The Grace-Given King's staff smashed into the shield covering Skyl's body. The shield looked paper-thin, but its complex microscopic structure and the dense magic packed inside it meant it could easily withstand a main battle tank's cannon shot.
"Is that all?" Skyl lifted a single finger and stopped the staff. The shield absorbed all the force, making it look as if he'd casually blocked a straw in the wind.
The strength behind this blow wasn't even on par with the Grafted Scion's desperate thrust.
Morgott sprang back with startling speed. He gripped the staff and crushed its petrified outer shell, revealing a long, narrow blade of dark violet beneath. The sheen along its edge was as iridescent and greasy as filthy oil.
"You are no small thing to take lightly. Tarnished truly are descendants of warriors."
It was a familiar sight—just like that Grafted Scion: a stubborn, last-ditch display of resistance.
Skyl's destination on this trip was the stone stage, where he would touch the deepest roots of the Golden Order. There, he could dissect divine law itself and grasp that sublime truth which stood above the universe.
Any stones blocking his path would simply be brushed aside.
"Step aside. Once I've secured the Elden Ring, we'll have all the time in the world to chat." Skyl waved him off like shooing a stray dog.
The two of them didn't share a language. They were like a chicken and a duck trying to talk, not even tuned to the same channel.
Morgott stood beneath the golden vault of the Erdtree, yet his figure was as long and dark as a shadow at night, steeped in desolation.
Skyl felt no particular hatred for him. Defeating someone of Morgott's level using only The Elder Scrolls–style magic would actually be tricky. But as long as Morgott couldn't fly, Skyl's victory was guaranteed.
"I shall see your cause of death written upon your gravestone—and it shall be [Arrogance]." Morgott spoke in a low, steady voice, his resolve unshaken.
Skyl shook his head. "You really can't see the gap between us? Looks like you won't surrender until you've tasted despair for yourself."
He bent his knees and sprang upward. His body rocketed into the air, hovering at a height Morgott could never hope to reach, looking down at the Grace-Given King from on high. The Tower's Eye overflowed with magic, pouring power into Skyl's hands. Between his palms, a spell-form took shape—spiny as a sea urchin and blue as the ocean.
Before the spell was even complete, snow began to fall around him.
Snowflakes landed on the Omen's twisted, multi-horned brow and melted as they touched Morgott's ashen skin.
How long had it been since snow last fell on Leyndell?
Ever since the Ring had shattered, he could no longer remember winter.
Morgott stared upward. The sorcerer's silhouette was so distant it was on the verge of dissolving into the Erdtree's radiant crown.
Marika, too, who had abandoned the people of the Lands Between, was just as blindingly radiant.
High and aloof gods—do you bleed?
The Grace-Given King chanted a golden prayer under his breath. With a single grasp of his hand, a bright holy spear of light coalesced in his palm. He bent low and drew back his arm like a massive bowstring, brilliant spearhead aimed straight at the outsider's distant, star-like figure.
"Hah!"
The spear shrieked as it flew, tearing through the warm, ancient air. Vortices of wind spiraled along its shaft like roaring storm clouds, blowing away the unnatural snow.
It was as if a bolt of golden lightning had erupted from nowhere.
And in the next instant, it struck home.
The blow smashed into Skyl's chest and abdomen. The holy impact seeped through the shield, pierced his robes, and crashed into the soft armor underneath.
That soft armor had been transfigured from his pajamas, layered with dual enchantments. Its physical defense rivaled dragon scales, and it greatly reduced magical damage. Once damaged, it repaired itself automatically.
The armor said nothing. The sharp, hardened holy energy failed to tear open its defenses, and the faint scratches it left vanished within moments.
Skyl's spell was ready.
[Extreme Magic: Freezing Ice Storm]
He opened his hands. The ice-blue sea urchin dropped, fragile and beautiful, like a piece of glasswork. The instant it struck the ground, an invisible, bone-piercing shockwave blasted outward in all directions, just shy of the speed of sound. The air in its path turned a restful, pale white, like a winter world washed in snow. The boundary of the expanding wavefront was like a line dividing one season from another.
Morgott sprang backward, moving with incredible speed, skimming the ground as if flying.
In the blink of an eye, he had his back pressed to the trunk of the Erdtree.
And still he felt he had not retreated fast enough, or far enough.
The sea urchin did not shatter when it hit the ground. Instead, it bounced up with the first shockwave, and when it fell again, it triggered another wave just the same. As the second wave of cold rolled out, the air shifted from pale white to tinged blue. Moisture in the atmosphere froze into loose ice crystals that drifted down with a soft rustle.
The sea urchin leapt once more.
And fell again.
Thump.
Thump.
The invisible, biting shockwaves rippled out like circles on water. Wherever they passed, even light itself seemed to dim; the black of the polar night and the heart of winter were closing in.
Morgott clawed his way up the Erdtree's trunk. He held the long blade in his mouth and climbed with all four limbs, both to escape the swiftly expanding shockwave and to draw closer to Skyl.
Skyl's second spell was ready.
And the Ice Storm had already caught up with Morgott.
It was a cold he had never known.
Before the shockwave even touched his skin, the first to react was his ragged cloak. The worn cloth that had always hung limp suddenly stiffened, hampering his movements. Then most of his back—from waist to tail to ankle—was swallowed by the wave.
Morgott felt a faint numbness, and beyond that, only a slight chill.
His legs could no longer bend.
Next came his arms.
Before his whole body froze solid, he pursed his lips and let out a long howl, spitting the blade from his mouth. The sword streaked upward as a shrieking purple-red beam of light, lashing out at Skyl.
It was nothing more than the last struggle of a trapped beast. It did no damage at all, and failed to slow the spell in the slightest.
The shockwave washed over him mercilessly. Morgott became like a winter cicada, frozen rigid against the bark of the Erdtree.
The Grace-Given King did not move.
[Extreme Magic: Lightning Spear]
A pillar of white-hot lightning slammed down. Before the crack of thunder could even be heard, Morgott had already been struck, his body charred black as he tumbled toward the plaza.
Thud.
Thud.
The ice-blue sea urchin was still bouncing, like a cold, relentless heart.
The Grace-Given King lay sprawled on the ground, snow piling two feet deep across his body. Before long, the ice sheath on his skin had taken on the eerie blue of an ancient glacier.
Only when the sea urchin had leapt seventeen times did it finally shatter. The Elden Throne was buried in ice.
Skyl descended from the air and looked up at the towering ice crust that now covered the throne.
"All that's missing is a Lich King," he murmured.
He stepped closer to Morgott. Nature-type magic was brutally rigid; once released, he couldn't really control how lethal it was, so whether Morgott was dead or alive was anyone's guess.
But even if only a corpse remained, Skyl could still extract the information from his brain. He hadn't come here to befriend Morgott—he only wanted to learn the language of the Lands Between, just in case.
His footsteps whispered, the sound of walking on snow.
Skyl breathed into his frozen-red palms, and what he exhaled was a handful of white frost.
It really was cold.
The Erdtree stood still and silent. The frozen Elden Throne sent a great wind howling through the capital. Golden leaves shook loose from the crown and scattered across every corner of the Lands Between.
Skyl gave the frozen Morgott one last glance, then turned his eyes back to the Erdtree.
Learning the local language was secondary. First, he needed to get the real work done.
He started up the long stairway leading into the heart of the tree.
Crack—crack—
The thick ice split apart, and from beneath the snow geysered filth: grey-yellow foul water boiling hot as lava, reeking like rotting flesh, thick and murky as sludge.
The vast plaza was swallowed in pollution.
Morgott punched through the ice-layer. The skin all over his body, ruined by the cold, was a ghastly purplish-black. The stench of the Omen curse coiled around him, swelling and roiling as if alive, coalescing into a shadowy, ghostlike form.
"So, phase two, huh? Still haven't learned your lesson. Looks like you really do want to go all-out with me."
What a pity—but that was a pretty good fight.
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