YOU READY?! Are you exited? Ikou- woah – oh – oh – ouch! (*rubs head)

-nobody wants to hear you ruin the opening song of My Hero Academia's third season.

Well then, what else do you want me to do? I'm still raving over how the site can do this to me.

-you mean how you've sent over four lengthy essays to each your favourite authors-

OUR favourite authors!

-only to realize the pm-system doesn't work and literally no one has gotten a message from you.

All that time spent praising and applauding people via text gone down the drain…

-look on the bright side, at least you won't be seen as a fanboy by them since they haven't received your messages. Not that I care but this reduces the chances of you potentially freaking out the people you admire.

That does make sense when you put it- Hey! I do not act like a fanbo- ouch! Stop hitting me!

-then begin 'ze story' already, our readers are waiting.

You used my catchphrase… I feel so proud. (*sparkly anime-eyes)

-you want another fist to the gut?

Nope. On with ze story!

The starry sky glimmered like white dots amongst an inky black mass as Lord Stein stood before his army. He wore an open crimson robe that covered most of his muscular build and bulky trousers that hid the powerful limbs beneath, capable of robbing a man of his life should he decided to wrap them around the poor fool's neck. The simple silver circle that represented his crown sat comfortably above his brow as the cool breeze played with a stray lock of hair.

A satisfied grin adorned his tanned features and he flexed his hands in anticipation. How could he not when witnessing the spectacle in front of him? Men of all shapes and sizes, colours and regions stood breathlessly at attention, their blood staining their clothes awaiting his royal decree, tired gasps filling the atmosphere with sound as more and more struggled to plant their locomotive limbs firmly against the sandy floor.

Two-thousand. That had been the original number they had all amounted to. Two-thousand men taken, reconditioned, trained, toyed with, spat on and carved into the weapons they were today. His weapons, his toys, his worker ants. They had all sat in the same chair, been told the same words, felt the same process of pain and pleasure, forced to endure the same hardships all from the same set of hands… his. Two-thousand had been created, and now only a tenth remained.

It wasn't that great a loss to the sadistic ruler, he still had the capability to create more, after all. He would dirty his hands time and time again, from one pitiful soul to the next if it meant forming his obedient army from scratch again. Lord Stein was a patient man, a visionary in the midst of other inventors, an instructor of a sect neither seen or unseen. His devotion never wavered from his cause for the simple reason that he was too optimistic to entertain the ploys of doubt.

He took a few more moments to stare at the fruits of his labour – and what delectable fruits they were. A cluster, a group, a murder, a coven of his most devoted underlings; more loyal that the Knight's of Gwyn even… they were all assembled here before him under one dusky banner of dusty decadence. They had come to him as young boy's once… crying and terrified to be in a land far from their mother's embrace, their father's presence. They had all once whimpered at the sight of his might, his kind smile like bleating little lambs being led to the slaughterhouse.

How quickly they had been reformed.

It hadn't taken much to fix the filth inside of them either. A bit of isolation, a torrent of screaming and gnashing of teeth – and let's not forget the mental torture he loved so, so much. From heretical pups they had been moulded into wolves, their fleshy containers long forgotten with the nights they spent being shaped by his large hands. Now they stood tall, blameless, silent, obedient to his every beck and call. Obedient enough that they all marched to their own destruction at the extension of his righteous finger.

Well, almost all of them.

Yes, that's right, the reason his unflinching pack had been assembled was for but one solitary brother… the newest addition to the League.

Lord Stein's smile grew wider as he locked eyes with a set of amber pools that belonged to a young, pale and handsome subordinate of his. He had usually only needed a few eve's and a good splash of warm water to create a minion capable of turning a town into an old ruin. This boy had taken years of tutelage, however. Stein's eyes roamed the thin body of the body at his feet dressed in stained rags for clothing, a mop of black serving to hide most of his pale face from view.

"Do you know why you are all here?" Stein asked to no one in particular.

"CALL TO ORDER, SIR!" his army announced in a chorus of voices.

"Good, and do you know why he is here?" he pointed to the boy staring up at him impassively.

"INITIATION, SIR!"

"Exactly," Stein said, walking into the open space before him, "and how it is that we initiate one of our brethren, our fellow misfit, our new hound?"

"BATTLE!"

The dry stretch of land Stein stood in echoed with the might of a million desperate souls despite the lack of. He scoffed and turned his head to face the young boy in rags. With a satisfied nod, the boy stood up and levelled a monotone gaze at the larger man, his hair billowing in the cool wind like a burnt, torn curtain. Their gazes connected once more, and Stein and his men watched the boy take off the shredded covering that was once a tunic. The men in armour were allowed to turn their gazes towards their master and the new recruit; and took note of the maze of old and new scars decorating the young boy's torso like carvings. He drew a worn blade and approached Lord Stein.

This was how he had taught his flock to communicate, to mingle with one another as they followed his orders and purged the guilty he sought to cleanse from this wretched world of false god's and blasphemous miracles. A battle to prove your worth as a member of the League, a method to test one's limits against a more than stronger adversary, it was a way to promote the aspect of life; for how did one know what it was like to live if they didn't understand what it was like to potentially die?

These men in armour around him had all gone through the same hurdle. They had all stood before him like the boy with the blank face and glowing eyes did right now. All of them had come out of that cellar a weapon of devastation, sneering at him with the hatred, pain, fear and hesitancy they had marinated in whilst under reconditioning. And one by one, they had all engaged him in this sacred right, this Dance of the Camelia. He had trained all of them, made them tolerant to pain, ignorant to death and unfazed by the odds stacked against their favour. As such it was only fair that he be the one to effectively gauge their progress in the one chance they had to exact their revenge.

Just like the one in front of him.

In truth, he had secretly been anticipating this moment with the boy from the first day Covance had announced that he had escaped. It had intrigued his twisted mind – something he was most proud to possess – and tugged the reigns of his attention towards the amber-eyed lamb. Because what Lord Stein favoured more than devout obedience in his subjects was the ability of a single individual to make his methods and ideals seem obsolete and useless. He sought after a puppet that possessed a mind of its own despite being tethered to his meaty hands, a soldier that had what all others lacked; individuality.

"Yes… battle." As Stein shrugged off his robe and folded it over a muscular arm, he watched the boy calmly, another sinister grin forming on his face when the boy began to run at him with that composed mask he maintained. How hilarious it was to see that the same boy rushing him with the intent to spill his entrails was once the personification of terrified at his almighty presence.

But he had shown an over-abundance of promise, the boy had. Absorbing everything the sadistic ruler had ever said in between one method of torture to another, only to use it to his advantage and impress Stein repeatedly. Admittedly, that was one of the traits his army were required to have – and if they didn't it would be beaten into them as many times as he saw fit until it became second-nature to breathing. He had carved tribal sigils into the stuttering filth's body to prove he meant it.

Stein watched the boy swing his blade towards his tanned hip before he carelessly tossed his robe up in the air. The thick material was blown toward his subordinate in a strong gust of wind, causing the boy's swing to come up short and spoil his attack. Stein waited until it obscured his foe's sight before lashing out with a strong boot. He watched the boy sail backwards and crash into the sand before heaving up the contents in his stomach. With a small shake of the head, the pathetic sow stood up and faced Lord Stein again.

Durability was a thing the pale boy had possessed before his reconditioning; however, his determination was something the broad-shouldered master had nailed into him over time. He needed the boy to be stronger than the others, stubborn to change and resistant to his royal orders. It was the only way he would be able to commandeer Stein's army.

His footmen, his arbiters… his Lithecore's. Stoic husks of young men primed to purge all the dirt from this slowly melting icicle people called home. Eternity never lasted, nothing was set in stone and even these so-called 'gods' were inept at depicting what the future held. War's were still being waged by protestant clerics proclaiming their devotion to a deity that refuted their existence, beings both intelligent or otherwise were being purged from this ancient land for simply exposing themselves; and the weak that used flame to warm their hungry skeletons were classed as heretics by all. This world Lord Stein had come to know was not an ideal one, not suited to fit the bill of the vision he had in mind. Why would it when the denizens of this world weren't seen as equals given the fact that they had all been birthed from the First Flame.

What had made the Four Great Lords any different to the rats that prowled the sewers and worms that fed off the fallen? When had his people ever agreed the bless some cult the title of being a 'holy' city in the first place? Who ever decided what faith his small kingdom should follow? It certainly wasn't him, that was for sure.

It was survival of the fittest, everyone had known it to be true but said nothing; opting to hide behind their mother's legs whilst the big bad mayors and monarchs swaggered around eying the masses like peons to their own putrid existence. Stein knew that the butterfly effect of a single stupid god's mistake would end up creating worldwide genocide soon, and small villages like his were easy targets when the going got tough. Soon people would be eating each other, kingdoms would fall, monsters would roam the land and peace that had taken eons to create would be shattered in a matter of pointless seconds.

And so a simple countermeasure had formed in the Lord's head almost decades ago before the formation of a force so threatening the immortal beasts of old would have shuddered. The idea was simple, animalistic and inhumane; however, he was always of the mind that one needed to be inhumane to preserve humanity. He was doing it for the greater good anyway, who would blame him for ensuring the survival of a supposed 'weaker' race?

If and when the time came to eliminate the lowest links in the food chain, he would implement a method to make those up above grovel to those down below. When these false prophets and repulsing religions took claim to a people that weren't theirs, he would ensure their sins wouldn't go unpunished. Pathetic weasels with unmarred hands had no place giving orders to the labourers, the pawns on the chessboard who gave their lives to prosper the land. By the movement of his Lithecore's, Stein would ensure the pecking order was shuffled, fixed, ripped to pieces by utilizing the one thing this rotten society sought to maintain their ruling; the current generation's youth.

He walked up to a soldier in black and drew his sword from the scabbard at man's hip. He turned back to the boy and motioned for him to continue his assault.

These blasphemous idolaters and vile creators of a non-existent faith would all burn in the fires of their worshiper's hate soon, the rage he had instilled in each warrior would see to that. For if powerful rulers sought to purge souls in an act to cover up their own inferiority, the only solution was to uncover the truth and begin what needed to be done decades ago.

"Snuff out the unwanted," Stein said as the boy charged forward again. His blade clashed with Lord Stein's and he offered the scarred atrocity a grin as his men continued their main objective.

"SNUFF OUT THE UNNECESARY!"

Stein's smile grew wider as the boy locked eyes with him and snarled, as if the words spoken had flipped a switch inside of him. A deep, dark switch; an urge for immediate bloodshed.

The snarl turned into a mouth opening and the Lord felt electricity flow up his spine at the wild look in those amber eyes. Yes… this was exactly what was needed to survive a carnivorous world; an insatiable desire to devour all that opposed you, the rage of a true human being. How beautifully it released the soul trapped inside the dirty walls of flesh.

"Snuff them all out."

The boy was finally ready.

"AHHHHHH!"

"Stop screaming."

SMACK!

"S-Stop! I beg of y-AH!"

"I said stop screaming. Do you want me to stab the other testicle?" Lautrec replied with a weak whimper, his near hollowed face cringing as fear filled his sunken onyx eyes. Argon merely smiled.

"Good boy."

They had been engaging in this game of doctor for a while now, Argon would draw a throwing knife from his storage pocket and pin a part of the yellow Knight's body to the silhouetted and now bloody floor. Screams would erupt from the otherwise tank of a man's mouth before the Chosen Undead would reward him with a strong backhand to his already cut face.

He hadn't known what had happened between the moment he cut off the Knight's hand to the moment they were now a hundred metres on the ground floor of this alternate version of Anor Londo. The undead agreed that Lautrec's words had stirred something within him that had refocussed his already confused mind but he couldn't really place why he felt calm despite his overwhelming rage. It was almost as if someone had taken his raw anger and filtered it into his comedic side. The thought made him chuckled darkly and shove another knife into his foe's kneecap. As Lautrec screamed he couldn't help but smile wider, it was almost like music to his ears. Almost.

SMACK!

"I said, shut up."

Whilst it odd that his shadowy effigy seemed not to be flickering anymore, he didn't question it and continued his slow process of revenge, preferring to think that luck was finally on his side for once.

He looked over the Knight below him with an amused grin before licking the side of his split mouth. Whilst a part of his mind agreed that making the ugly man a human pin-cushion was crass of his usual jolly nature, the barking thoughts of contradiction that told him the bastard deserved every nick and cut, overpowered that sense of rationalism. When he thought about it carefully, it was completely in his right to… extract his revenge in whatever method he saw fit. It didn't matter how much the man with blades the shape of eyelashes had helped him along the way with information and battle, the sinner deserved to be punished for his crimes.

Argon had previously only sought after the yellow Knight for Anastasia's memories and revenge but when he really mulled it over, he knew the real reason was simply because the man was a sinner, another unnecessary soul that followed another fake god. Trash like him needed to know the error of their ways before they were blessed with the gift of their undoing. They needed to feel what it was like to know that were coerced into a nonsensical ploy, manipulated into believing such creatures of magic and flawless skin were the true gods of this world. Moreover, they needed to be broken for allowing themselves to fall into such an obvious lie.

These worshippers of Fina, Flann, Gwyn and many others were nothing but mindless puppets now, their souls trapped by the carnal desires of their easily corruptible bodies. The undead that joined covenants and the humans that created half-baked laws were a lost cause now, their minds had already begun to believe the lies spoken to them over and over again. There was no way to free them from their warped imaginations without first opening their eyes to the harsh truth they were too stupid to see.

And how did one do that? It was simple; prove that their existence was nothing but an elaborate ruse, shatter their false sense of security, make them the like the very beasts they slaughtered and turn the vicious cycle of them like the filth they were. Any lies you needed o weave into a story to make them believe it was merely a mercy they afforded; they were just disobedient sheep after all.

And why decide to purge such souls led astray by false gods? Because they were just wasted space after being corrupted. You could break their minds into oblivion and make them convert to whatever sense of justice you followed but you would never eradicate the rot that had originally been placed inside of their minds, a deity's influence was just too great a thing to completely forget or ignore. Such was the effect of a beautiful melody, the human mind would be compelled to lust after it despite his reforming, it was their only flaw.

The undead stuck another knife between Lautrec's platemail, watching as the deep crimson stained the metal slowly sank through chainmail and flesh. The Knight for his part was too busy staring into space whilst muttering madly to himself as the collected pain from all his other injuries dulled the pain of the new blade.

Until Argon decided to twist his wrist that is.

The undead thought about the gods that roamed the land as Lautrec's screams reach a new note – he was almost certain he would reach a C if he stuck his next knife into the meaty part of his groin.

The Ancient Lords, the Divine entities; they weren't gods. Whether the power of their souls availed them the ability to cast devastating spells, heal multitudes or live centuries, it all meant nothing when thinking of their true origins. Yes, they could heal those on the brink of death by re-growing a man's lost limbs but could those miracles and 'sacred words' erased the scars deeply imbedding in one's heart? But could it evaporate the corruption dealt to one's body? Their mind? Argon looked down at his phantasmic chest and noted the near invisible marks in his skin along with the abyssal corruption running over his hip.

Divine medicine and prayers hadn't healed the scars he had adopted as a young man, the undead curse had. Whilst it didn't heal you – otherwise the word 'curse' was useless in that regard – it had still purged injuries in his body that had previously hindered him as a human. Things like the splintered bones in his limbs that had never really healed or the mild blindness in his eyes didn't know how he had acquired. The curse, however hated it was, had at least seen to it that he suffered the test of time while in tip-top condition; how thoughtful of it. The scars that had decorated his body from the days of his youth had also nearly disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but thin sliver lines over his pale skin. He hadn't seen any 'god' do that for him besides try to sever his head from his shoulders with a blast of soul energy.

In fact, when that cross-dressing creature with illusionary snakes for legs had seen his corruption, what aid had he received? Call him ungrateful – or just plain daring – but after killing people he didn't want to kill, with weapons he couldn't even wield to impress being's he didn't particularly give a damn for; what had he truly received for his troubles? A bowl? He had died, experienced grief for innocent lives that deserved to live, lost his memories, his identity and reason for living all for the sake of a cause he only chose to follow because of a debt he owed to a fallen Astorian, and what had he gained? Strength? He was plenty strong even without all the souls he had used the bolster his abilities. Freedom? He was freer inside the confines of his cold, dank cell without anyone to bother him with quests that was more trouble than adventure. Had he gained knowledge? Perhaps… but what use was it when you had already killed off the important ones that had the answers to the questions he needed answered?

These gods had done nothing for him but fill his pathway with a web of lies to spill towns of blood. They were not Heavenly Being's but the very demons they sought to slay.

"What's your take on faith, huh?" Argon asked Lautrec, the hilt of yet another throwing knife balancing precariously on his index finger. The Knight either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him as he continued to mutter incomprehensively under his breath. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and he stared around the room like a maniac. Argon couldn't really blame him, mental warfare wasn't everyone's strong suite. The man's head was most likely akin to a deranged monkey now that the masked undead had broken his imaginary shell. Even so, the Chosen Undead still found it pertinent to continue his train of thought.

"We learn about a deity, we join a covenant and are stressed on the importance of raising our belief in someone we only ever see depicted on mural's, tapestries and statues. When we're young our elders tell us that our faith is what allows the gods to help us in our time of need…" he watched Lautrec's gaze flicker to him as his words were heard and Argon grinned ominously.

"So if faith is really that powerful that we can heal and gain divine guidance from it, why is it that it can't save us from premature death? Why is it that even the head priest of a Church dies from too much fat clogging his heart when his faith is stronger than an entire congregation?" Lautrec remained silent and winced as he tired to move his stump for a hand that now had a knife inside of it.

"Let me hammer it close to home," Argon straddled the Knight and leaned in, his blade inches from Lautrec's neck, "Will Fina come to save you if I stab you in the throat right now? Surely your faith in her is second to none."

"S-Stop! Don't come any c-closer!" the Knight finally stammered out, his weak reply only disappointing Argon more.

"Think about it for a second. She's a Goddess, isn't she? Wouldn't she protect you if you came even an inch closer to death?" Argon pressed the blade against Lautrec's jugular vein and he froze.

"Okay, maybe not an inch closer… how about another pint of blood away from it?" the undead asked before sitting upright, causing the yellow Knight to sigh in relief. He and the madman in the mask above him knew that if he died now he would go hollow for sure. It was the only reason he was being toyed with instead of being executed immediately, Argon wanted to draw out his suffering, the bastard.

"Fina will always p-protect me, she only possesses love for m-me!"

"Yeah, like anyone would love a leather-skinned goose like you."

Lautrec growled, and Argon chuckled again. At least the traitor was rekindling his old flame again.

"She gave me my ring as proof of her love for my devotion for her love reaches through the skies above." The Knight managed to garble out as his blood began to pool around him.

Argon placed a hand to his chin in thought. "Hmm, so a simple ring imbued with some magic is enough to explain her love for you? Pretty shallow of a goddess to do considering she's a woman first. I think you've been misled as to how broad her 'affection' really is." He replied, curling the index and middle fingers on each of his hands as he emphasized the word. Again, Lautrec released a wild growl fitting of his dog-like mentality.

"Look at it this way; if I take that ring from your finger, how strong is that bond with your beloved goddess then?" Lautrec stopped and glared at Argon as if daring him to do it. The Chosen Undead merely waved his throwing knife before the man's face temptingly. The Knight was about to angrily retort when he suddenly remembered something before breaking out into a smug grin. Argon was mildly intrigued that the man could even manage to smile despite being in so much pain.

"Go ahead and do it then, it will break the moment you remove it from my corpse."

Argon seemed to understand his words before nodding in agreement. "Yes, I remember you telling me that a long time ago… what a shame that is."

The Knight of Carim uttered a small laugh despite the pain and stared at the undead. He may have been on the losing end and he was most likely about to die, but the fact that he had anything to rob the Chosen Undead of was more than worth it. It was so pleasing, in fact, that he doubted he would even feel the pain of Argon's final blow.

"Unless I take the finger wearing the ring as well."

Lautrec's smile dropped before his thin eyebrows dropped into a frown. For all the masked man's wisdom and skill with a blade, tactics and general knowledge; he was a complete idiot.

"There's no possible way that would work. That ring is tethered to me and me alone. Whether you take it off my corpse or severed limb, it will still break."

Lautrec growled as the undead simply nodded in agreement like some simpleton. "Yep, so I'll just have to take it back to my world before trying to wear it."

The yellow Knight thought about it for a moment before a smirk lifted his lips. "You honestly believe that will work?"

"There's no guarantee that it won't work, and if it does then I guess your goddess' faith is just like those harlots on the side of the road; open for anyone to enter."

The Knight jerked his head forward to bite at the undead who smiled behind his mask. While Argon had been careful not to stab any organs, he had still prevented the man from wiggling a single wrinkled toe, the fact that he could even lift his shoulders up was amusing indeed. He admired the man's pride for a blasphemous being. It was passionate, desperate, even loving… a worthless sight for yet another sinner than could never truly be clean from the corruption of a secretly wanton figure.

Lautrec grit his teeth as the undead severed his middle finger on his good hand that held his ring, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching him react to the pain.

"You won't really have to worry whether I'm right or wrong anyways," Argon placed a hand on the snapping fellow's forehead and slammed it against the floor, "you're going to die whether you beg or bark. Your faith will do nothing to prevent that." Lautrec watched him flip the knife in his hand and raise it into the air. "Because you see, when I kill you, your mind won't be focussed on the goddess you spent your undead life prostrating before…" the blade glinted in the dark and light room and Lautrec unintentionally gulped as he realized this was the end.

"It'll be focussed on the memories of your humanity."

"You… you're wrong, your wrong-"

"But before that, how about a small prize for all my trouble." He said and plunged the blade into the left side of Lautrec's head. this time the Knight couldn't help it as a scream to shrill escaped his throat, it caused him to dislocate his jaw with how wide he opened his mouth at the pain.

He felt Argon's knife curve upward towards his ear and he screeched as he felt the undead lodge the knife inside his head, dig his fingers into the wound and began wrenching out his ear with strength he didn't even know the masked man possessed. As if to add salt to the wound, the yellow Knight cried out in agony as the last thing he saw was the beautiful grey-stone buildings of Carim. His screams accompanied Argon's rough tugging as his consciousness was literally ripped from his head.

"AHH! AHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHH-"

SPELCH!

And then there was silence.

DRIP

DRIP

DROP

Argon stared blankly at the bloody, shrivelled ear in his hand as white fog burst into existence around him. He felt his body being violently tugged into his own world. As he clenched his soaked hand around the appendage, a deep splotch of black grew from the pupil in his right eye before it turned his amber iris a deep violet.

Gwyndolin shifted slightly from his stationary position in the Darkmoon Tomb. He had been left to stew over his thoughts since the release of his niece and second-coming of the Chosen Undead. Whilst the visit had been a refreshing change as compared to the mundane reports from his Darkmoon Blades – since according to them nothing in Anor Londo or Lordran had changed – the last deity in the Shinning City had also allowed his deeply buried thoughts to come to the vanguard of his mind.

Speaking with the Chosen Undead – he had said his name was Argon – had been something the god hadn't anticipated. The fact that he had appeared in his physical form was even more shocking since the very act of unveiling a deity was considered a sin amongst sins. Even so, he hadn't been expecting the undead to do something even he in all his divinity couldn't hope to do; free Priscilla.

While he was a god of unparalleled strength and a master of sorcery and illusion, he was useless against that accursed painting Ariamis had crafted with that psychotic gleam in his eye those centuries ago. It wasn't because he wasn't strong enough – even for his slender build he could still tear a man's body apart with his bare hands if he pleased – but because the illusions and manifestation of the painter's will had infected the canvas, preventing him from coming up with his own counter-strategies to disarm the illusions worked into the fibres and underneath the layers of twisted colour. Ariamis had been but a drifting artist, only interested in what timeless pictures of agony he could create on a whim; as such, his skill for magic and illusion had never been enough to surpass even the ordinary mage. By that information alone, the Darkmoon god should have had the power to eliminate the amateur incantations in a heartbeat… if only his exiled brother hadn't seen it fit to impart a sliver of his power into the painting to aid that mad artist in his machinations that day. As if things weren't hard enough maintaining a crumbling kingdom, now he had to break through his own brother's will that was admittedly leagues stronger than their father's.

Another reason he had tried and failed to break out his imprisoned niece was due to his own depression. By all right, he had no right to feel depressed since it was he that had chosen – more like forced – to take over the rule of Lordran when Gwynevere had departed. That being said, the loneliness of nobody to share his thoughts, his worries and questions had weighed heavily on his proud shoulders. He had sat and waited, decade after decade; century after agonizing century waiting for the day the true Chosen Undead would walk into the castle, slay Ornstein and Smough to signify his worthiness, and finally walk into the chamber of a Princess that didn't exist before they were given the final orders that were not her own.

Despite what his loyal Knightess and Firekeeper said to ease his frayed nerves, he did feel some disgust for the lies he had to weave so that his home could live once again; so that his father's wishes did not turn to ash like he had all those eons ago…

Gwyndolin didn't admire the way he had sentenced millions of undead to their deaths and eventual hollowing here in Lordran. He didn't fancy that all these people, once human and unknowing to the dying of the First Flame had been brought to his inherited kingdom to suffer the tests laid out for them, question their faith when they fell seventy times at the first hurdle only to curse the Lord of Sunlight they worshipped and fade into memory like cooling embers from a fire.

While he shouldn't have allowed the lives of lesser beings to fill his busy mind, the part of him that was the least bit humane saw the suffering of so many as a stain on his hands he would truly never wash away. His father, sister and many other gods had seen the human race as nothing more than bottom-feeders of the food chain; the mindless puppets that served them with blind devotion. He had thought differently, however.

Humans had always been an intriguing species to the god, whether his father called him a fool for it or not. Their perseverance despite possessing weaker qualities and lesser power never stopped them in their endeavours to attain that which their hearts desired. Their determination was fierce, their wills near that of Knight Artorias; and their reasoning for doing things most unorthodox was perplexing. Yet still, he found that it warranted closer observation, greater study. He admired them for the simple fact that things like simple facts didn't stop them, even when all the odds pointed against their favour, they turned the tides as if it were an effortless task.

They caught his undivided attention for the reason that they all possessed the very thing all gods were missing in their divine authority, something he himself wished he had the chance to possess; humanity.

It was a fickle and unpredictable stream with many meanders and no direct routes. With it, a human possessed the ability to change society itself, bend laws seen as unbendable and change hearts that were hard as stone. What's more, humanity granted these people, these lesser beings the one thing no god could attest to possessing; the freedom to govern their own lives.

Being born a god meant your responsibilities were laid out even before you were cognitive enough to understand what your name was. It meant conforming to a system, a duty you could never truly abandon in fear of losing the trust and faith of the very race you called inferior to your own.

Whilst Gwyndolin never really thought of abandoning his role as Darkmoon Lord, he yeaned for humanity so that he could have made decisions worthy enough to change what had occurred in the past. Perhaps with that ability to freely choose, he would have been able to stop the exile of his elder brother. Perhaps then his sister wouldn't had left with Flann, if only he had just taken a moment to talk to her, state that he was still there to help her when she required it; that she didn't have to do this all alone…

But he hadn't. Not because a lack of humanity stopped him from doing so, but because of his own reservations in himself. He was the last born of Gwyn, the youngest of the Lordran gods and yet also the wisest. How well that knowledge had been to him when chaos had come down.

He still imagined what it would have been like to freely govern his life with the same willpower these humans seemed to live by. He wondered if it would have helped him to make up his indecisive mind when watching his family break apart before his eyes, whether it would have forced him into action in order to keep what was most precious to him. Would it have given him the strength to keep coming back to the Painting of Ariamis to attempt to free the last member of his shattered family even if the task seemed futile… or would possessing that unpredictable power make him just like the crazed Undead he saw in his hall right now?

True to his word as an observer, Gwyndolin had watched the very undead he had blessed with the Lordvessel each and every time he had entered his domain of fake grandeur. The man was foolish, silly and unorthodox; the very traits the god seemed most interested in. He had watched Argon grow, rise and fall time and time again in this slowly darkening land, yet to his surprise the undead never seemed to give into the defeat that was on the borderline of his optimism.

Gwyndolin wouldn't boast to understanding where the man had come from, or how he seemed unaffected by the trials placed in his way. To him, Argon just seemed like the first undead, other than the one dressed in black armour, not daunted by the tough course he had set, the only one ready to reach the bar he had set too high for many to obtain.

All that strength, knowledge, and unperturbed determination and yet… the man which the god saw now in the great hall matched none of these attributes.

Gwyndolin had been told by the undead himself that he had ventured into Oolacile and slain the ancient terror that had plagued and destroyed that once beautiful land, he had seen for himself the corruption taking over his champion's body like a cancer that couldn't be purged. So why hadn't he, as the reason for this human's suffering, taken the steps to help the race he admired so much?

Why had ignored it, put aside Argon's corruption like some sub-par ailment instead of using his vast stores of knowledge to prevent his soldier, his champion, his trusted sword from falling like the rest had? For all his power as a god, he couldn't have felt more useless than he did now, watching in dismay as the undead he had been searching for was breaking down madly before him.

In all truth, after witnessing him rescue the niece had tried and failed to save and have the gall to speak to him like he was another pitstop on his long journey, Gwyndolin had gained a sort of soft spot for the undead. Call it his admiration, or blind trust after carefully scrutinising Argon's character, but he had seen it fit to explain a little of the truth he had kept deeply buried in his aching chest for so long. The agony of looking at the only undead to come this far, see his divine presence and react as calmly as his person would allow instead of glaring at him with hatred, was too much for the lone god to bear. In all his years, when the levels of Anor Londo had once housed humans and other species of similar breeds, he had never seen such understanding in their eyes like he did in Argon's. Never experienced such kindness despite the massacre he had had to endure just to arrive at his current destination.

It astounded Gwyndolin that this lone undead, this unknown variable in a great calculation, could force out the bottomless pain he felt simply by conversing normally as if it was the most casual thing in the world. The god hadn't understood it at first, hadn't realized the gem he had uncovered after so long waiting for the one that could save him from the mistakes his line had made. Inside, Gwyndolin truly mourned that he had once again been too late to save what he held dear. He hadn't wanted to make another innocent soul sacrifice everything so that the world could live again. If he had the choice or the power to prevent just that, he would have gladly given his own life to absolve the sins of his father and his accomplices. It was his duty as the only remaining offspring living in Lordran; and yet it was a painful shame that his soul wasn't strong enough.

Gwyndolin shook his head, clearing his mind away from the many mistakes his indecisiveness had brought upon him. Now was not the time for his depression to take over, not when he had just lost his champion to the very thing he sought to purge.

As he straightened his spine, the god drew his sceptre. He didn't even have to concentrate much as his body was transported from the Darkmoon Tomb to the Great Hall of Anor Londo. The snakes below him hissed as the scent of blood invaded their senses and Gwyndolin surveyed the area with a calm, composed gaze from behind his crown.

The obvious thing to note was the abundance of blood that coated different parts of the room. Splashes decorated the thick pillars like flicks from an artist's wet brush whilst parts of the floor possessed deep puddles of the substance. Near the wings of the hall, at the foot of each stairway lay the fallen weapons of his Royal Sentinels, haphazardly placed that also dripped with crimson liquid. His champion had grown leagues stronger if he had possessed the capability to render his mightiest guards to such bloodshed.

The Lord of the Darkmoon observed the mess quietly before he heard the deep breathing of a person nearby. He swerved his head and his eyes landed on the hunched over Chosen Undead, his chest bare and decorated with near invisible scars from a time long passed. He sat on his knees with his back to Gwyndolin, gasping as his black hair hung over his eyes. The god's gaze lingered on his right side, completely encased in thin black veins that even now attempted to stretch over to his left side.

It was a sad sight to behold. Watching the man the god had seen grow to become a juggernaut capable of saving Lordran, now reduced to the grim visage he saw before him. He should have never made others take on the responsibility that was his to solve. He should have never listened to Frampt urging him to pass on his duty to a race only created by this curse of Dark. Even so, it was he that had failed to save the man before him. Thus, it was also his duty to remove him from the living, he had suffered enough.

Gwyndolin gazed sadly at Argon before his eyes saw something in his bloodied right hand. Something that intrigued him to no end.

"An item of reprisal, how fitting." The undead turned his masked gaze his way, staring back impassively whilst still breathing erratically. It seemed as if he were struggling to keep conscious, however, whether it was a ploy, or the truth was questionable. A corrupted undead could be just as unpredictable as the humanity he carried. Argon rose to his feet as the god looked for even a sign that he was still partly the same. If he still retained some of his old self, perhaps he could try and save him before it was too late. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, it was probably already too late.

"Is that really all you have to say to me?" his tone was harsh. Gwyndolin didn't blame him.

"And what would thou have me say?"

"The truth."

Gwyndolin flinched slightly, he had found out his lie. How typical of his terrible luck. Still, he had to see just how far Argon had delved. If the undead would be willing to explain his findings, then maybe he could also be saved from the abyssal corruption. It wasn't too late to give up just yet. A cognitive undead was a safe one as far as he was concerned.

"Thou would accuse me of lying? Foolish undead, for what purpose would I, Lord Gwyndolin, need to speak an untruth to a lesser being?" his voice gave no indication of his pain, only the false anger he laid on as thickly as possible.

"Lesser being," the undead scoffed and pocketed the shrivelled ear in his hand, "if you didn't lie then tell me, Lord Gwyndolin, why did Quelaag need to die? What need was there to slay a woman tainted by the mistakes of her predecessor; but humane enough to still keep what remained of her family alive? Were you of the same mind as your pathetic father when you assigned her to die for a simple bell?"

The god clenched his teeth at the insult but remained silent.

"What of Sif, huh? Was he a nuisance your grand plan could do without?!"

"Calm thyself undead. The workings of thy quest-"

"NO! You preached to me about how this quest will save the lives of thousands. I've had the displeasure of claiming the lives of thousands in the hope that each soul I absorb gains me the strength to change this desolate place of terror. Yet the more I live amongst the mistakes of you gods, I'm reminded how much of ruse this all is." He paced back and forth before the god, breathing as heavily as before, his hands grabbing at his hair trying to make heads or tails of the current dilemma.

"You tasked me with killing all of your father's accomplices and collecting their souls… but what does it really mean? What purpose would come from killing the God of Death, the Goddess of Life, the Duke of Lordran? It seems to me that all you want is to be the single, solitary ruler of this putrid land. I can understand how you must fell; the shunned son of Gwyn, ignored from birth only to be left with his father's sloppy-seconds. If you ask me, the act of killing every other god related to that glowing bastard would be the perfect revenge!"

"Enough, undead!"

"Ah, hit a nerve, have I? You must be seething whilst realizing you can't do a damn thing to your Chosen Undead. How does it feel knowing you're being blasphemed by the very person meant to save your sorry ass?" Argon began to chuckle as he spoke, making it harder and harder for the Darkmoon god to keep a straight face.

He had seen many worthy undead lose their minds due to the strenuous circumstances – a crass understatement given that it was he that had conjured up the land's challenges – and in most cases it often started with the same symptoms Argon was displaying. How he wished he didn't have to see another brave soul fall to his own foolishness.

"Thou art not in the proper state of mind. Thus, thine words cannot be taken as simply as thou appearance. I ask of thee to rest, lest the Dark overcome thine broken thoughts."

"Rest? State of mind? Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" Argon replied with another throaty chuckle. It was clear he was bordering near hollow with the uncharacteristic behaviour, however, he still seemed to be able to retain decent cognitive function. If he was still partially positive, he could reform Argon's mind. If he didn't save him then this world was doomed.

"You know, I've been studying up on you so-called 'god's'. It's very eye-catching with the way so many authors describe your kind as majestic, ethereal, timeless and the like. But I suppose that just goes to show that they've never had the chance to meet you in person or have the honour of being screwed for their souls-worth whenever you and your 'heavenly' race decide to issue out commands like our creator's. That reminds me… do you even know who our real creators are? They certainly weren't you guys, you're all to prideful to admit to creating a race that defies all laws and reality."

Gwyndolin watched as the undead raised his vein-covered right hand and grabbed the edges of his porcelain mask. With a tug, the clips were removed, and he lowered the white covering slowly. If the god hadn't been surprised to see this complete one-eighty in the undeads personality, the condition of his face definitely shocked Gwyndolin enough for force a gasp from him.

While the masked undead still possessed his pale complexion and sunken eyelids, the veins that had previously just pooled at his jaw, had now completely masked the right side of his face like some disease. The skin was riddled in twisted veins that criss-crossed, curled and wrapped around his face, only stopping at the bridge of his nose. What was even more perplexing was his right eye. The god had known Argon possessed deep amber eyes the first time he had removed his mask to converse with him out of respect for the god. Now, however, what was once an amber iris now resembled a malevolent violet glint, the white around it a deep, inky black.

"Do you want to know what I think? Gods… were once very much like humans – undead to be more specific." He began to say as he dropped the mask to the floor carelessly. Gwyndolin tensed when he drew a Silver Knight's sword from the scabbard on his hip. He knew where this was going. It seemed that yet again, he had been too late…

"When the First Flame lit one day, quite spontaneously, as most annals describe; you mindless lot found the first souls of Lords, thus began the Age of Fire. However, if we were to look more closely at that tiny shred of information, you'll come to the same understanding I have." He paced around before fully facing Gwyndolin.

"You found a soul within that fire, meaning you were nothing but empty husks before that light came to be. That means that your race was exactly like us undead at one stage. You were all useless hollows inside a dank cave with no sense of direction. Although no one has the fireballs to say it outright, the truth is you were basically human."

"And what is the point thou hath?"

The Chosen Undead grinned like he had just been asked what his dark fantasy was. It wasn't a grin Gwyndolin new him to use. He prepared himself for what was to come.

"My point is that you are not gods, just mortal beings with a greater life-force. And that is the reason I'm going to enjoy splitting you open for the sinner you are…"

Gwyndolin's snakes hissed loudly as he drew his sceptre more. They thrashed and writhed below his body before raising him up to a taller height as the Chosen Undead began striding towards him. Mad as the undead may be at the moment, his only choice right now as the cause of Argon's condition and the last deity of Anor Londo was to eliminate him. The god just hoped that by doing so and making him reincarnate, his untamed bloodlust would at least be curbed so that he could hear Gwyndolin's story in full.

For once, despite the pain in his chest he felt at the current situation, the Lord of the Darkmoon scoffed before smiling lightly. He dared to call him a sinner?

"Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!"

I was going to make this another 20k chapter with all the action and so forth, but I haven't posted in two full weeks. Therefore, here you go for now. The other half of this chapter is nearly completed, I'm so excited! And yes, I know I used the phrase 'sloppy-seconds' wrong. It was intentional to better describe Argon's warped thinking.

Also, please do tell me; are you guys enjoying this fic so far?

Tell me in the form of a review if you are and I'd be happy to hear your thoughts and any useful flames that could help to better this chapter.

Lastly, if you enjoy a more light-hearted but still hilarious version of the Dark Souls universe, I'm currently writing a spin-off for this story called 'Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales'. Go wild with the content I've left to your disposal.

Have a great day/evening, keep safe as we slowly purge this annoying-ass pandemic with a buff so OP it makes other's seem like minor MP-boosts, and God Bless 'ya.

Oyasumi.