A message to my loyal fans: Writing this story is my resignation from writing Skyrim and Dead Island fanfictions, mainly from lack of inspiration. I really didn't think far ahead in those stories and now it's gone dry. I don't like the idea of giving up, since I despise giving up, but I see this as a step forward. Both of those stories were flawed and I hope to use what I've learned to improve. That's why I write. I hope to take all the good ideas I got from those stories and put them here.

Now for general information: This story is a prequel for what happens afterwards, basically what happens after the 'Bad' Ending of Dark Souls (Although you can argue on what ending was good or bad till the end of time). I know what I want to do and how I want to do it, I just thought this would be a good way to start a Dark Souls fanbase. I really hope you enjoy the story, and if you didn't, please tell me what was wrong so I may improve it. Dark Souls is my favorite game of the last year and I love it with a passion, but sometimes even love will confuse you. Read on.

The Chosen Undead walked through the ash, kicking it up with his boots. He didn't seem rushed in the slightest, despite the circumstances that lay before him. Around him stood ancient pillars scorched with flames that never wavered, making them black as midnight. The ash at his feet was from these pillars and all the other things caught in the fire.

He glanced at his foot, where lay a Black Knight. He too had scorched armor, with his weapon having not fared any better. Unlike the pillars though, he remained intact. Until he had taken several sword blows to the chest and crumbled into dust.

The Chosen Undead sighed, having finally reached his destination. He was in the Kiln of the First Flame, the location underneath Firelink Shrine. Here was the prison of Lord Gwyn, the last person to try and keep the First Flame burning. But even the Lord of Sunlight would not last forever. So here he was, to take the place of this god.

"All of my sacrifice, for this moment" murmured the Chosen Undead, glancing at his equipment mournfully. On his left arm was the Black Knight Shield that he had robbed from one of the ancient knights of Lord Gwyn. He had found that the strength of that burnt knight radiated in that shield and empowered him as well. He almost never removed it in battle for any reason, finding it strangely comforting in weight.

His armor was the Elite Knight armor of Oscar of Astora, the man who he wished he could thank again. That man had saved him from his fate in the Undead Asylum out of kindness, even though the two were strangers. In his dying breath he entrusted him with an Estus Flask, which he still carried now, and the key to escape the prison. Then he had to mercifully kill the man when he turned Hollow, which was a lot harder than he had anticipated on his spirit. He owed everything to that man, and carried his armor out of appreciation.

In his right hand was the Greatsword of Artorias, the weapon of the legendary Abysswalker. He had taken the soul of the Great Grey Wolf Sif, who guarded the grave of his master faithfully, and forged it with that soul. The sword radiated holy light that would make any unholy being tremble in fear, with even pure hearted beings showing nervousness around it. It was a testament not just to Artorias's legend, but to his own as well.

The Chosen Undead gripped his sword tightly, bracing himself for what was to come. He had already tried this three times, and had fallen each time in turn. He knew what to expect, and was prepared for it. But that did not mean that he was without fear. Fear kept you alive in this world. It became your best friend eventually, constantly telling you what to do and when to do it, keeping you safe. He held fear close to his heart, closer than anything he ever allowed.

"It's time to finish this nonsense" he muttered walking through the fog gate.

Stepping into the ash of the arena, he noted Lord Gwyn observing him in the center. The old god was ablaze with flames, the fire tenderly caressing his face. In his hand was a burning sword that would melt stone, similar to the one he used to destroy the ancient dragons with. The man was old and withered, but he stood as strong as he did centuries ago, with confidence in himself and his power.

"You again" said the god calmly, almost exasperated. "Why do you persist? What drives you forward? Chosen Undead, if you really are chosen, why do you care? I am immortal, and can keep the First Flame lit for far longer then you. You are only playing into the hands of fate. We Undead cycle endlessly to do this task before us, but it is for naught. I cannot understand why you wish to risk yourself to do this."

The Chosen Undead raised his sword and shield, crouching slightly. He didn't speak, instead growing silent.

Lord Gwyn sighed. "And again you refuse to speak to me. That is too bad. I assumed we were similar. I guess I am wrong. Prepare to die."

He leaped forward, the burning sword scorching the ash in his wake. His steps shuddered the ground, kicking up the dust whenever they struck.

The Chosen Undead deflected the strike and stabbed forward, planting the holy sword deep into the god's stomach. Twisting it slightly, he kicked him off the blade forcefully.

Lord Gwyn collapsed to the ground for a moment, feeling himself bleed again. It was a strange feeling indeed, one that he had forgotten. But he knew that the wound wasn't strong enough to kill him. Not even close.

He stood up and slashed rapidly, the flames leaving trails whenever he struck. Even though his opponent wore armor made of steel, he could dodge fairly easily.

The Chosen Undead slid behind a pillar and saw the god stop his assault. Running forward, he slashed him in the stomach and kept running.

The god turned and leaped into the air, flipping slightly as he did so. Then he slammed his sword into the ground, nearly cutting his opponent in half.

The Chosen Undead dodged the overhead blade and slashed out again, spinning to add even more momentum. Building up a steady series of strikes, he felt the god's armor begin to crumble beneath the blows.

Lord Gwyn desperately slashed, the holy sword actually doing damage to his being. He knew that this mortal wasn't to be underestimated now. He was not afraid to die, nor was he afraid of pain, but he was terrified of not finishing his purpose. He could not allow it.

The human plunged forward, his sword stabbing deep into the god's stomach. Gripping it, he pushed even further until the blade forced itself out of his back.

The god grunted and grabbed him by the shoulder. Only for the human to let go and shove him.

Lord Gwyn hit the ground and attempted to pull the sword out. Only then did the human smash his hands on top of the sword, impaling him deeper into the dirt. The blow felt deadly, and he knew what that meant.

"Fool" spat the god grasping pathetically at the smooth armor of his opponent. "What do you..?"

The Chosen Undead twisted the sword, stopping the god's speech. "I don't have to answer to you."

Lord Gwyn let his arm drop, the flames in his body extinguishing. Even as he breathed his last, he began to dissolve into ash. Eventually, nothing remained of the Lord of Sunlight.

The Chosen Undead stood, placing his sword back in the sheath. Looking forward, he saw the bonfire ahead of him. It was barely embers at the point, flickering lowly with the sword still there.

He walked towards it and knelt down, extending a hand slowly. Only then did he pause, considering what he was about to do.

"Wait. If I ignite this bonfire…will I…end up just like Gwyn?" murmured the human. He thought for a solid minute, weighing what that meant. "Will I really be doing the world any good? Will they rebuild again? The bonfires keep the world together, but aren't they also what is keeping us apart? They are the remnants of the ancients who left us, why should it remain lit? What will happen if I do so?"

He stood up determined. "I don't know what will happen. But I will not let this cycle continue."

He then turned and walked out, feeling the small heat from the bonfire behind him. With every step he felt it wither away until he no longer felt anything. It was odd though.

For the first time in his entire life, he had never felt this cold before.