In the dim cellar, ti seed to lose all aning. Lucian and Sellen remained within, imrsed in the study of sorcery.
At last, Lucian could endure no longer. His mind had reached its limit. With a weary bow to his teacher, he took his leave and returned to Stormveil to rest.
Only upon stepping outside did he realize the night was already deep.
—
The following morning, Lucian recounted to Master Thops the events of the previous day—how he had formally beco Sellen's disciple.
The news shocked Thops.
"What? You beca a disciple of the fad Sellen? The Academy's most brilliant prodigy?"
His face lit with relief. "This is wonderful! Then I need no longer fear I've misled you, or failed to teach you properly."
Lucian chuckled. "Teacher Sellen even praised you."
Thops froze. "Impossible. Don't joke with ."
"I am but an obscure figure, unknown beyond these walls. Why would Sellen, of all people, even know my na?"
He looked utterly disbelieving, convinced Lucian must be teasing him.
But Lucian's smile remained steady. "I told her of you. She said your research is intriguing."
Thops swallowed nervously, suddenly tense. "And… what else did she say?"
Lucian paused, recalling. Then he answered: "She said your theory might indeed succeed. And if it does, your na will be written into the history of sorcery."
Thops exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing. Yet at the sa ti, a fierce fla of motivation burned within him.
To think—even the celebrated Sellen believed his work held promise. That was no small encouragent.
—
So the days passed, filled with study.
Each morning, Lucian spent a short ti with Thops—reviewing foundations, revisiting old lessons. There was little left Thops could teach him directly. Instead, Lucian relayed what Sellen had corrected in his basics the night before, helping Thops refine his own system in turn.
From midday until late into the night, Lucian went to Sellen, where the true flood of higher knowledge poured forth. She sharpened every weakness, drilled every detail, and guided him deeper into the mysteries of glintstone.
In between, Lucian even found ti to learn Zamor Ice Storm from Elyssa—an art he had long coveted.
Through this relentless regin, his sorcery advanced at astonishing speed.
Had he been within the Academy itself, he would already be deed worthy of a Glintstone Crown. Not that this ant he had beco truly strong—he had only just begun. The crown rely marked one as having stepped across the threshold of advanced sorcery.
Still, for a Tarnished, empowered further by a Great Rune, such progress was remarkable. In re days, he had risen to the level of an Academy elite.
—
At last, the day ca when his new equipnt was finished.
Smithing Master Iji had outdone himself, working without rest, completing the set even half a day sooner than expected.
Lucian donned the armor and tested it in the wide courtyard. He leapt, rolled, and sprinted, feeling its weight and movent.
Unlike the weathered relic worn by the Naless King—whose golden chestplate had dulled, whose scarves and cloth had frayed—this set glead with fresh radiance.
The crown, the gauntlets, the cuirass—all shone with living gold. From above, the most striking sight was the golden coronet, adorned with a mane of gray-white hair. This was not Lucian's, but a crafted adornnt, woven from Agheel's draconic fur, as though the crown itself bore a stormy crest.
Around his shoulders hung a great crimson scarf, wound several tis about his neck and left to billow dramatically behind. Where once, on the Naless King, it had been tattered and filthy, now it was regal, befitting true majesty.
The golden chestplate drew every eye. It had been forged atop Agheel's breastbone, the bone's savage ridges sealed in radiant gold. Beneath lay dragonhide and scale, then dragonbone, and above, treated gold hardened for battle. It was the strongest part of the set, a fortress upon his chest.
At his wrists glead heavy golden bracers, likewise layered with bone and gold.
The great war-skirt hung in layered folds, leaving no gap unguarded: the outermost of supple dragonhide treated for resilience, adorned with hanging strips of scale; beneath, interlocking dragon scales ford the true defense; and closest to the skin, a soft leather lining for comfort.
The Naless King's original garb had only simple wrappings for feet and hands. But Lucian had no wish to repeat Morgott's mistake—charging into battle unshod. Through Boc's craft and Iji's finishing, he now bore dragon-scale gauntlets and boots, able to shift with his growing form.
The dragon's scales drank the light, matte and dark, while the golden armor blazed like fire. The contrast was striking: shadow and sun bound together.
Breathing deep, Lucian stirred the power of his Great Rune. His body swelled, growing larger and larger.
The armor shifted with him, alive, its scales spreading, its leather stretching, its golden plates expanding seamlessly. It fit him still, perfectly.
At full size, the set seed to exult, eager for war, yearning for blood.
Lucian threw a punch—and the air trembled with the faint echo of a dragon's roar.
He grinned in satisfaction. This was no re adornnt. This was an emperor's armor.
—
With the armor complete, it was ti to claim his weapon.
Before leaving, Lucian asked Iji to remain a while in Stormveil, to instruct the local smiths. He wished to forge equipnt for the Tarnished under his command.
An army must have worthy arms—not only strong, but also inspiring. Distinction of gear would allow each soldier to follow a path suited to their strength, not remain forever in plain soldier's garb.
Those who proved themselves might one day don knightly sets, each with their own splendor: shining silver, solemn church plate, proud Lothric armor… and for the strongest, even special regalia—Havel's impregnable Rock, the dragon-hunting iron, the frenzied wolf pack, and more.
A touch of Dark Souls aesthetics, brought into the Lands Between.
It was not only about pride, but also practicality: distinct armor would let allies and enemies alike distinguish them in battle. Even the city itself would gain in grandeur.
Lucian smirked to himself, imagining Stormveil's throne guarded by a wall of Lothric knights, visitors forced to pass their solemn gaze. Or silver-clad guards patrolling the streets, radiating authority.
Yes. This would be the kingdom's new image.
—
Shrinking back to normal size, Lucian stepped into a site of grace.
lina had been watching as he tested the armor. The design had been hers, and seeing it forged to perfection, she could not hide her smile.
"Congratulations," she said warmly. "The armor you desired has been crafted flawlessly."
Lucian inclined his head. "Thanks to you. Without your plans, it would not have gone so smoothly."
They spoke for a while—ti with lina had been scarce of late—and then she led him to the Roundtable Hold.
At his arrival, all eyes turned. The newly forged armor glead with divine majesty, terrible and splendid, the garb of a true king. The Tarnished recognized him at once: Lucian, Lord of Stormveil. Those few who did not quickly asked their neighbors, and word spread in murmurs.
He strode into Hewg's forge.
There, resting across the great rack behind the smith, lay a weapon imnse beyond compare: the Swordspear he had commissioned.
The Dragonslayer Swordspear.
It was six, nearly seven ters long, the blade broad and heavy, the haft thick as a man's torso.
Seeing Lucian enter, Hewg beckoned eagerly. "Ah, you've co at last. A mighty weapon, this. Though… it's not entirely obedient. It waits for you to ta it."
Like the armor, it had been awakened, given life. It could shift in size, but refused all touch.
Lucian stepped forward, laying a hand upon it. Lightning sparked across the blade, lashing at him in violent rejection.
He did not flinch. The pain was sharp, the power fierce—yet it pleased him. Such lightning would wound even a demigod.
This enchantnt too had been his request. In Leyndell, lightning affinities had once been common, and Hewg was well-versed in such tempering.
The spear had been forged from Agheel's imnse horn, untainted by other attributes. It was no somber weapon, needing no somber stones. Already strengthened to 12, it radiated both raw might and lightning's fury.
Had he possessed such a weapon against Morgott or Godrick, their battles would have been far simpler.
Gripping the shaft, Lucian poured his will into it. The spear fought back, lightning cracking in protest. But he did not let go. He held tighter, forcing his dominance upon it.
Within monts, the weapon yielded, recognizing its true master. Its resistance lted, replaced by a bond of loyalty.
The great spear shrank, fitting itself into his grasp.
Lucian swung it once, lightning roaring down its blade. A thunderclap resounded through the Hold, shaking the chamber.
It was as though the weapon itself cried out in joy, celebrating its birth.
Lucian smiled, satisfied. His arms were now complete.
Armor of gold and scale, spear crowned in lightning—together they would stride with him into war.
And next… he would march to Caelid. To et General Radahn.
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