The world of ashes.
Nothing stretched before him but an ocean of grey, endless dunes of lifeless embers that swallowed even the horizon.
It smothered even the tallest gothic architecture—a shell of a former glory.
The dulled sky that once held with hope and light…
It was nowhere to be seen for a long time—probably longer than he could remember. Only the same suffocating despair remained beneath a thick veil of the ashen clouds.
The wind billowed the smothering ashes in this silence of a world long past its prime.
There, a lone knight sat atop a mountain of cinders, his armor cracked and broken beyond repair. His tattered cape hung in silent surrender to the weight of time.
His gauntleted hand rested upon his blade. The cragged blade was the result of countless battles. Its purpose worn away alongside his own humanity.
A coiled sword plunged into its fading heart, waiting for a powerful soul to sustain its frail existence.
The bonfire before him flickered weakly, a dying ember of something that once was a symbol of a golden age.
Pitiful really...
After his brutal battle with the Soul of Cinder and several deaths, he had crawled to this place, bloodied and battered, teetering on the edge of purpose and oblivion.
Just one more step, and he would fulfill his duty.
To link the fire using his own soul.
To sacrifice himself as countless others had done before him. They were unsung heroes whose names were forgotten in this ever-stagnant era while he… was nothing more but a coward.
He hesitated.
His eyes, dulled by exhaustion and burdened with the weight of his choice, fixed upon the dwindling flame.
It was pathetic.
A fragile, flickering thing, so weak that a whisper of wind might snuff it out entirely.
And yet, this feeble flame had once shaped the Age of Fire that was now reduced to nothing but myth and memory.
How many had walked this path before him?
How many souls had burned in this pyre of eternity, only for the cycle to continue, unbroken and cruel like it already was?
Lords, champions, nameless warriors, each had given themselves willingly, only for the fire to fade once more, each sacrifice was just as meaningless as the last.
Now, here he was, one more pawn in an endless game of light and dark, heat and cold… Life and death.
The dark sigil above served as his reminder, a brand seared into the sky itself- a testament to the fate he could not escape.
Soon, he would go hollow, his mind unraveling like frayed fabric until nothing remained of who he once was. He could feel it even now, the insanity that slowly chipped away at his already feeble mind.
Though he was one of the last remnants of humanity, not many made it, but those who made it were nothing to laugh at… but even that meant nothing in this forsaken world.
No one would find him.
No one would mourn him.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, dry and hollow like the husk of a man who had long since lost everything.
A fitting end, perhaps.
Or a morbid joke played by the gods upon a knight who had forgotten why he still walked this world.
To any other, this duty would have been an honor.
But to him, it was nothing but a burden, a chain wrapped so tightly around his throat that it choked him.
Did he even have a choice?
No.
Then why did he still hesitate?
Because this was all he knew.
The only purpose that had been beaten into him over lifetimes of suffering.
Even as the Gods themselves had failed, and as the Lords of Olds had all shied away from this wretched fate. The undead remained, being called forth to uphold their duty and keep this vicious cycle alive as the last resort through the Bell of Awakening.
But it had taken too much from everyone.
This light and dark cycle had devoured everything until there was nothing left but duty and despair.
Gwyn feared the Dark. He feared the unknown that lurked beyond the flame's death. He was a madman but… one with a great conviction.
Due to his fear, he had offered himself to the flame, letting it burn through his soul to elongate his Age of Fire even if he was dead. And that same fear had driven kings to madness, and led countless civilizations to ruin.
But even now, he wondered... could there be something beyond this madness that we yearned for it… insatiably?
Life is a change, and those stagnant are bound to rot.
He feared the Dark, too.
Feared the unknown that loomed just beyond his fingertips, the uncertainty of what lay ahead if he did not take this final step.
But perhaps, just perhaps, that fear was justified. Perhaps it was foolish to assume that breaking the cycle would lead to salvation rather than further ruin.
For the first time, he rejected his purpose.
For the first time, he turned his back on the flame.
He felt it then, the slow and creeping embrace of hollowing. The weight of his soul was fracturing, dissolving into emptiness.
His hands trembled, not from weakness, but from the terrifying realization that he no longer knew what to do.
To abandon purpose was to abandon oneself.
And yet, he did not move. He simply watched as the First Flame withered before him, the embers dimming, shrinking into nothing.
Then, the flame was no more.
The world stood still.
For the first time in eons, the Age of Fire had truly ended.
Silence reigned in the aftermath, and with it, the Age of Dark had begun.
And yet, humanity would endure. It always did. The gods had tried to shackle men to the flame, using their very souls as fuel to prolong the inevitable. But now, the inevitable had come.
A faint smile tugged at the knight's lips, a final act of defiance against the fate that had been thrust upon him. He would take what little time he had left before hollowing completely, wandering aimlessly through the ruins of this world, searching for something.
Anything is fine.
A purpose of life that lay somewhere in this ruined world.
His thoughts were cut short by the sound of metal against stone. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, echoed through the silence.
He turned his head, his weary gaze settling upon a familiar figure. A knight in tarnished silver armor, a red hood draped over his worn features, his overgrown beard concealing the scars of a thousand battles.
His armor bore the sigil of the past, an emblem of the honor that once defined mankind's greatest warriors who once fought alongside the Gods in defeating the Everlasting Dragons.
A slave to the fire, much like himself.
Slave Knight Gael.
"So it has come to this, my friend." Gael murmured, his voice hoarse with the weight of understanding. He had known and expected this.
The black knight said nothing. Instead, he grasped his chipped blade, using it to push himself to his feet.
He understood why Gael had come.
Their promise.
If ever he strayed from his duty, Gael would be the one to set him back upon his path.
Or to slay the knight that had been strayed from his duty.
"Red hood, I know you'd come."
The knight raised his weapon, his stance unsteady but unyielding. His armor barely clung to his battered frame, hanging in tattered plates over wounds both fresh and old.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his body long past exhaustion, and yet, he still stood.
They circled each other, warriors who had outlived their time, relics of a past reduced to dust.
The wind howled through the ruins, kicking up ash and dust. There were no words exchanged, only the unspoken understanding that in this desolate world, victory was the only thing that mattered.
Gael struck first, not with steel, but with a sharp mechanical click.
A repeating crossbow snapped up in his hands, and in an instant, bolts shot through the air.
The knight barely had time to react. He threw himself to the side, twisting his body as the first volley tore past him, two bolts deflecting off his ruined armor while a third nicked his leg.
He pressed forward, closing the distance as Gael reloaded with unnatural speed.
The knight lunged, his sword swung in a blurred arc. But Gael sidestepped, one foot pivoting in the dust. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed something else, a luminous ring of golden energy forming in his palm.
The Ring of Light.
With a swift motion, Gael hurled it forward.
The radiant circle spun like a wheel of fire, streaking toward the knight. He barely managed to raise his sword in time, and when the ring struck, an explosion of divine energy sent him reeling.
The impact seared his armor, the sheer force driving him backward. His vision swam, his body screaming in protest.
Gael didn't let up.
Another series of bolts whistled through the air, forcing the knight to stumble into a desperate roll. He had to get close to stop the onslaught before it overwhelmed him.
His moment came when Gael reached for another ring of light. The knight surged forward, using the last reserves of his strength.
His blade slashed in a desperate arc, aimed straight for Gael's chest—
Then, it happened.
Clang!
Gael's greatsword shot up in a blur of motion, meeting the knight's strike head-on. The parry sent a shockwave up the knight's already numb arms, his grip faltering for just a second. But that second was enough.
Before he could recover, Gael twisted his blade and drove forward—
Steel plunged into flesh and protruded out of his back.
Drip—drip—
Black ichor seeped from the wound.
The Blood of the Dark Soul.
It was over.
The knight collapsed onto his back, his gaze unfocused, staring up at the sky that had long forgotten him. He chuckled, the sound ragged.
"It's strangely a fitting end for an undead like me..."
The knight closed his eyes.
Darkness consumed him once more.
O'Death... hold me in thy embrace one last time… before this lost lamb becomes naught but a mindless beast…
________
Darkness…
How comforting…
He had died.
The sword had run him through. The heat of the battlefield had faded. The pain had become distant, then gone.
He should have felt nothing now, slipped into that silent abyss, where no more battles awaited him.
But he was still here. And his mind was intact.
His thoughts stirred first, fragments of memory swirling in the void. It was like sinking, yet never reaching the bottom. Like floating, yet never free.
Then, something watched him.
It had no eyes, no face, no breath, but its presence pressed down on him like an ocean. It was familiar but not in a comforting way.
No, it was in the way a nightmare returns after years of being forgotten.
And oddly enough, it felt like welcoming an old pal.
Then, a whisper pressed against his mind.
[Do not flinch at my word, my friend. You have been forsaken… How tragic and ordinary…]
A shudder ran through him. The weight of an unseen chain, coiling around something deeper than his blood and flesh.
His thoughts struggled against the denial that was sinking into him.
'Why me?'
A pause. The entity understood him because this was not the first time he had been here.
[Why you? Of course, you must be wondering… But do not fret, little sparks. I do not wish to diminish your sufferings, I simply recognize for what it is—Scars, and many at that…]
A hollow feeling settled in his soul.
[If your body turned against you, your legs gave out, failing to hold you. Would you curse your hands for trembling?]
[No, you would adapt and adapt as you would, like many times you did before. You will learn new ways to keep pushing, crawling using your teeth and nails.]
'I have given them everything, why do you still hold me in this shackle?' He screamed but no word came out of his mouth, only an emptiness in his chest remained.
[Ahh… you are feeling betrayed… but what is betrayal if not give them something worth betraying? You did not fail, my friend. The Gods did.]
[So rise up. You will rise. You will fall. Again and again. You will burn and turn into kindling.]
[And one day… one day my dear, you will set the sky on fire…]
[Until that day you finally realize that this is not a curse but a gift I want you to have.]
Pain. Breath. Cold air. The scent of ash.
The ground was solid beneath him. The weight of his armor pressed against his shoulders. His hands, steady despite everything, clenched into fists.
And before him, a bonfire was lit.
A sign that no matter what he did, he would be brought back. His fate was bound to this senseless cycle.
He exhaled heavily, feeling the weight of his own meaningless existence pressed on his shoulders. Before his eyes, he saw a line of text written in High Gothic language.
[May your path be filled with boundless blessings and wondrous curses, Champion of Ash.]
"Hahaha… hahahha…"
A broken man's laughter, filled with despair, cut through the stillness of the dark.
______________
(A/N: Okay, hope this time the writing is good enough.
Comment your thoughts and suggest ideas for me, scrubs, because I can miss a thing or two. Otherwise, give me stones and reviews... or I will find you, and I will touch you.)