"A pre-ordained destiny? I don't believe in such things."
Messmer's voice was as calm as a bottomless pool, every word saturated with the stoic acceptance of his fate as a "castaway."
Gawain's fist tightened at his side. His throat bobbed; seeing as this brother and sister had only just reunited after so long, he swallowed the retort that sat on the tip of his tongue.
He knew all too well that against a twisted soul like Messmer—who had imprisoned himself within the shackles of fate—empty words were useless. Only by physically overpowering him, then using cold, hard facts to lecture him, could one hope to cure such internal attrition.
In all his time traveling across the Lands Between, the thing Gawain detested most was the attitude many held toward destiny. It was too heavy, too submissive, as if they were born to be bound by invisible chains, allowing a land once blessed by grace to wither into its current state.
The Lands Between was never a dead end like the world of Dark Souls. There was no First Flame destined to fade, and the future was never a fixed script. Why should the destiny of all living things be defined by others?
It ought to be held in one's own hands—whether to follow the old Order or shatter the shackles. Whether to settle for the status quo or carve a new path, these were choices every individual should weigh and decide, eventually piecing together a Law that truly suited this land.
This was perhaps the greatest common ground between him and Ranni regarding the Order of the future.
While Gawain was lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the towering statue of Marika in the center of the main plaza, a dull sound of cracking stone suddenly erupted from a nondescript, shadowy corner to the east.
A second later, a beast the size of a small fortress charged out. Its thick, golden hide was covered in folds of varying depths, and its limbs were as sturdy as pillars. Every step made the ground tremble. It was a hippo, but its size far exceeded any ordinary creature.
More importantly, it didn't charge blindly. Its murky eyes were locked firmly onto Gawain. Clearly, it had been lying in wait for a long time, specifically for this moment to launch an ambush.
Torrent seemed to gauge the speed and size of the attacker. Realizing he couldn't win, he immediately shielded his master for a split second before retreating back into the whistle without a backward glance.
Gawain froze for a moment, his physical reflexes faster than his thoughts. Almost instinctively, he bent his knees and pushed off the ground, flying backward like an arrow and tracing a clean backflip through the air.
The moment he landed, the beast's heavy head smashed into the spot where he had just stood. The impact sent up a spray of water and overturned a nearby weapon rack.
"When did this thing hide here?"
Gawain steadied himself and looked up at the strange hippo. He finally saw it in its entirety: its head was not smooth but featured a protruding golden horn over half a meter long. The horn was covered in spiral patterns, and its luster shifted between natural bone and the metallic texture of an arthropod's exoskeleton.
Just as the beast prepared to charge again, Messmer raised his right hand and pointed a finger with casual indifference. The creature, which had been exuding murderous intent, seemed to hit a pause button. It instantly reined in its ferocity, turned obediently, and came to a halt before him. The massive head even nudged his palm gently, the previous savagery gone.
Messmer looked at the unscathed Gawain, a hint of admiration touching the corners of his mouth. The man's reaction time was indeed impressive, yet a trace of regret over a "failed plan" lingered in his eyes. He then stepped aside slightly, gesturing for Melina to look at the beast.
"Melina, do you still recognize it? This is a Golden Hippo. They once overran the Land of Shadow, but now they are a rare, near-extinct species."
He reached out to stroke the golden horn of the hippo, his tone as light as if discussing a common collectible.
"I found it by chance and raised it at the gate. It serves as an addition to the Specimen Storehouse, and having it as a gatekeeper keeps short-sighted fools from intruding."
Melina stepped forward and lightly touched the thick hide of the Golden Hippo. The cold sensation made her instinctively pull her hand back.
She suddenly recalled the faint whistle, nearly drowned out by the wind, that her brother had made before the attack. She shook her head, a strange look crossing her eyes. If even the main plaza held a hidden Golden Hippo, who knew how many similar "surprises" her brother had prepared in the depths of the Shadow Keep?
She said nothing, merely turning back to stand half a step behind Gawain. If she stayed close, perhaps things would be a bit better.
Messmer took in his sister's actions, his lip twitching almost imperceptibly. He was clearly helpless against her defensive posture.
He waved his hand, and the Golden Hippo walked with heavy steps back into the shadows of the corner, as if it had never appeared. Only the clear crack in the ground remained as proof that the ambush hadn't been an illusion.
"Let us go. Next, I will take you to see the true core of the Shadow Keep. This Golden Hippo is but one of many specimens."
Gawain gave Melina a wry smile, and the two continued to follow Messmer.
Turning left away from the plaza of Marika's statue and ascending a long flight of stairs, they finally entered the heart of the Shadow Keep.
"The Specimen Storehouse. The most important area of the Shadow Keep. It serves as both a preservation site for species and a library. In terms of book collection, it may not rival the Academy of Raya Lucaria, but as the name suggests, its collection of physical specimens is the most staggering in all the Lands Between."
As he spoke, Messmer stole a glance at Gawain, who looked slightly stunned by the internal structure of the storehouse. Having been thwarted by this Tarnished so many times without a way to retaliate, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
Though he noticed the smug look in Messmer's eyes, Gawain didn't argue. This must be the giant tower he had seen from a distance. He hadn't expected it to be a colossal warehouse.
Moreover, the place was truly impressive. Compared to the mountains of books at the Academy, the countless biological specimens and the stone tablets representing heavy history here held a far greater visual impact.
He wondered if, for Melina's sake, he could "borrow" a few things from here. There had to be some treasures.
Gawain pulled his thoughts back as his gaze fell on a specimen near the entrance. The creature resembled a deer but possessed several gnarled, intertwined horns. Its fur cast a dull, aged sheen under the hall lights, giving him a subtle sense of familiarity.
He couldn't suppress his curiosity and asked, "This creature... it feels somewhat similar to the Divine Beast Dancing Lion I fought in the Tower Settlement. Is there a connection?"
A proud smile immediately spread across Messmer's face. He gestured toward the specimen.
"This is one of the 'Divine Beasts' of the Hornsent. Though not the most revered Dancing Lion, its status and strength are comparable. It is one of the most precious items in the Storehouse, which is why it sits in such a prominent position at the entrance."
Gawain stepped closer, marveling at the lifelike beast. How many of these things had the Crusade killed back then? He followed Messmer deeper into the tour, making sure to control his expression to let the demigod enjoy his moment of pride.
The Specimen Storehouse was far vaster than they had imagined. Display cases on both sides showcased endless strange biological specimens: winged insects with scales like glass, giant rodents with spiral horns, and amphibians with limbs like tangling vines.
Seeing the Tarnished looking like a country bumpkin who had never seen the world, Messmer's mood improved significantly. He even took the initiative to explain:
"These were species that emerged when the Crucible of Life was at its zenith—embodiments of the Aspects of the Crucible. They have long since vanished from the Lands Between; only here in the Specimen Storehouse can one catch a glimpse of that era."
He added, "You may browse as you wish, just do not get lost. Miquella's followers should be on the upper levels searching for information."
Messmer had his own plans. The secret chamber he needed to visit was on the top floor, accessible by a direct lift. However, he wanted to use this opportunity to show off—mainly because Melina liked it, not because he cared what an outsider thought.
But before they could move on, Melina's attention was drawn to a corner. The innermost room was hidden in shadow, its heavy metal door tightly shut.
Beside the door stood several sections of rusted railing. There were no signs on the railings, and the area was deserted save for a dim wall lamp casting flickering shadows on the door. More importantly, the ceiling of that room clearly sloped downward, indicating a structure leading underground.
"Does this storehouse have an underground area? I feel a familiar aura," Melina said.
Gawain looked in the direction Melina pointed and saw a lift in that room leading to a lower level.
The smile on Messmer's face vanished instantly. His brow furrowed as if a painful memory had been triggered, and his voice deepened.
"That area... is the infirmary."
He paused, shaking his head with a complex expression. "I had intended to take you there in a few days, but..."
"Are the Shamans who were rescued first kept down there?" Melina asked almost immediately, her gaze turning firm. "I want to go down now. I heard their condition is relatively better. If so, perhaps there is more we can do."
Messmer hesitated for a moment. Recalling the Shamans in Castle Ensis who had regained consciousness from that horrific state, he finally conceded.
They followed Messmer into the lift. The metal doors slid shut, and the descent was perfectly smooth.
Gawain expected a dark, damp basement, but when the doors opened, the scene was quite different. The hallways were lined with lit white candles, their warm yellow flames illuminating the entire space. The air was filled with the faint scent of medicinal herbs.
The scale of this underground area exceeded expectations; its layout was somewhat similar to the Roundtable Hold. The first floor was spacious, with racks along the walls neatly lined with various weapons and armor. Blade edges still bore marks of battle, and rust stained the crevices of the plate—clearly an armory, though it seemed the current Crusade lacked the resources to maintain them properly.
A spiral staircase led from the first floor to a lower level. The handrails were carved with intricate patterns, though the edges had been worn smooth by use.
"The lower level was originally a chapel where battlefield priests spread the faith of the Erdtree. It was later converted into a treatment room. It was the most suitable place to keep the news hidden," Messmer explained as they walked, his voice and footsteps softening as if he didn't want to disturb the patients.
Stepping into the second-floor infirmary, noise and silence intertwined in an eerie way.
Sickbeds lined the walls on both sides, each occupied by a twisted Shaman. Their skin was covered in irregular fleshy growths; some coiled around arms, others covered half a face, and even their breathing was punctuated by shallow gasps.
Several perfumers in pure white robes moved between the beds, carrying silver trays with herbal salves. They applied the medicine with gentle movements, their eyes full of exhaustion and helplessness.
Not all of the Shamans were bedridden. In the center of the room, a few relatively "complete" ones paced slowly. Their movements were sluggish, but they were gathered around several round "Little Jars," which hopped around their feet. Occasionally, the jars would nudge the Shamans' hands with their bodies.
"This is their only entertainment," Messmer said in a low voice. No matter how many times he saw this, he felt a deep sorrow.
"Long-term treatment has shown no improvement. Initially, the Shamans cooperated actively, but now many have realized the reality. Playing with the little jars is a rare moment of peace for them."
The perfumers didn't stop the interaction between the Shamans and the jars, merely observing from a distance and filling notebooks with dense handwriting.
Seeing the group enter, an elderly perfumer sighed softly.
"We have used all the wisdom of the Shadow Keep, tried countless herbs and concoctions, but we are still helpless against their condition. Seeing them tortured by pain day after day... as healers, our hearts ache more than anyone's."
Gawain looked at the Shamans, and a decision slowly formed in his mind.
"These must be the survivors rescued during the Crusade, right?"
When Messmer nodded, he added, "To have lasted this long means the spiritual pollution is relatively light. Their minds are stable enough to handle more aggressive treatment."
Before he could finish, his gaze fell on several beds in the far corner. The Shamans there were different; their fleshy growths had been surgically stripped away layer by layer. Their exposed skin was covered in white bandages, with stitching visible underneath. They could barely be identified as human.
"They requested this themselves," Messmer noted, noticing Gawain's gaze. His voice was heavy. "They didn't want to live in such a state. Rather than lingering in a twisted form, they chose to take a chance. Even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand chance of living like a normal person again, it was worth it. But now, they cannot even move; they are paralyzed in those beds."
The infirmary fell silent, save for the crackling of the candles and the soft wheezing of the Shamans. The perfumers lowered their heads to organize their herbs, and no one spoke. The faces of everyone present were etched with powerlessness and grief. The bold attempts had ultimately failed to yield the desired results.
"Let me try," Gawain said. "If their spirits are firm enough, they should be able to endure the painful process that follows."
Messmer looked skeptical. From what he had heard from Rellana, the man could clear spiritual pollution—a miracle in itself—but there was no mention of restoring a physical form.
Melina immediately understood what Gawain intended to do. Looking at those Shamans who had become like this because they had forcibly stripped away their own flesh—if they could endure such agony, they might be able to hold on until their bodies returned to normal.
"Brother, please trust his ability," Melina urged. "The Shamans we rescued from the gaols earlier were in too fragile a mental state, so we had to use conservative methods. But if it's these women, they should be able to endure until all foreign matter is expelled. It is at least a hope. Let him try."
Seeing his sister vouch for him, Messmer walked to the bedside of a paralyzed Shaman and whispered a few words into her ear. After receiving a response, he turned back and nodded.
"She is willing to accept a new treatment. But I am only giving you this one chance. If it truly works, then..."
He didn't finish. Glancing toward his sister, he leaned quietly against the wall. Meanwhile, the perfumers in the room and even the Shamans playing with the jars gathered around to witness the event.
Gawain slowly approached the bloody, vaguely human-shaped Shaman and spoke softly.
"There is still much pollution remaining in your body, so this will be quite painful. But I promise that if you endure it, you will return to your original state."
Murky tears leaked from the Shaman's eyes. She used all her strength to emit a tiny sound of agreement.
Gawain gently took her broken hand, and the light of a miracle enveloped them both.
Under the influence of a power that manipulated time, the Shaman's original form began to slowly reappear. However, at the same time, clumps of flesh that did not belong to her were forcibly expelled from her body. The agony involved was far beyond imagination.
Gawain watched the Shaman, whose entire body was shaking violently. He gritted his teeth, doing his best to share her mental burden, but he never stopped the release of the miracle.
Her appearance as a normal human was a distant memory. To restore it naturally required a significant amount of time.
However, someone who could force themselves to undergo such a horrific surgery to return to normal was naturally much more resilient than an average person. Even under such intense pain, the brave Shaman held on until the final moment. Unconsciously, her other hand clawed several bloody furrows into the floor.
"It is over. You will never have to live in that state again. Rest well; this is the best reward for your strength."
When the seemingly endless pain suddenly vanished, the Shaman managed to crack her eyes open. A pale, clean hand—one she could only remember in beautiful dreams—appeared before her.
She vaguely saw a stranger's face. She wanted to say something, but for a moment, she could only make a muffled "woo woo" sound.
"Rest easy. This isn't a dream. Sleep now; when you wake up, you can return to your former life."
Large, hot tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. Amidst the gasps of the onlookers, she fell into a deep sleep. This time, her beautiful dream would not end with being captured by the Hornsent and stuffed into a Great Jar.
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Elden Ring: In the Name of Ash
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