Lucian stepped out of his chamber and glanced around. Only then did he realize—he had no idea where to go.
He thought for a moment, recalling the rough layout of Redmane Castle. From memory, the fortress was shaped like an 'L'. The place he sought was at the far end—the deepest part of the castle—reached only by passing through the central plaza.
But barging about on his own was unwise. Redmane was still under order, unlike Stormveil. If a stranger wandered unannounced through Stormveil's halls, Lucian himself would not have been pleased. No matter who you were, to intrude upon a lord's castle without leave was simply excessive.
So instead, he retraced his steps toward the area where the soldier had earlier brought him. There, the quarter's steward received him.
"I'm sorry," the man said with a bow. "Master Jerren is not seeing anyone at this time."
Lucian frowned in disappointment, though it was not unexpected. After all, there was no urgent business. The Festival of Combat would soon begin, and Jerren would surely appear then.
But just as Lucian turned to leave, the steward hesitated—then called out to him.
Though not a warrior himself, he could tell at a glance that Lucian's equipment was far from ordinary. Yet strength was not measured by armor alone.
"If you are confident in your own power," the steward ventured, "there may be a way."
Lucian looked back. "Oh? And what way would that be?"
The steward recalled Jerren's instructions and repeated them carefully:
"Master Jerren once said—if a mighty warrior can pass the trial, it proves his strength. Such a warrior he will meet in person, for only such a one might have the power to slay General Radahn."
"But the trial is no simple matter. No common man could ever pass it."
Lucian's interest stirred. The hesitation on the steward's face only sharpened his curiosity.
"What sort of trial?" he pressed. "Do not worry—I have confidence enough in myself."
Seeing his resolve, the steward relented. "From here, you must go to the plaza. Two great champions of the Redmane army await challengers there. Defeat them, or win their recognition, and you may be granted audience with Master Jerren."
"Understand this—many have tried. None have succeeded. Many left only in ruin, carried from the ground in agony."
"If you still wish it, I will take you."
At those words, Lucian all but confirmed his suspicion; the Leonine Misbegotten and the Crucible Knight.
"Then I'll trouble you for the path," Lucian agreed. "But what of your duties, if someone else comes while you are away?"
The steward shook his head. "It is no matter. Others will stand watch in my stead. Far more important is this—our hope for a warrior who can give General Radahn peace."
The Redmane knights longed above all for Radahn's release. It was their oath and their sorrow. And though they had fought the Scarlet Rot for years beyond counting, they knew bitterly they could never purge it. If nothing else, then at least their lord deserved an honorable end.
Following the steward, Lucian walked the length of Redmane Castle. The once-crowded stronghold held no townsfolk now—only militiamen in battered armor.
Something caught his eye, halting his steps. "What is that?"
The steward turned to see what he pointed at.
A hulking Abductor Virgin, also known as Iron Virgins, shaped like a vast iron coffin, its head capped with a pale mask of a weeping woman. From its sides extended thick chains, dragging twin scythes that scraped across the ground.
"That… is a war-automaton," the steward explained awkwardly. "Forgive me, I know little. But they are useful on the battlefield. Some say they were gifts from Lord Rykard, General Radahn's brother… though whether that is true, I cannot say."
The machine was rusted, its iron hide stained with old blood. As Lucian's gaze lingered, the Abductor Virgin turned with a screech of metal to face him. But it made no hostile move. After a moment, it simply wandered off again.
The automatons of the Lands Between were strange indeed.
—
Past the ruined blocks of the city, they came at last to the plaza.
In a side chamber, Lucian found a Site of Grace, and touched it to claim its blessing. Within its light, he stowed away his Dragon Slayer Swordspear, drawing instead the colossal greatsword he had recovered earlier.
The Swordspear was too deadly—too easily able to maim in a duel meant only as trial. Better to wield the sword; crude, heavy as iron itself, enough to bruise rather than kill.
With it slung upon his shoulder, Lucian stepped into the open square.
The plaza was festooned with banners of the Redmane army. From ropes strung overhead hung weapons and shields, spoils of countless battles past.
And there, waiting—two figures.
In one corner crouched the Leonine Misbegotten, rising to its feet as Lucian entered, scarred body tensing. Above, upon the high wall, stood a Crucible Knight, silent and watchful.
Another challenger, the lion-beast seemed to think.
The Leonine Misbegotten lifted its greatsword and strode forward. Its eyes fell on the colossal blade in Lucian's hands. When it spoke, its voice was a guttural snarl, yet clear:
"That sword… does not belong here."
Lucian blinked. So it could speak. In the battle of Castle Morne, Singh the Leonine Misbegotten had never uttered a word—enchanted by the Bewitching Branch, perhaps, or too far gone in death. But Hyetta's guardian, the old misbegotten warrior, had spoken well enough.
"Yes," Lucian replied evenly. "The coffin that bore this blade was torn apart by Monstrous Dogs and Crows. I was there. I slew them, and in doing so avenged the escorts who fell."
The Leonine Misbegotten considered this, then nodded slowly. "So… it refuses to lie silent. Very well. You know why you are here."
Lucian lowered the blade from his shoulder, gripping it in both hands, the point aimed forward. The Leonine Misbegotten roared and leapt, sword raised high.
Steel met steel with a thunderous crash. The beast's weight and blade fell like a mountain, but Lucian caught it cleanly, his strength hurling the lion-bodied warrior back through the air.
The Leonine Misbegotten landed with a twist, scarred lips pulling into a grim smile. Its mane bristled, battle-lust rising.
"Ahh… it has been long since I met such strength. Yes—you are worthy of that sword."
He dragged a claw across his blade, and fire burst along its edge—the Redmane's signature Flame of the Redmanes.
Once more he charged.
Lucian's own strike fell simple and straight, but the Leonine Misbegotten twisted aside, flame trailing in its wake as it spun, blade sweeping in a wide arc.
Fire and steel crashed against the whirlwind Lucian raised with his own greatsword, the wind wall smothering flame. Then, bursting through the blaze, Lucian drove a boot into the Leonine Misbegotten's chest, sending it skidding back in a storm of shattered stone.
He pressed forward, blows heavy and relentless, each one plain yet unstoppable. The beast caught his blade, but was driven into the land, tiles cracking beneath them.
Even with its wings, its tail, its perfected frame—the Leonine Misbegotten could not match such brute force.
At last, staggering back, the lion-beast laughed. "Strong! Strong indeed! Warrior, you have earned my recognition. But forgive me—I cannot end the battle here. Show us all you have!"
With a crash, the Crucible Knight vaulted from the wall, shield and spear gleaming.
"Great warrior," the knight declared, "now face us both. This is not dishonor—it is need. We must know your full strength, for only that strength may grant Lord Radahn his release."
Side by side they stood, gazes burning with hope.
Lucian lifted his blade and grinned. "No matter. I came here for that very purpose—to give General Radahn a worthy end. You will see. My strength will not fail you."
The knight surged forward, shield-first, while the Leonine Misbegotten's blade swept from the flank. Their teamwork was seamless, suffocating.
Yet Lucian met them blow for blow, one hand against shield, the other deflecting steel with a gauntleted fist, retreating only to gather himself for the next strike.
And then—
"Enough!"
An old, commanding voice rang across the plaza. "Do not be discourteous to a warrior of the Festival. I know your hearts, but he is a guest—and far beyond your measure. You will not test him so."
The three turned upward.
On the high dais stood an aged knight, clad in strange attire.
"Forgive me for not welcoming you at the gate," he said, voice rich with weary gravitas. "Storm King of Stormveil—do accept my apology."