"Based on the information we've gathered so far, we can infer that the Undead Legion of Farron was once an elite army under Lord Gwyn's command."
"They fought against a terrifying force known as the Abyss. The Abyss seeks to extinguish the First Flame, while Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, sought to link it—to preserve the Age of Fire."
"In other words, the Undead Legion were heroes who carried the sacred duty of kindling the flame!"
"I believe that at the end of Farron Keep, we'll face the Legion at their full strength. That battle will be one for the history books—a true legend!"
"Ancient heroes facing modern adventurers! It's the very fire passed down from the Undead Legion that forged the humans brave enough to challenge them today! Ah, what an unparalleled sense of fate!"
Near the teleportation gate to the Dungeon, a young adventurer named Wallace spoke passionately, his face glowing with excitement.
Then someone voiced a doubt.
"Are you sure the final boss will really be the full Undead Legion? Farron Keep reeks of decay. It doesn't feel right in there... what if they've already been—"
Before he could finish, Wallace grabbed the man's shoulders and said earnestly,
"They will. They must! The Undead heroes will definitely stand before us in all their glory, paying respect to every challenger who reaches them!"
"And then, beneath the light of the sun, they'll engage us in an epic duel worthy of their name!"
"That's what true heroes deserve!"
(***)
Farron Keep.
When the massive gates slowly opened, Darrick felt no warmth—neither from flame nor sunlight.
Only cold.
A bone-deep chill wrapped around him, carrying with it a malicious aura—as if unseen hands were trying to drag him into a bottomless pit.
He knew this feeling well. The Ghrus, the Darkwraith, even the Arakkoa outside—all of them had exuded the same sensation.
It was the stench of the Abyss.
The fortress that had once been built to purge the Abyss… was now overflowing with it.
What the hell happened here!?
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Metal crashed against metal. Steel rang against steel.
When Darrick turned toward the sound, his fists clenched instinctively. His expression said it all—
Why… why is it like this!?
Inside the fortress stood two members of the Undead Legion.
They swung their greatswords and daggers in wild, wolf-like motions. Their movements were sharp and fluid—a deadly dance of precision and ferocity. Every strike carried mastery forged through countless battles.
Yet their killing intent and bloodlust weren't directed at enemies.
They were fighting each other.
Two comrades of the Undead Legion—locked in a fatal duel.
And when the adventurers looked deeper inside, their hearts froze completely.
Corpses—countless corpses.
The fortress floor was littered with fallen Legion warriors.
No warmth of flame. Only the freezing despair of a slaughterhouse hell.
"Why…?" Antilly whispered, her face pale. "Is this… civil war?"
What could have driven them to turn their blades on their own?
A final clash of steel echoed. One Legion warrior parried his opponent's strike, then plunged his own sword straight through his comrade's chest.
He rested a hand on the dying man's shoulder and pulled the blade free. The fallen warrior collapsed, yet his face showed unmistakable peace—as if finally released.
It was strange. Terribly strange. Darrick could feel it—they were missing a vital piece of the story. Some key truth that would make sense of this madness.
What did we overlook!?
Before he could think further, the last remaining Legion warrior turned toward them.
Roger hastily drew his rapier—but his trembling hands made it stick halfway out of the sheath.
Cold sweat streamed down his face. When faced with the legendary Undead Legion in the flesh, all his courage vanished.
Even if there was only one of them… even if the Legionnaire looked half-broken…
The sheer pressure was overwhelming.
Antilly tried to summon her familiars—but they refused to appear, cowering in terror.
"…"
Darrick took a deep breath.
He remembered the vision of the Legionnaire who had failed to accept the wolf's blood—how even as he was slain, he looked upon his comrades with reverence.
Darrick felt the same fear—a primal awe of a higher being—but beyond that fear…
He felt the urge to salute.
He recalled the spectral figure they'd met when entering Farron Keep—the solemn gesture of respect. Perhaps that was the Legion's salute?
Clumsily, Darrick raised his arm to mimic the motion.
But what happened next shocked him to his core.
The Undead Legionnaire lowered his head, raised his greatsword, and placed his dagger across it.
The Abyss Watcher—the last of the Undead Legion of Farron—was saluting them.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze.
Roger stopped drawing his sword.
Antilly covered her mouth in disbelief.
Darrick trembled all over.
The Undead Legion… is saluting us!?
It was a gesture of honor—a greeting meant for those who had passed the trial of the watchfires.
If fate had been kinder, this would've been a ceremony of welcome—a moment of respect in the heart of the fortress.
But the adventurers couldn't grasp its full meaning. They only felt that this warrior was different from every other monster in Sein Dungeon.
He still had… a spark of reason.
"Wait—can he talk to us?" Roger whispered, his breath quickening. "Is he… still sane?"
He opened his mouth to speak—
—but the Abyss Watcher was already charging toward them!
Of course. It had to come to battle.
"I—!"
Roger barely managed to lift his sword before a massive blade came crashing down.
"BOOM!"
His vision spun violently. The sheer force of the blow sent him flying, blood spraying like rain.
His sword—and its scabbard—were both split clean in two.
Antilly was the next to fall. When the Watcher's blade swung toward Darrick, she kicked him aside and took the full strike herself.
Darrick rolled across the floor, landing hard. His body was soaked in thick, black filth—the sticky essence of the Abyss.
Then he saw it.
Every fallen Legion corpse was covered in that same dark substance—not just stained, but consumed from within.
The Undead Legionnaire leapt high and thrust his blade downward. Darrick barely managed to block with his magic longsword while rolling aside.
"CRACK!"
The blade shattered instantly.
The next strike smashed him into the wall with bone-crushing force.
"Guh—!"
Blood burst from his mouth. His vision blurred. He could feel several ribs break.
So this… this is the Undead Legion… There's no defeating this.
Even Leon's party would've met the same fate.
His mind spun. He couldn't resist the sword now piercing his chest.
Just before the light faded from his eyes, he heard it—a sigh. A sound filled with disappointment… and sorrow.
Was that the Legionnaire? Why… why are you sighing?
A crushing shame washed over him. He felt as though he'd failed to live up to their expectations.
His life ebbed away.
But just before darkness claimed him, his eyes widened in horror.
Behind the Abyss Watcher, one of the fallen Legionnaires… stood back up.
Its eyes burned red. Its movements were jerky, twisted—no trace of reason left. Like a beast, it lunged at its comrade.
The two figures—once identical—clashed again, their blades singing with tragic fury.
A faint, mournful melody seemed to echo through the air.
Darrick's mind flashed back to when they'd opened the fortress gates—the first fighter's eyes had been red, too!
Could it be…?
"The… Abyss…"
He whispered the final two words before his consciousness sank into darkness—devoured by the same void that had claimed the heroes before him.
When he finally awoke, chaos surrounded him.
He was in the Resurrection Hall. His spirit was dangerously drained—too weak to respawn again at the bonfire.
Sitting up, Darrick held his aching head.
"The Legion… the Abyss… the corruption…"
He tried to think, but the noise was unbearable—as if a thousand Arakkoa were shrieking in his ears.
"What the hell is going on!? Why is it so noisy today!? Aren't you priests supposed to like peace and quiet!?"
He stormed out, furious, searching for someone to give him answers.
But the priests, usually calm and smiling, were now frantic—rushing in and out of the hall without rest.
He finally managed to grab a nun by the arm—only for her to shout at him:
"Let go! The wounded from the demon attack are being brought in!"