The space was a void of desolate monochrome, choked by a relentless, ashen fog.
In this realm of boundless grey blindness, only a colossal tombstone and a scattered offering of ritual flowers stood in stark relief. Perhaps due to the sheer passage of eons, the epitaph upon the stone had long since blurred into illegality. Yet, the density of the script remained—a silent testament that the one interred here was no soul of common consequence.
Suddenly, a phantom breeze stirred the stagnant air. Petals and tufts of ash-white, wolf-like fur danced in the current. As the gale swept the fog aside, a radiant spear of gold pierced the deathly silence. A single mote of Grace drifted languidly toward the heart of the tomb, merging into the form of the buried man.
"..."
The man—a corpse but a moment before—felt his fingers twitch. With a slow, deliberate grace, he rose to his feet. Life, once extinguished, flickered back into the hollow space.
"This is... Grace?"
The man ran a hand through his hair. A few strands of ash-white silk fell into his palm. He opened eyes that were equally clouded with grey, yet their sharp, undecayed intensity remained. He studied his surroundings with a calculating gaze.
"How curious. Tell me, Marika... what is your game? Do you wish for me to witness your Golden Age in its prime, or perhaps..." He narrowed his eyes at the sliver of light ahead. "No matter. Let us see what has become of the Lands Between in my absence."
He moved to step forward, only to be met by a sudden, biting draft. A distinct chill ghosted over his skin.
"Hm? Where are my clothes?"
Only then did it register: he was utterly destitute of attire, save for a solitary loincloth.
His expression darkened as he surveyed his own grave. Upon closer inspection of the site from which he had emerged, it became clear the stone had been disturbed. Grave robbers. He had been 'visited.'
"Wretched scavengers... robbing my very grave. Pray I never find you."
He shook out his hands, limbering a body that had been motionless for far too long. Lingering no further, he strode toward the beckoning golden light.
As he neared the radiance, his vision blurred into a white haze. When clarity returned, he found himself within the hollowed shell of a ruined structure. Judging by the weathered finery of the interior, it appeared to be a chapel.
"Marvelous. It feels much the same as the day of the Exile—as if tearing through the very fabric of space."
The man scouted the room for a serviceable weapon. While his bare hands were lethal enough, he was newly awakened and his internal reserves were severely depleted; a tool of any sort would be preferable. His standards were low—anything that could strike would suffice.
Fortune favored him: a splintered table leg lay nearby, serving well enough as a makeshift club. He weighed the wood in his hand and shook his head with a sigh. "Poor quality. But it will have to do."
"?"
Movement caught the periphery of his vision in the shadows. There, slumped against the wall, was a woman in white robes. Even with her face drained of life, her beauty was striking. A massive hemorrhage at her abdomen told the tale of her end. Judging by her vestments, she had been a Finger Maiden.
"Even if the guidance is broken... please, become the Elden Lord..."
The man knelt, his expression softening slightly as he read the white message she had carved with her final strength.
To hold such a fervent hope even at the threshold of death... she was a truly pious soul.
"Elden Lord... Hmph. Is that truly what a 'King' is?" He gathered the woman into his arms and walked toward the exit. "Oh, I shall become a King. But not the mocked puppet-king of this current age."
"Perhaps you were waiting for me." This place seemed linked to the realm of fog; those who lingered here likely intended to guide those, like him, who had returned.
"Regrettably, I was too late. However..."
He laid her body down gently and raised a simple mound of earth for her. Having never known her name, he marked the spot with a simple dedication: To a Pious Maiden.
"If the opportunity arises, I will settle this debt for you, stranger though we are."
The maiden's death was clearly intertwined with his arrival. To find a potential ally murdered the moment he set foot back in the Lands Between souled his mood.
"Enough. Time to move."
He adjusted his mindset and surveyed the exterior. They were on a floating isle; a single misstep would mean a plunge into the abyss.
"Thoroughness is key." He was no novice. During the long campaigns alongside a certain barbarian, he had explored countless ruins across the Lands Between. He knew that careful scrutiny often yielded unexpected boons.
To the left of the chapel's main gate, he found a locked door. No key was in sight.
"Locked... A pity I was never one for rules."
The man snatched up a heavy stone and brought it crashing down on the handle. With a jarring clang, the door yielded to brute force.
"Hands are numb now." He rubbed his palms and ascended the stairs to the chapel's upper gallery. A glint of something shimmering caught his eye. Approaching, he discovered a funerary jar.
"Ashes of a hawk? If I recall, spirit ashes are the remains of those who failed to return to the Erdtree."
Observing the ornate jar, he surmised these belonged to a king among hawks. Why would a monarch of the skies be left in such a desolate, crumbling hole? Moreover, the ashes carried the distinct scent of the storm. Could it be...?
He faced a practical dilemma: he had no clothes and no satchel. "If there were some cloth nearby, I could fashion a bag... but that's wishful thinking." In this godforsaken place, there wasn't so much as a bird left alive—only the ashes of one.
He followed the upper corridor to its terminus, where a chest sat waiting.
"There we go." He opened it to find another, smaller urn.
"Is there no end to them?" He examined the small vessel, which bore the insignia of the storm and the hawk. "A Stormhawk? A subordinate to the hawk-king from before?"
He set it back for the moment. The problem remained: he had no way to carry them. Better to press on; perhaps he would find some cloth further ahead.
Returning to the main gates, he crossed the suspension bridge. Beyond a massive archway lay a circular plaza, dominated by a towering statue.
"Hah. Marika. In my day, that woman's icons weren't nearly so ubiquitous. Now, they're even in the backwaters. Truly, the Eternal Queen." He spat the word 'Queen' with a sharp, derisive edge.
"Hm? What's that?"
A strange mechanical clicking reached his ears. Instinct, honed by a thousand battles, screamed of an approaching threat. He shifted his stance, bracing for the inevitable.
Sure enough, a spherical shadow plummeted from the sky, kicking up a cloud of grit and dust.
"Where did you even come from?" He glanced upward. There was nowhere to hide, and yet...
"What in the name of the Outer Gods is this? A spider?"
The creature before him—monster was a more apt description—was a grotesque fusion. It resembled a spider, but its body was a chaotic graft of human limbs. At its center, a hauntingly beautiful face sat in jarring contrast to the horror surrounding it.
The sheer number of limbs allowed it to wield an arsenal: twin golden straight swords and a massive wooden shield. Without a word, it let out a piercing shriek, its grafted limbs twitching with sickening fluidity.
"A hideous thing... wait." The man's eyes fell upon the dual swords and the fine, aristocratic cloak draped over the creature's back. A predatory, unkind smile touched his lips. "Well, look at that. My wardrobe has arrived."
The Grafted Scion lunged, its multi-armed movements rapid but frantic. To a master, the flaw was obvious: the creature possessed no true technique. It relied entirely on the overwhelming advantage of its extra limbs.
"Tedious."
The man let out a disdainful snort. At first glance, it seemed a formidable foe, but in practice, it was hollow. Its attacks were a cluttered mess; the twin blades were swung with such lack of coordination they nearly collided with one another.
Timing the gap, the man swung his makeshift club, shattering the creature's face. It shrieked in pain, its limbs flailing even more wildly. Though the spider-like hands left gouge marks across his exposed skin, the man ignored the sting. He rained blow after blow upon the creature's head until it finally collapsed, a heap of still flesh.
Weak. Brittle. That was the man's final assessment of the beast.
"A waste of a good shield." He pried the golden twin swords from the creature's grip. After a few practice swings, he nodded, satisfied with their balance. He tore the black cloak from the Scion's back, revealing a repulsive density of arms grafted to its spine, still twitching like the tentacles of a dying octopus.
"Vile. What manner of fool concocted such a monstrosity?"
After a short while, he had successfully fashioned a crude rucksack from the black cloak. He doubled back to the chapel, secured the two sets of spirit ashes into his new pack, and prepared to move on. As for the shield—he had never been one for hiding behind wood and iron.
"A dead end?"
The path beyond the plaza led only to a sheer precipice. There were no other trails. He approached the edge cautiously and tapped the ground with his foot. The stone crumbled instantly.
"I knew this foundation was precarious."
He leaned over, listening to the sound of the falling debris to gauge the depth. To his surprise, the drop wasn't as deep as it appeared; the echo of the impact reached him quickly.
"It seems this is the only way forward."
Tightening the straps of his makeshift pack, the man stepped to the edge and leapt into the void. A veteran of a hundred wars, jumping into the unknown was nothing new. Based on the height and his weight, this fall would likely break half the bones in his body. But as long as it didn't kill him, it didn't matter.
In the Lands Between—in any battle—there are only two results: life or death. So long as one breathes, no amount of injury is insurmountable. This was the path he had always walked.
The sensation of weightlessness took hold as gravity claimed him. He felt no fear; on the contrary, he felt his blood begin to simmer with a long-forgotten heat.
As the ground rushed up to meet him, he plunged one of his swords into the cliffside, dragging it through the rock to bleed off the momentum. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
"Tch... I suppose... one shouldn't do such things... right after waking up."
He spat a mouthful of blood and laughed weakly, sliding down against the wall until he sat slumped on the floor. "Bones feel like kindling... I really have gotten old..."
Between the exhaustion of his resurrection and the trauma of the fall, a heavy fatigue settled over him. Ensuring the immediate area was clear of threats, he allowed his eyes to close.
Some time later, in a haze of half-sleep, he felt a warm, moist breath against his face and the brush of something furry nudging his shoulder.
"Do not worry, Torrent... this one is still alive."
A girl's voice—cool, calm, and ethereal—soothed the creature named Torrent.
"This one, too, will surely seek the Elden Ring..."
He heard the soft splash of boots stepping through shallow water. He tried to force his eyes open, but his body refused to obey. Suddenly, a wave of profound warmth washed over him. His wounds knit together; shattered bones realigned and fused. Within moments, the debilitating damage was gone, leaving only a few negligible scratches.
(Is this... a Grace incantation?) The sensation was familiar. During the old wars, the clerics in his company had used similar arts. But this felt different—purer, as if drawn from a more direct source.
Curiosity flared. He wanted to thank his healer. With his strength restored, he snapped his eyes open, but all he caught was a fleeting shimmer of blue light—a teleportation glint.
"A blue glint? Sorcery?"
He stood, testing his mended limbs. On a nearby stone seat sat a flask glowing with a vibrant, golden-orange hue.
"Crimson Tears?" He knew the substance well. The Flask of Crimson Tears was a premier healing draught of this Golden Age.
"Did that girl leave this...? That's two debts I owe her." He smiled, tucking the flask into his bag.
"It seems this place... is where the journey truly begins."
He could feel it now. The heavy, lingering scent of Gold.