The days blurred into weeks. The weeks into months.
The field of giants was his hunting ground now. Each morning he rose from the Grace by the Shack, walked south, and listened for the chains. That sound was all he needed—the clink of iron, the thunder of their tread—and then the slaughter began.
Once, they had been terrors. Now they were little more than obstacles, slow and predictable. His greatsword sang through their ankles, his body slipping past their cleavers with ease. Most never touched him. When they did, it was only by luck—a hammer grazing his ribs, a cleaver clipping his arm. Wounds that would've left another man mangled were already knitting as he pressed forward, flesh sealing, bones locking back into place even before the fight was done.
Only the rare, perfect strike could still unmake him. A hammer crushing him into paste in one clean blow. But that happened less and less.
The cycle became a ritual. Hamstring. Circle. Fell the giant. Drive the sword home. The earth quaked, the runes spilled out like coins dropped into his well, and he carried them back north to the Grace. There, he pressed them into himself. Strength. Endurance. Hardness. Always more. Always forward.
And there was no slowing. Each giant fed him as surely as the first had. Each day saw him stronger than the one before.
By the first month, the greatsword was weightless in his hands, an extension of his body. By the second, the giants fell in half the time. By the third, they could not even threaten him unless fortune itself intervened. His regeneration caught every wound before it could matter, patching him back together mid-swing.
The killing ground was his crucible, and he endured it gladly.
The strength that filled him was constant now, steady and certain. His body hardened beyond what he thought possible. His movements were sure, precise, unstoppable. Every rune sank into him, and every day he rose stronger than when he had begun.
And still he kept going. Because strength felt good. Because it was never enough.
Because the world would demand more.
—--
When at last he turned back toward Stormveil, the path felt different beneath his feet.
The first soldiers appeared at the broken wall, the same rabble that had once forced him to fight cautiously, every swing measured. They had been predators then, shields braced, spears thrusting, voices barking with cruel certainty.
Now they were nothing.
The first man raised his sword, and he met him head-on. No feints. No hesitation. Just a straight swing that cleaved through iron and flesh both, tearing the man in half before he'd finished shouting. The spray hadn't even touched the ground before the greatsword was already arcing into the next. Shields crumpled like kindling. Spears shattered on his body, tips snapping as they struck his hardened flesh.
He didn't dodge. He didn't need to.
A blade bit into his side, shallow and desperate, and before the soldier could wrench it free he swung again, caving him in chest-first. By the time he'd stepped past, the wound had already closed, pink scar fading into nothing.
The men faltered. He saw it—the way their lines wavered, the way their voices cracked. They had faced Tarnished before. They had killed Tarnished before. But none like this.
He pressed forward without mercy. Every swing of the greatsword was a scythe through wheat, bodies flying, steel snapping. He fought like a storm made flesh, and their formation broke in the face of it.
Some fled. He let them. Others stood frozen, too terrified to move, and died where they stood. The boldest charged, hoping to bury him in numbers. He carved them apart in a rhythm as steady as breathing.
By the time he reached the upper courtyard, the ground was slick with blood. Armor lay twisted in heaps. The air stank of iron and ash. And he had not even broken stride.
This was what the runes had bought him. Not survival. Not scraping through battles by luck and will alone. No—this was dominance. Where once he had been prey clawing at the walls of fate, now he was the hunter.
—--
The gates of Stormveil groaned shut behind him, sealing the way back.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and rot, the stones looming high and oppressive. Soldiers clustered in the shadows, beasts lurked in the cracks, and every corridor reeked of old blood. Stormveil was a fortress made to devour men. He could feel it in the walls, the way the place watched.
And yet, as he walked, there was no fear in him.
His greatsword swung freely, unburdened, and soldiers who had once forced him into tense, cautious struggles now died in single blows. Shields splintered, bodies burst apart. The grafted beasts that leapt shrieking from the walls were caught mid-air, hewn apart before they ever touched him. Even when claws or blades landed, the wounds closed before the pain could fully register. His body was too strong now, too fast, too unyielding.
It should have felt like triumph.
But each strike echoed too loud in his mind. The crunch of bones, the wet collapse of bodies — these sounds no longer rattled him. That worried him more than any spear or claw ever had.
Was this strength, or something uglier? He had set out to survive. To protect himself. To build something better, one day — peace, happiness, maybe even a home not haunted by violence. That was the goal. That was the promise.
And yet here he was, drowning Stormveil's halls in blood. Slaughtering men who, weeks ago, had been impossible obstacles. Was he still himself? Or just a blade sharpened too fine?
He tightened his grip on the greatsword.
Peace. Happiness. Protection. The words steadied him. He repeated them like a mantra. That was why he fought. That was why he embraced the runes. Not for killing's sake. Not for the rush of dominance. But for what lay beyond it all, the world he swore to carve out.
Even if right now, he walked it alone.
The loneliness gnawed at him in ways no blade could. No one stood beside him. No one shared the Grace's light. His path was strength and blood, and his reward was silence.
He pushed forward anyway. Through the winding halls, the bloodstained courtyards, the screaming beasts, and the trembling soldiers. Each swing cut him deeper into Stormveil's heart.
And when the moment came, he would need all of this strength. All of this violence.
Afterward—afterward, perhaps—he could start clawing his way back toward peace.
But for now, his path was written in blood.
—--
Stormveil's interior was a maze of ruin and brutality. Banished Knights lurked in the halls, their blackened armor gleaming like oil, blades flashing with vicious precision. They were different from the soldiers outside — disciplined, relentless, worthy opponents.
Once, they would have broken him.
Now, they fell like the rest.
His greatsword carved through their shields, their parries, their desperation. Their blows landed sharp and heavy, enough to stagger lesser men, but his body absorbed them, healed through them, pressed forward until the knight lay broken at his feet. Each one was a wall of steel, but he shattered them one by one, unstoppable.
The grafted monsters were worse. The beasts in a courtyard howled, their blades flashing in mad arcs, their twisted bodies lunging with unnatural speed. He met them head-on. Steel against fang, flesh against claw. His regeneration burned hot where they struck, but his blade struck hotter. When the dust cleared, the beasts were nothing but twitching heaps, their strange, twisted forms leaking onto the stone.
He cut through the birds. He cut through the talon-snarled horrors. He cut through every scream and claw and blade Stormveil hurled at him.
The throne room loomed ahead, sealed by the pale shimmer of a fog wall.
He stood at the Grace just outside, the golden light pooling around him like a quiet heartbeat. He sat, sword across his knees, breathing slow.
This was no knight. No beast. No grafted experiment or storm-broken soldier.
This was a Demigod. A Shardbearer.
He remembered Margit's hammer crashing down, how close it had come to ending him even through regeneration. And Margit had only been a shade of his true self, acting as a gatekeeper. Godrick was something else entirely. Twisted, yes. Mocked, yes. But still one of the blood of the Golden Lineage. Strength — real, terrible strength — waited behind that wall.
He tightened his grip on the Lordsworn's Greatsword. Its weight was comfortable now, familiar, but he knew it wasn't enough. The blade was plain, untempered. Against Godrick's body — swollen with stolen limbs, armored with the gifts of theft — each swing would land shallow.
He thought of the months farming giants, of how far he'd come since crawling into this land broken and weak. And still, here at the threshold, he felt the edge of doubt.
He rose, sheathing the sword across his back. He placed a hand against the fog, feeling its strange resistance. Cold light clung to his skin, pushing back, as though asking him: Are you sure?
For a heartbeat, he wasn't.
The path here had been long, bloody, lonely. He could still turn back, farm more, hunt more, grow stronger before testing himself against what waited inside. But the thought curdled in his chest. Strength meant nothing if he couldn't wield it when it mattered.
His jaw set. He breathed once, deep and steady.
He pressed forward.
The fog wall parted around him like water, swallowing him whole.
The fog thinned, unveiling the throne room in fragments of ruin. Stone split by roots, air stinking of blood and rot. At its center stood Godrick the Grafted.
His swollen form twitched with a hundred borrowed limbs, grotesque harmony rattling with every breath. His bulbous head turned toward the intruder, face split by a snarl.
"Miserable… Tarnished!…" His voice cracked like rotted timber. "Dost thou think'st you can challenge me?"
Steel rasped as the greatsword came free. Its weight felt like nothing in his grip, the weapon an extension of himself now. He gave no answer, no defiance—only the cold promise of readiness.
Godrick lurched forward, dragging his colossal axe. The weapon's jagged edge howled through the air as it came down, pulverizing the floor. Stone burst upward in a deafening crash.
He rolled clear, grit stinging his eyes, and came up striking—three quick cuts into the Demigod's side. Sparks flew. Flesh tore. But shallow. Too shallow.
Godrick laughed. A grotesque, wheezing bellow. "Pitiful! Unworthy Tarnished!"
The axe swung again. When it struck, the chamber itself seemed to buckle, stone splitting outward in spiderweb cracks. The warrior hit the ground hard, ribs screaming as the shockwave battered him senseless.
This was strength unlike anything he'd faced—no technique, no grace. Just raw, titanic power.
He forced himself upright, charging inside the wide arc of the axe. His blade whipped up and smashed into Godrick's knee. Bone and tendon snapped; the giant swayed.
For an instant, it looked like success.
Then one of the grafted arms—twisted and soldier-strong—snatched him from the ground. His chest buckled under the squeeze before Godrick hurled him like scrap against the wall.
Then the world lurched. Godrick tore his axe free with a roar and one of his grafted arms lashed out, swatting him aside like nothing. He smashed against the wall, stone caving in around him. His chest heaved, regeneration struggling, too slow against the damage.
The Demigod loomed.
The axe came down.
Stone, flesh, and bone shattered in one deafening instant. Pain bloomed and then vanished as darkness claimed him.
When sight returned, he was gasping by the grace outside the fog wall, whole once more, the warmth of golden light clinging faint to his skin.
The Grace's warmth pulsed faintly under his hand, steadying him. He spat grit from his mouth, still tasting stone dust though his body was whole. His lungs drew air easily now, ribs intact, but memory clung like splinters.
He rose, staring into the fog wall.
Once more.
The mist parted, and the same bellow greeted him.
The axe came down like before, smashing the ground. This time, he darted to the left instead of rolling late, blade biting deeper into Godrick's side. Not deep enough.
The grafted giant seized him and hurled him, breaking spine against stone. His regeneration stuttered—too slow again. The axe crushed him. Darkness.
Light. Grace. Breath.
He didn't hesitate. Back into the fog.
Again the roar. Again the swing. He read the timing better now, slipping under instead of away. His greatsword cracked into Godrick's knee once, twice, drawing blood.
But Godrick's backhand followed faster than expected. His body hit the floor. Then the axe ended him.
Grace. Warmth. Breath.
Back into the fog.
Over and over, the pattern repeated. Godrick never remembered. The Demigod raged with the same words, the same swings, as though the battle was always their first. But for him, it was never the same fight twice. Each death carved a lesson.
He learned the axe's weight, the rhythm of its rise and fall. He learned the reach of Godrick's lunge, the moment when his bloated frame left him open after a sweeping strike.
He learned when to press. When to dodge. When to retreat.
Each clash ended the same—the axe cleaving his body apart, regeneration too slow to keep him standing. But little by little, strike by strike, he carved meaning into the repetition.
The Grace burned cold now, not warm. Its touch no longer soothed. He rose to it each time gasping, fingers clawing the dirt like a drowning man breaking the surface.
And then—always—the fog.
The words of the demigod echoed, unchanging, carved into his skull with each return.
One clash: he tried to circle behind, only to be caught by a sweeping strike. The axe tore through him, body cleaved in two before he even hit the ground.
Darkness.
Light. Grace.
Another clash: He ducked low, slipping under the axe's arc and hacking at the grafted bulk of Godrick's side. Sparks flared. Flesh split. But too shallow. A sudden knee crushed his ribs flat, air blasted from his chest.
Darkness.
Light. Grace.
Another: he baited the overhead slam, rolling wide and closing on Godrick's flank. His blade hammered into tendon, staggering the Demigod. Triumph flared—then a grafted arm clamped down, squeezing like iron. Bones snapped, skull crushed against the floor.
Darkness.
Light. Grace.
The repetition became a cage.
The same roar, the same words, the same axe tearing him apart. Dozens of times. Hundreds. The Demigod did not remember, but he did. He remembered every death.
The stone cracking beneath him.
The air fleeing his lungs.
The moments when regeneration faltered, too slow to save him.
The weight of the axe, falling again and again, ending everything.
It was tormenting. A cycle without mercy.
And yet… each death etched something into him. Muscle memory took root where panic once lived. His body moved sharper, faster, no longer questioning when to strike.
The axe fell, and he already knew where it would land.
The grafted arm lunged, and he slipped away before it reached him.
The bellow came, and he no longer flinched.
The cycle was killing him. But it was also forging him.
Still, when he rose by the Grace once more, panting, staring at the fog, a question gnawed at him:
How much more of this can I take?