He rose from the Grace and crossed the courtyard, hammer balanced over his shoulder. The air grew cooler as he passed beneath crumbling archways, the faint glitter of sorcery clinging to the stones like frost. Raya Lucaria was not the bastion of learning it had once been. Its halls were hollow, its brilliance drained, and yet remnants of power still lingered.
A lone sorcerer wandered near the stair, robes torn and mind clearly unmoored, muttering broken formulae to no one. The man raised his staff when the hammer-bearer entered his sight, lips spilling half-formed syllables of power. A shard of light flickered to life—and was crushed just as quickly when the Brick Hammer came down, splintering the sorcerer and stone floor beneath him alike.
He moved on.
Few remained to oppose him. Here and there, a scholar huddled in a corner, muttering to themselves. Others raised spells sluggishly, their wards feeble, their aim poor. Against him—against the sheer, brutal weight of his strength—they were as thin reeds before a storm. The hammer did not falter, and his body, still honed from months of slaughtering giants, cut through their resistance like glass.
The deeper he went, the more he felt the Academy's silence pressing down. Once this place had been alive with debate, lectures, rivalries. Now it was hollow. What little humanity remained in its scholars was gnawed at by obsession and madness. A ghost of a great institution, surviving only in the echo of its wards and the stubbornness of its queen.
He reached the last of the inner halls, where the air grew heavy with dust and the faintest hum of power. Candles guttered in their sconces, their flames refusing to die even after years of neglect. At the end of the path rose towering double doors, carved with intricate patterns of glintstone and moon sigils, their surface scarred by time but still radiant with enchantment.
The Red Wolf of Radagon fought with glintstone flaring and its sharp fangs, but it barely mattered. A single swing of the brick hammer sent the beast reeling, its bones cracked like dry wood. Strength alone carried the fight—blunt, unstoppable, merciless. Before long, the wolf lay broken on the Debate Parlor floor, more obstacle than true foe.
From there, he made a quick push to the Grand Library.
He paused only once, pressing his palm against the wood. Through it, he could feel a thrum—soft, steady, like the pulse of the woman waiting inside. Rennalla. Not a warrior, not a tyrant, but a mother lost in dreams. A queen who still clutched her fragment of the Ring, unaware—or uncaring—that the world outside had moved on.
He let his hand fall. This was no place to hesitate. Every Great Rune was a step closer. Every piece, a stone in the foundation of what he would build.
With a breath, he set his shoulder against the doors. The ancient hinges groaned, light spilling out into the dark corridor. He stepped through, into the heart of Raya Lucaria—into the library of the Carian Queen.
The library smelled of dust, wax, and old parchment. Towering shelves stretched into the shadows above, their books untouched for years, perhaps centuries. Candlelight clung to chandeliers like fading stars, their glow unable to pierce the gloom.
It wasn't empty.
Children—small, pale, and twisted—crawled among the piles of books, their mouths locked in ceaseless lullabies. Their voices overlapped in a haunting drone, words slurring into a melody that made the air feel heavier. Each one cradled a candle as though it were the last warmth left in the world.
In the center of it all floated a cocoon, bound in translucent light. Within, a woman curled like a sleeping child, her crown tilted, her arms wrapped around herself as though protecting something fragile. Her once-queenlike robes hung loose, stained by years of neglect.
He stood in silence for a moment, hammer gripped tight. This was Rennalla, Queen of the Full Moon. Not the glory of Caria, but a mother, suspended in her grief.
The lullabies swelled, filling the library until the very floor seemed to hum. One of the children crawled forward, reached out, and touched the cocoon.
The glow deepened.
Light poured out, flooding the library in silver-blue brilliance. The woman inside unfolded, her body rising slowly, weightless, her long hair drifting as though underwater. Her eyes opened—distant, glassy, yet burning with remnants of majesty.
Her voice was soft but filled the hall.
"Come, O child of ambition. My beloved egg shall birth thee anew."
The chant resumed, louder now, reverent. The children swayed, their candlelight bending toward her. Books rose from their shelves, orbiting in slow arcs, as though the very knowledge of the Academy bowed to her presence.
Rennalla lowered herself, bare feet brushing the stone. Her hand lifted, and the air shimmered with the threads of sorcery. Though her face was sorrowful, her presence was suffocating—an echo of true power, once vast, now frayed but still formidable.
He adjusted his grip on the hammer. This was no innocent mother anymore. This was a keeper of a shard, and the next barrier in his path to remake the Elden Ring.
The lullabies fell silent.
The lullabies swelled again as the fight began. The children raised their candles, the glow rippling outward, and with each pulse Rennalla wove sorcery into the air.
A sigil bloomed above her palm—vast, radiant, azure. A comet of glintstone tore free and screamed across the library.
He hurled himself sideways, the comet smashing into the stone with enough force to shake the shelves, tomes scattering like feathers.
Another sigil. Another comet. Then another. Rennalla's magic chained one into the next with fluid grace, faster than his eyes could track. He brought the Brick Hammer up, braced with both hands. One of the comets crashed against the slab of stone, the impact bursting like a star. He slid back, boots grinding sparks into the floor, shoulders rattling from the force. His regeneration flared, knitting torn skin across his forearms.
"Thou wouldst challenge the mother of moons?" Rennalla's voice echoed like wind across a frozen lake, both mournful and sharp.
She raised her staff. A circle unfurled in the air, larger than the others. His gut clenched as the sigils aligned into a perfect, regal sphere, the glow nearly blinding.
The Full Moon descended.
It drifted, silent, regal. Then it burst open. Shards of raw sorcery cascaded like meteors, tearing through shelves, cracking the marble floor, reducing ancient knowledge to ash in heartbeats. He ducked under one, rolled past another, then had no choice but to take the third on his hammer. The explosion lifted him and slammed him against a bookcase, wood splintering, his chest caving in for a moment before flesh knit, bones mended.
It wasn't enough to simply endure. He had to break through.
He surged forward between spells, weaving in jagged bursts of motion. A comet grazed his shoulder, tearing flesh down to the bone—he ignored it. Another clipped his thigh—he forced his leg to hold. Rennalla floated backward, robes flowing, each gesture releasing another spell. Glintstone darts peppered him, burning lines across his arms and chest, slowing him down.
Still he pressed.
The hammer came up, one swing breaking through a volley of sorcery. He closed the gap—just enough. He drove the hammer down.
Stone cracked, air thundered. Rennalla twisted aside, her robes nearly brushing the weapon as it struck. Her counter came instantly—razor-thin blades of magic spiraled from her staff, lancing across his torso. His ribs shattered, but his regeneration hissed alive, sealing the ruin as fast as it came.
Another swing. Another dodge. Another explosion of sorcery.
It became a rhythm. Magic against muscle. Grace against brute force. He began to see the gaps—not many, but enough. Rennalla's casting was fluid, seamless, but even sorcery had breath between syllables. He ducked under a shard spell, slammed the hammer upward, and clipped her mid-drift. She spun, coughing, blood bright against her pale lips.
He chased her through the air's shimmer, adapting to her tempo. A comet surged—he ducked. A blade spiraled—he batted it aside with the hammer's flat. The Full Moon swelled again—this time he sprinted, rolling at the last instant, the edge of its explosion grazing his heels as he drove forward.
Rennalla gasped, floating higher, weaving another vast sigil. Her sorrow cracked into fury. "Behold the majesty of the eternal moon!"
The library erupted in beautiful silver radiance.
He did not yield.
The hammer carved an arc through the haze, cutting through her defenses in the one heartbeat between invocations.
Rennalla fell, crashing onto the stone floor with a cry, her staff clattering away. Her body was frail, her power waning. She tried to summon again, her trembling hand reaching skyward. He brought the hammer down one last time, not to Rennalla, but the floor just beside her, the impact splitting the stones, silencing the sorcery.
He stood over Rennalla, chest heaving, body glowing faintly as regeneration sealed the countless wounds her sorcery had carved into him. She lay curled, clutching the amber egg like it was her heart, whispering nonsense to herself.
The fight was done.
And the runes came.
The chamber swelled with silence, broken only by the faint drip of dust and mortar from the ceiling. Then the air thickened.
The runes came.
They poured into him in a slow, unrelenting tide—countless fragments of life, shards of spirit ground down into pale, weightless dust. They sank into his body without sound, without light, without glory. No visions of the slain. No voices. Just presence. Just weight. They collected inside him like coins into an endless well, settling deep where nothing stirred them.
For a moment he stood rigid beneath the torrent, chest rising and falling, each new fragment pressing into him like a reminder of what he'd won. Rennalla, mother of sorcery, had been broken. Her power stripped. Her rune claimed.
He looked down at her.
She curled against the floor, fingers digging into the amber egg clutched tight to her chest. Her eyes were unfocused, lips mumbling to phantoms only she could see. She was no longer the towering figure who had filled the library with moonlight. Just a broken mother, mind cracked open, cradling her sorrow.
He let out a long breath. A bitter sort of relief filled him. He didn't need to end her. Her Great Rune was his, even without her death. The path forward was untouched.
The thought whispered across him like the faintest mercy: one fewer life he had to take.
He sat before the grace in Rennalla's chamber, its pale-gold glow soaking into him, smoothing the raw edges of battle. The brick hammer leaned against his leg, its stone head nicked and darkened from the clash, but still whole.
The runes coursed into him as they always did—remnants of lives, fragments of strength.
He trembled, teeth clenched, as the last of them faded into him. Still, something lingered. A single rune remained, unbroken, unchanging.
The Great Rune.
It hovered above her, pale and perfect, like a moon suspended in the void. When it descended, it did not sear or burn. It folded into him like silk, cool and infinite.
His second Great Rune. First Godrick's, torn from a lord of grafted flesh. Now Rennala's, taken without ending her life. Both lodged inside him, silent and immovable, like anchors sunk into his core.
He looked toward her. Slumped, still muttering lullabies to shadows, wrapped around her amber egg. Not an enemy anymore. Not even a ruler. Just… broken. And he was relieved. Relieved that her death wasn't required for his purpose.
But the truth pressed heavy on him all the same.
Two Great Runes, both his. Pieces of the Elden Ring. And if two could be taken, then all could. The Elden Ring itself—shattered, scattered, fought over like scraps of meat—could be gathered, bound together again.
Not to mend the Greater Will's design. Not to kneel before the voice that abandoned this land to rot. To take it. To wield it.
His hand flexed, knuckles white against the haft of the hammer.
If he succeeded, the endless decay of the Lands Between could end. No more demigods tearing at one another for fragments. No more people left to worship ruins and ghosts. The Ring would belong to him alone, and through it, the power to shape this world into something whole again.
The thought settled into him, cold and steady, as much a weapon as the hammer at his side.
He turned from the broken queen and let his steps echo through the hushed chamber. At the far end, half-hidden by torn draperies and moonlit dust, stood a chest. Its lock was fashioned of pale silver, etched with sorcerous runes that flickered faintly, as if daring him to try.
The hammer came down. Once, twice—wood splintered, metal shrieked, wards unraveling with a hiss of dead starlight. The chest split apart, spilling its contents into the open. Amidst cloths and scrolls lay a single ring, dark as the void between constellations, its surface shimmering faintly with a pale blue fire.
The Dark Moon Ring.
He held it in his palm, the metal colder than winter's breath. A binding, a promise, a key. Power—different from the Great Runes, yet no less vital. He slipped it into his pouch, the weight of it settling against him as though it knew where it belonged.
Two Great Runes now lay within him, anchors that dragged his purpose into clarity. And now the Dark Moon Ring, hidden no longer.
The next shardbearer was clear in his mind: General Radahn, the might of Caelid.
But Caelid's wastes stretched far, too far to cross on foot without losing precious time. He would need a steed—his own.
So he turned back south. The mists of Liurnia gave way to the green slopes of Limgrave once more. His steps carried him past places he had once struggled to survive—soldiers that had nearly ended him, beasts that had made his regeneration work to its limits. Now they shrank before him. He had no need to raise his weapon. His presence alone was enough.
It was on the northern cliffs above the river that he saw them: a band of Kaiden Sellswords, camped near their tethered steeds. Heavy-armed mercenaries, broad men with axes and thick mail.
He crouched in the brush, eyes narrowing. One horse, black-coated, restless but strong. Perfect for his needs.
The sellswords' laughter carried into the night. One of them—broad, scarred cheek, red hair bound back—moved off from the fire. His horse stood tied nearby.
He slipped from cover, brick hammer heavy, but balanced in his grip. A single swing could end the man in silence. But there was no need. His footfalls, light and quick, closed the space. His hand snapped around the tether, pulling it apart hard so hard it snapped. The horse whickered, stamping once, but he was already in the saddle before the mercenary turned.
"Oi! That's—!"
Too late. The hammer's haft cracked into his jaw as the horse surged forward, hooves pounding stone. The sellsword dropped into the dirt, out cold. Shouts rose behind, steel clashing as the camp scrambled, but their quarry was gone.
The horse carried him swiftly down the slope, its strength and speed more than enough for the journey ahead. For Caelid. For Radahn.
And as the winds tore at him, he gripped the reins tighter, the fire in his chest coiling into something near a grin.
Radahn—the Starscourge. The being heralded as one of the mightiest living demigods. Not a broken scholar, nor a grafted butcher, but a warrior whose strength still bent the stars.
The horse carried him east until Limgrave's greens gave way to Caelid's filth. It wasn't a border marked by stone or wall—it was the land itself rotting out from under him.
First, the grass thinned, browned, and then simply ceased to exist, the soil beneath cracked and dry. Then came the red. The ground was painted with it, as though rivers of blood had once washed over every inch and dried into crust. But it wasn't blood. It pulsed faintly, alive, spreading out in blotches and tendrils that crept across stone and earth alike. Scarlet rot.
He pulled the horse to a slower pace. Every step landed with a soft crunch, as if he trod not on dirt, but on brittle scabs. The air was heavier now, humid and clinging, and every breath carried spores. He saw them drifting—tiny flecks of rust-colored dust, always present, like ash after a fire that never ended. His lungs burned with each pull of air.
Trees loomed sparsely, and those that remained had become grotesque things. Bark flaked off in sheets, replaced by swelling clusters of fungus that jutted like tumors, capped with slick, oozing bulbs. A few trunks leaned, sagging beneath the weight of mushroom growths as wide as shields, dripping foul ichor to the ground below.
He passed a pond where water should have been clear and cool. Instead, it was thick and viscous, its surface glazed in crimson film, like congealed rot. Along the shore, the carcass of a dog lay half-swallowed by spore clusters, its ribs webbed with stringy fungal fibers.
The air stank. Not of mere death—death was simple. This was something worse. The rot was alive. It grew, it fed, it claimed. It turned flesh into colonies and bone into scaffolding for its spread.
His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles went white. Even he, with all his strength, with flesh that healed and knit faster than most men could bleed, felt a crawling unease inside. The land itself seemed diseased, and he could almost believe the rot wanted him too.
The horse shuddered beneath him, nostrils flaring, foam at its mouth from the stench. He stroked its neck, but his eyes never left the horizon.
Caelid stretched out ahead—a scarlet wasteland. No army could conquer this. No wall could contain it. This corruption made manifest, bleeding out of the very earth, seeping into water, climbing trees, hanging in the air like a plague that never ended.
And somewhere beyond the haze, General Radahn lingered. The Demigod who had shattered stars themselves, yet now ruled nothing but a kingdom of rot.
It sickened him. Not Radahn alone, but the world that allowed this. This was not war. This was not life. This was a slow, endless drowning in filth.
He spat into the dirt, where the rot hissed faintly as if feeding on it.
Radahn's Great Rune waited in the heart of this scarlet hell. And he would take it, even if he had to wade through Caelid's poisoned breath, its mushroomed corpses, its rotting pools.