but when they scratched their beards, when their gazes wandered to the flames, when their hands drifted from their weapons. He learned to breathe with the world, to step only when wind moved branches or when boots struck stone in unison.
The kills came awkwardly at first. A knife across a throat, a hand clapped too late over a mouth, blood slick on his fingers. He dragged them into shadows, his stomach turning as runes seeped into him like cold rain. But he no longer fled every night.
By the third month, his strikes were clean. Quick. Silent. Shadows became his ally. He was the rustle in the grass that made wolves twitch their ears, the whisper of air behind a sentry before he folded silently into death. He fed on the camp, one man at a time, and the runes filled him—weight without voice, pressing against his veins until, slowly, they yielded. His arms steadied under steel. His chest expanded, breath fuller, surer.
The fourth month brought confidence. He no longer clung only to darkness. If two soldiers patrolled together, he stalked them both. His knife found one before his cry could leave him, and the second followed before his blade left its sheath. No horns. No alarms. Just silence, broken by the faint glow of runes flowing into him.
By the fifth, he was no longer hunted. He was the hunter. He struck at clusters by the fire. He moved like a shadow, then like a storm. Three fell, four, five—before the sixth could scream, his blade was already at his throat. Their fear spread through the camp like smoke. Some whispered of a phantom, others prayed for release.
The sixth month hardened him. Steel no longer felt unwieldy; his arms sang with strength, his steps carried him with balance and surety. His body had become leaner, faster, scars layering beneath his skin. The wounds he took closed quicker, the pain dulled to a rhythm he knew well.
Stealth became a choice, not a necessity. Shadows had taught him patience, silence had honed his blade—but he no longer needed to hide. Soldier by soldier, he broke the camp.
The Gatefront had stopped feeling impossible.
Months of watching, testing, and failing had drilled the place into him. He knew where the guards stood, how their eyes swept, where the bushes grew thickest, which trees blocked the torchlight. He didn't need to think about it anymore. His body just moved. Drop to a crouch when the patrol turned, crawl forward when the wind covered the noise, still when the fire popped and drew their eyes.
It wasn't magic. It was practice.
He slid past the outer sentries in minutes. No blades drawn, no alarms raised. Just a man who'd spent too long studying the same patch of ground.
The road up into Stormhill was tighter, walled by cliffs on both sides. He kept low, hugging the rocks, eyes on the ground more than the sky. When the rumble came, he knew what it was before he looked up.
The Giant.
The first time he'd seen it, months back, the sight had frozen him cold. Now, he already knew what it would do—drop down, swing wide, roar loud enough to shake the teeth in your skull. He didn't need to fight it. Fighting would have been suicide.
When it landed, he was already moving. He darted to the right, close to the cliff, letting it slam down where he'd been. Dust sprayed his face. He didn't stop. He sprinted past, heart hammering, keeping low until the sound of its roar faded behind him. The soldiers didn't bother chasing. By the time they realized what had happened, he was already gone.
The shack was small, half falling apart. A rotten little shelter with a bench inside, a lantern guttering in the wind. No one was there. The air smelled of old straw and damp wood.
The Grace outside the tumbledown shack burned low but steady, a beacon against the dark woods. He sank before it, legs folding instinctively, breath spilling ragged into the glow. Months of crouching in grass and bleeding in shadows had hardened him, but the Grace was still the only place where he let his guard drop.