Kingdom Come

by mihairu7

Priscilla's a cross breed trapped in the Painted World. Argon is the chosen undead that got pulled into the Painted World that comes across an imprisoned goddess. So what's a girl to do when a stranger grabs you and pulls you out of the Painted World with him?

39. Chapter 39

Hey everyone. Sorry for being MIA for four months. My laptop's keyboard broke and I didn't have the cash to fix it or get a replacement, so I just went to work for a few months so that I could actually afford to repair the damned thing.

As for this chapter, it was meant to come out on the 10th of this month, but my city got hit with a MASSIVE power outage that lasted nearly two weeks so I couldn't write anything. Thanks to CarlosInferno for helping me out, though. Managed to write this out because of him. Anyways, on with ze story!

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The noise of battle erupted in Gwyndolin's ears like the angry buzzing of a hornet's nest. The clashing of blades, stamping of feet, clinking of steel against warped metal, drowning screams of wraith, Darkmoon Blade and Silver Knight alike; they all merged into a singular form of static – fraying his nerves and dulling his senses as he stared at the monstrosity before him with a caustic glare.

The King of New Londo – or one of them, he corrected – was a mangled beast of horrendous size and appearance. Aside from the cloudy atmosphere its very spine-tingling presence emitted, the shriek of terror exiting from those black lips left any sane man within the Great Hall weak-kneed.

Yet, even as malicious as it was, the god had found the advantage in his battle with it in the most primitive method possible: immolation.

Whilst not a purveyor of the art of flame, even the purest forms of soul magic could inflict the worst of burns. And in the case of himself, a master of lunation, he discovered that shrouding anything with enough energy to destroy the ceiling of his castle, was potent enough to shred the very atoms of this vile villain to unseen specks of dust.

The bright sheen of cyan magic reflected off his golden crown, washing the white room a pale blue. The sterling weapons of his knights blinded their foes, both ghostly and ghoulish, as their brilliant armour mirrored the revolting faces of monsters moments before their demise. The Blades of the Darkmoon became obscure in their marble features as the holy glow of his magic made them shine like luminescent fish in a dark ocean.

Whilst the action taken by the god my have shocked the instigator of this assault in all his barbed atrocity, it surprised Gwyndolin that his spell… oddly possessed no actual sound. Yes, the rumble of masonry above him caused the floor to vibrate – even as chunks of falling stonework crushed pairs and groups of white-skulled abominations to mush, and the shattered glass above rained down like multi-coloured raindrops of a different bone-chilling effect, it was strange that the whistle of his own magic was suspiciously silent.

The impressive halo of blue flame formed a perfect circle round the wailing King of New Londo. Even as Gwyndolin continued to observe it intently, the colour of his magic shifted from watery shallows to a beautiful teal as the blast extended to kiss the night sky. It robbed the moon of its soft spark, going as far as to turn the spilt blood of man and nightmare to a black pool better resembling cold tar. More bodies were felled as the seconds ticked by, as the inhumane screams of Gwyndolin's ghastly foe flailed in an inescapable cage of punishment. It was if Death couldn't decide which force he wanted to win, in all honestly. Beings beside the god just seemed to fall at random: the phantom impaled by a ghost's serrated knife from behind, a cornered Silver Knight pin-cushioned to the helm by thick swords before a horde of wraiths descended to feed off what remained, even the servants of the Abyss that received painful slashes to the throat and agonising soul arrows to the temple appeared to topple just as easily. It didn't matter that the god's highly trained knights, impeccably created illusions or ordained servants of judgement took down more than their capacity, at this rate there would barely be any room for one of them to charge toward each other amidst the growing dogpile of corpses.

But all this failed to enter the god's mind as he breathed in deeply, forcing his mind to drown out all other noises around him into an incomprehensible whir in order to face the current task at hand. A King of the first and last kingdom of Man which Lordran had ever possessed. Where once, a finely dressed gentleman of impeccable manners might have stood before him, tipping a flute of Londo's finest in his direction as he and his compatriots laughed about the pleasant times they all basked in; was now heavily diminished by this screaming, sickly coloured and grotesque mutation of the Abyss – who's only prerogative was to consume all within an infinite realm of nothingness. It was truly strange. How had things come to this? When did times change so suddenly? Where they just always like this? A constant blare of recycling pain, sorrow and misery… or had he just not paid enough attention to it to actually notice how bad things had become – simply living idly by, delegating to his forces and vassals without the slightest notion of what reality truly was.

And just look at the state of the city. To understate it, he had made a mess of things. Allowed pristine measures of security to rust over and rot, the impregnable walls of his pride and joy to become overrun, and worst of all; he had permitted a weak undead to outsmart him. If only Gwyn could see him now. The pure disapproval, followed by waves of malcontent and savage hatred at a simple mistake would cause the very floor he stood on to ripple out in discomfort. As it stood, Gwyndolin had broken everything his line had stood for, and for his inability to act, the filth of the outside had been allowed the brief chance to sully these divine grounds with muddied boots. Oh, he could almost hear the anger in his father's voice now, could practically fell the heat emanating from a Lord of the Sun . it was no long shot to presume that Gwyn would have handled the current calamity Gwyndolin found himself in much, much differently. However… that would have been in the days where there were still people living within the now cold streets of the Shining City. When advisors were many, soldiers were plentiful, aide was in abundance, and where foes where few.

In the time that Gwyndolin stood in presently, all those open doors had been shut tight and locked with thick iron bolts. In the current scenario, there were too many enemies in this world to physically count. In this time period, individuals with power and authority were born without the pluck of their father's – choosing rather to run away from their problems instead of facing them head on.

Yes… in this world, it was only the strong and confident that came out on top. In a reality whereby the world was reaching its final climax, only the brave could truly stand up to face the overwhelming odds that were the darkness of every monster, beast, nightmare and tragedy given life – knowing full well that to run into the oblique infinity didn't guarantee an immortalisation as the annals of time themselves faded into obscurity.

Thinking more clearly than a few seconds ago, Gwyndolin admitted that his father would have done a better job of facing the current odds with all the perks he had amassed in his golden age. But the fact remained… this wasn't Gwyn's golden age. The only aide the Darkmoon God could truly count on were ghosts from a passed he doubted even still existed. The strength of his enemy clouded the sky with as much potential to completely douse all light. And yet even despite that, Gwyndolin knew that he was still a better ruler than his father.

Whilst the Sunbringer might have struck fear into the hearts of all that had even the faintest thought of attacking him, the truth was that the only force that scared the Great Lord was the one Gwyndolin currently found himself staring down. And if the roles had to be reversed, he highly doubted the 'invincible' Lord Gwyn would have faced the Abyss with as much moxie was Gwyndolin himself exuded presently. Why, one might ask? Why, just look at everything the previous King had done, in order to avoid this very moment in time.

The feminine god may have opened the door for destruction to raid his abode, but he was by no means afraid to face it. His father may have been better equipped to handle it, but at the end of the day, his father was nothing but a coward.

Sweat beaded down Gwyndolin's temple as the screaming from the King died out. As he stood there, all he heard was the continuation of battle in the background. There was no response from the turned monarch, swathed in putrid essence like a poisoned leaf infected by the rot of winter. His sceptre steamed loudly, the tip of the catalyst trailing wisps of blue sparks into the haze it created. The spell he had used had been immense. Quite frankly, he was surprised the weapon in his right hand hadn't melted to the ground out of overuse. The magic itself still blazed in front of him. And endless pillar of soul energy – bolstered by the very moon in the sky. He estimated that was why he wasn't a panting picture of exhaustion on the floor by now. Why had it taken him so long to figure out that the direct rays of the inescapable full moon above would heighten his powers to immeasurable degrees? One would think that after watching his father regularly bathe in the morning sun before each battle would have been the ideal clue, but sometimes such things escape even the most creative minds in the world.

Deciding to push his ponderings aside, the god tried to peer through the powerful spell he had just cast. Despite the initial burst of anger that had speared through him like his elder brother's lightning, he wondered why his foe had not retaliated in response to the overdone display of might. Was it because the impenetrable circle of light acted like a barrier towards the unliving beast, or perhaps that the battle had ended just as simply as it had begun?

The former didn't sound as rational, the blast itself was more concentrated the closer it got to the centre, meaning the outside edges of the tower-toppling spell should be easier to escape, even if one were to be in the eye of the barrage. As for the latter, Gwyndolin wasn't naïve enough to believe that he had killed the wraith King with a single attack. Sure, you could say that other foes would be naught but ash in this instance, but a construct of the Abyss given herculean power? It sounded hard to believe. At most, he might have done enough to wound it – albeit not mortally.

But to have killed it that easily? Surely, he was living in a delusion. Though, could he really have…

He was awarded with an answer as a gnarly sword stabbed through the teal wall, slicing a jagged hole down to the floor, before the screaming white face of the New Londo King made its second appearance of the evening.

"Of course not," Gwyndolin muttered. He watched the King turn to him and growl, he twirled his sceptre in his long fingers in reply – snakes hissing venomously at his feet, dispatching any wraiths attempting to flank him as he faced the object of his father's fear. A smile strangely flitted to his features as he pumped more magic through his body. If only the coward could see him now, fearlessly facing down the force a Great Lord was too weary of. Maybe then all those quips at his person, all those mocking jokes that he would be inept to accept his mantle, all those self-satisfying laughs he and his band of old crones he called retainers had shared at Gwyndolin's expense would have been expunged from their moth-eaten beards when they saw what true power was about. Not possessing enough strength to pulverize an army in one fell swoop; but possessing just enough of it to render an indestructible enemy powerless; to incapacitate the inevitable itself.

The King launched itself at him, ascian form towering over the Dark Sun as it reared back its monstrous sword. Gwyndolin took a step back to crate a little bit of distance. His sceptre flared with power, prompting the King to lock its ugly white eyes on the god's form and hastily swing. Gwyndolin watched the blade cut diagonally through the air, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the sight of a vile violent mist follow the outline of the nightmarish weapon. He had witnessed the same dirty miasma corrupt his champion not long ago and didn't need an explanation as to what would happen if a completely impure substance from a powerhouse like the mutation before him managed to score a light wound. Which prompted his next idea: he needed more room to adequately destroy this repugnant cur.

Flicking his wrist, Darkmoon Blades and wraiths alike were greeted to a strange magical twinkling as they stared at the sky above them. There, at the summit of the Dark Sun's previous spell, came the redistribution of his used energy as the round circle of the glowing tower began to bend in on itself – like a geyser of water exploding from the ground upwards.

The cyaneous 1 power flowed down like an almighty wave of surf leading a tidal wave. And before it could even gain the opportunity to gather speed, the wave broke out in a thousand comets of brilliant energy, beginning to elegantly twirl round the tower it had previously occupied. The swirl of colour lit up the Great Hall like a shower of stars, discoing the area in hues of blue and shades of shadow as Gwyndolin clashed with his foe. And like a strike from the very Heavens above, Gwyndolin rained down a barrage of his own might – a feat his father could never in his wildest imagination hope to iterate.

Near the entrance to the Great Hall, where the pulsating darkness of the Abyss spawned more of its retched kind to join the fray assaulting the Shining City, Bespoke fought like a demon. Three wraiths ganged up on her from the side, nearly boxing her into a corner as she ripped her blade out from the skull of the mindless husk below her. With a click of her tongue, she wiped splattered blood from her face and dashed forward, cutting the throat of the nearest wraith, lunging to the left to avoid a fatal swing, and smashing her next foe in the groin with the pommel of her rapier. The Darkwraith growled before she tripped him, straddled his waist and impaled her sword into his chest. He wriggled in pain before attempting to grab at her in his final moments, and she withdrew her blade halfway before slamming back down – twisting the hilt for good measure before an audible crack sounded from somewhere within him and the wraith collapsed lifelessly. She breathed out heavily, already too exhausted to even bother complaining herself when a shadow of the third wraith descended upon her. She turned to it in shock, cursing her tiredness for making her forget something so crucial when a blue bolt zipped through the air and almost decapitated the wraith completely.

Blood slapped against the floor loudly and Bespoke stared up dumbly, watching as the attacking wraith with naught but the left side of its head remaining gushed with more blood as took a wobbly step forward before toppling headfirst onto the floor – dead before it even registered the feeling of pain.

She head another faint whoosh nearby and turned whilst still on her knees – watching in both confusion and awe as another Darkwraith was speared through the chest. A large cavity was left smoking from the intensity of whatever hit it before it too collapsed, leaving the phantom that had been facing it confounded. Her glowing comrade turned to stare at her before they both looked up at the sky.

In an amazing display of control, the tower of magic Gwyndolin had cast was now being diverted into the strangely transfixing light show of deadly accurate soul arrows. These mystic missiles seemed to target any wraiths within the vicinity, freeing up the time the Darkmoon Lord's forces had to spare before fresh waves of the enemy arrived in swarms to begin their assault anew.

Only… they couldn't. Not because her Lord's army was beginning to overwhelm their foes, but because Gwyndolin himself was overwhelming their enemy. Even as he did battle with the terrifying King of New Londo, his magic seemed to work on autopilot, utterly destroying any and every wraith on the field of battle. The ghosts were taken care of by the Silver Knights nearby, as well as the conjured illusions of Bespoke's master – leaving almost nothing for the summoned phantoms to do but watch the beauty of their Lord at work. It was mystifying, breath taking, utterly cathartic to observe. The lone Balderian was at a loss of both breath and words for that matter. She knew the lastborn of Gwyn was powerful, but never in her ponderings did she assume that he could be capable of such mass destruction whilst being drained of magic and occupied by a foe that could potentially end his life if he allowed a single hit to land on his smaller form.

"Lord Gwyndolin is amazing," she cooed, slowly getting up to watch as the magic that destroyed the castle ceiling continue its hail of death, claiming Darkwraith after Darkwraith in the span of less than a second as the floor of the Great Hall grew submerged in nothing but an ankle-deep pool of blood that reflected the very moon in the sky within its noir-like mirroring.

The Knight of Thorns grunted as he hid under a dogpile of bodies. He hadn't expected that failure of Gwyn's bloodline to be this powerful after Lithecore had sufficiently weakened him. Even the initial blast that had taken out the shelter above them had been a surprise, whether it hindered the New Londo King or not. But to create a display of death on such a level, with nothing more than a redistribution of expended magic. It was already clear that Kirk had underestimated the tenacity of Argon's allies.

Not that his miscalculation would lead to any definite consequences. Whilst Gwyndolin had decimated his wraiths, the Life Drain pet Kaathe had given him permission to command was still his ace in the hole. After all, whilst a horrifying monster that called himself a god, Gwyndolin was still only a magic castor. He would soon tire of that many spells and incantations. And when he did, Kirk's pet would close in for the kill.

Just one cut, a single blast of direct abyssal energy, a touch from the hand of the unliving nightmare Lordran attempted to drown, and Gwyndolin's life would be as good as dead. With that in mind, Kirk needn't worry.

His wraiths, however, were a different matter. Their numbers were being culled as the Darkwraith Commander sat there thinking of how to come out of this battle on top. Even as infinite as the Abyss' numbers were, he needed to pull them back. There was still more of this war to win, even after they killed the current King of Anor Londo.

Grumbling in annoyance, the Knight of Thorns snapped his fingers. And in an instant, the portals which ripped reality open to release the siege of Man's depravity began to seal, slowly closing their warped gates as Gwyndolin's barrage began to cease.

It was then that the Dark Sun took the initiative to counter the New Londo King's unending sleugh of attacks with a well-timed soul arrow of his own. The King jerked as the incantation impacted against its crown. In the time it took the monstrosity to recognise that Gwyndolin had drawn first blood, the Darkmoon god drew golden runes in the air with his sceptre before he saw a ghastly sword speeding toward him. Gwyndolin leaned backward but the blade of the depraved King was too fast, cutting him in half quicker than the blink of an eye. The nightmare of New Londo screeched in jubilation at its victory, only to jerk forward violently as its back hissed with a burn of pure soul energy.

It turned its large head and found its opponent safely on the other end of the Great Hall. Befuddlement seemed to consume it as it turned back to look at its sword only to see the Gwyndolin he had bisected fade away.

"Hmph. Not as smart as I gave thy praise for." Gwyndolin dusted his robes as the King turned to face him, rage slowly filling the features of a foe only consumed by wrath and hunger. Honestly, he hadn't the foggiest why he had been procrastinating during the entire squabble. This enemy was dangerous, yes, but no more so than a mindless beast that terrorised the wilderness. Where a battle of brawn was introduced, Gwyndolin did indeed possess a disadvantage. That being said… there was a reason he had dispatched with the wraiths and invaders muddying his floors.

"Bespoke. Absalom."

"Yes, my Lord."

Gwyndolin didn't need to turn to see that they were already by his side.

"Direct all forces protecting the Castle to the forefront of battle."

The Balderian furrowed her brows in dismay at the order. "But my Lord, that would entail leaving you alone to-"

"Precisely," Gwyndolin cut her off. He smirked to himself as his servant seemed to grow that much more troubled by his decree. He was always grateful for the lives that had dedicated themselves to servitude under his banner. It was for the very reason of their undying loyalty that he decided to make this decision.

"I require adequate lodgings to annihilate a foe this worthy of my attention. See to it that I am not disturbed."

Before Bespoke could open her mouth to argue, she felt a gauntlet gently rest on her pauldron. With a glance, she found Absalom's silent shake of the head and sighed out. There was no winning when her master made up his mind. The least she could do was obey his command. At the end of it all, there was still a battle to be fought. As much as she yearned to stand and fight by Gwyndolin's side, she knew she would just get in his way. She could tell that her partner felt the same, otherwise his gruff voice would have disapproved.

"Alright then," she rose to her feet as the other phantoms and Silver Knights marched out to aid the others. "Stay safe, Lord Gwyndolin."

The god waited for silence to reign over the Great Hall before turning back to the hovering King glaring at him a few metres away.

"Should I feel honoured at thine tolerance?" The King of New Londo said nothing as Gwyndolin gently ran a finger up the polished metal of his catalyst. His foe opted to float forward menacingly as the he allowed a smile to lift his features.

"There is yet a vestige that still resides within that amalgamation of dark, how interesting." He felt the cold grasp of death the fallen King exuded as it neared and righted his playful attitude, actually deciding to get serious for a change.

"Now then, do your worst. Heretic."

---

Lithecore grunted as Havel's fist cracked his forearm in two splintered pieces, the bone piercing his skin to look like a newly formed tusk. He hadn't expected to be this excited when he had taken it upon himself to drain the bishop dry of his very putrid existence. But after exchanging jabs with the bald juggernauts Dragontooth, and subsequently getting smashed to tiddy bitty little pieces before the Abyss repaired him all over again, the wraith had to admit that this was fun. He hadn't had the chance to let loose like this in a long time. Not since he had killed his entire hometown and rampaged along the border of Carim before being imprisoned by that band of Lloyd clerics.

"For a wretched bottom-feeder, you can sure handle a good knock to the skull," Havel huffed as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Is that admiration I hear from my next victim?" Lithecore smiled. Havel's face morphed into annoyance as he stepped forward and swung his Dragontooth at his head. When Lithecore dodged it by unnaturally bending his spine backwards in typical Lithecore fashion, the archbishop clicked his tongue and swept his shield to break one of the pesky wraith's kneecaps – only for the slimy double of Argon to slap his hands against the floor and kick his legs over his head, land into a four-limbed position and smile.

"Your reaction time has gotten faster."

"I'm offended that you thought I was slow in the first place."

Lithecore scoffed as he rose. Contending with this fossil of a man had granted Lithecore as much fun as he would have hoped he would gain. The frank banter coupled with the aggressive barrage of attacks put him on his toes as he weaved around every heavy-handed strike and blocked certain fatal blows. If anything, this was like training with a human sized iron golem! Now he knew why his twin lugged this waste of space around instead of lopping off his head in that collapsing tower he and the goddess had found him in.

Although they had been fighting for close to an hour, Lithecore had only felt minutes trickle by. This was exhilarating, a fresh pump of adrenaline to the veins that dilated his pupils to the maximum, spiking his blood pressure as his heart beat into insanity. A part of him didn't want this feeling to end. Another part urged him to draw first blood and drink it like a loose harlot on the street. A different part of him wanted to wake Argon up so that he could infect his system with a quick burst of malice so that they could both feast on the archbishop's dying organs after cutting him open with a jagged greatsword. Reactions varied as he remained staring at the undead, to be honest.

Pushing off from the floor, Lithecore raced toward the bishop with a determined grin, sword arm flailing behind him as if it were a lame limb. Havel narrowed his gaze at the wraith and jostled his shield in preparation. When the Darkwraith reached his personal bubble, Havel lashed out with his mighty club, Dragontooth shadowing the form of his opponent. Lithecore looked up and watched as it descended, admiring the sparse nicks that were actually able to mar such a weapon only a caveman could wield, before lunging to the side as the rotund end shaped a crooked hole into the floor.

Debris flew passed the wraith's face as his eyes zeroed in on the gap between Havel's arms. Lithecore's veins rushed with blood as his mind grew manic with excitement. He exhaled heavily and his rapier stabbed forward unconsciously. Would he land a fatal wound this time around?

The occultic blade neared the gap between Havel's armour, sterling steel shining sinisterly against the pale moon. Another inch and it would find chainmail, a further centimetre after that and it would taste flesh-

CLANK!

Unless he were to use that pesky shield like a stage curtain, that is. Lithecore tsked. Just how long could the old man keep this up before it became overly tedious? Did he recognise the fact that he was just hopelessly holding back the clock hand from ticking toward his final hour? Then again, didn't the majority of his irrationally hollowing race do the same; fighting tooth, nail, limb and life to avert the inevitability that was annihilation? Why, even the wraiths under his control were no better.

Just desperate bottom-feeders, attempting to be elusive to Death's hand by siding with forces that subject them to suffering in limbo. How amusing, to choose an existence of festering with one leg out the door of the physical plain, whilst simultaneously screaming from the living hunger of survival. How he didn't miss being human.

His free hand curled into a fist before he slammed it against the cumbersome shield blocking his way. When Havel let out a grunt from the force that caused him to stumble back a foot, Lithecore smiled. He clawed his way up the length of the armament, reached the top and grabbed the centre of the shield, attempting to yank it away from the old tortoise so that the real fun could begin. It was only when Havel responded to his physical dare that the undead decided to slam said shield atop Lithecore's boot that he stopped smiling.

He looked down as he felt the many bones that made up his foot break and splinter into multiple shards, despite being encased by a lining of charred steel. The sensation was awfully foreign to him. He had never experimented with feet before. Always assumed he would gain a fetish for the appendages if he ever did dabble in its mysteries. Even so, for what purpose would Havel need to keep him grounded like this? It wasn't like he could squash him with that club of his. Despite what the bishop thought, the wind-up time to launch his attacks were terribly long.

"Hng."

He heard the bearded cardinal gruffly grunt, as if in triumph, and raised his head – only for Havel's shield to suddenly turn obsidian in hue before its rocky surface pin-cushioned his body with needle-like spikes that speared through his surprised mouth.

Havel huffed proudly; it was like he had finally hit the elusive fly constantly dive-bombing round his person for the morsel of food on his plate. Whilst the comparison was more or less exactly accurate, what with the fly being Lithecore and the morsel being Argon, the joy the ex-bishop felt coursing through his veins was enough to bring a smile to his lips.

"What was that you were saying about my motor skills, trash?" He teased and rested his Dragontooth over his shoulder.

" Gooth un." Lithecore responded, face mashed against the shield as the barbs seemed to extend further through his body.

"Say again?" Havel teased, a broad grin on his features as an idea prompted itself within his mind. "Wait a moment, let me… unpin you from your predicament."

The Archbishop holstered his club in the groove on his back as Lithecore felt his feet leave the ground. His left eye, which wasn't perforated, gazed at the floor only to see his world tilt on its axis before he felt like he were being spun around. Havel's mouth let out a slow, deliberately asthmatic laugh and he swung his shield arm in a wide arc that spun his very body in the spot.

The momentum caused the wraith's skin to ripple in the opposite direction, obvious force being charged up for something devious he just didn't have the answer to. When Havel's arm reached the summit of its radius, Lithecore felt the shield jerk to a stop, but not before the potential energy gained used itself to violently eject him from the barbs he was stuck to.

The wraith gasped as he was ripped from the end of Havel's shield, his body attaching trails of his blood to the barbs that had struck him before he found himself eating dust from the floor as he tumbled over like a discarded ragdoll. Lithecore's body bounced once, twice, three times against the floor like a stone cast over the water, before he collided with a Darkwraith that had been brought to its knees via impalement. It turned its head to him a second before he crashed into it – adding to the pseudo-avalanche as Lithecore dragged it into a contest of rolling.

The Abyss flared against the doppelganger's skin and Lithecore flipped his position with his subordinate, using the voiceless wraith as a board to surf the distance on before their collective momentum finally came to an end.

"Haaggh… urgh… hehg… hah." Lithecore breathed in mouthfuls of air, barely managing to kneel on top of his subordinate's battered body as he used the scrouge afflicting his skin to heal the worst of his injuries. He had not been expecting something so unorthodox from the heretical priest.

A low groaning caught his attention and Lithecore looked down to see the half dead wraith below him, somehow still clinging to its retched life. It was a wonder how it could even groan when half of its head was nothing more than a long stretch of mush on the floor, as if someone had scraped jam over too much bread.

His right eye reformed to see the wraith lift a weak hand his way. He merely grimaced in response, pushing the hand away before clasping the face of his underling.

"For the sake of my entertainment, just die already." He said and proceeded to slam its head against the ground with immense force. A loud squelch sounded from him busting the wraiths head open before he smiled. That made him feel better.

A blue phantom tumbled on their back next to him and Lithecore locked eyes with the Blade of the Darkmoon. The summon still held their sword tightly between thick fingers, whilst Lithecore was on his knees – face slowly unwinding from the rough lacerations Havel's throw had compensated him with. He offered a deranged smile to the phantom, tempting them to take their chance to potentially end him right then and there; betting on whether this brave soul thought it could do what their master, the Archbishop and the disfigured Fire Keeper could not.

The phantom responded to the taunt by being swarmed by a trio of his wraiths. He heard screaming and wails as his minions devoured the summon alive as a frown overcame him. "Pity."

"Have you had enough time for reality to sink in?"

The booming voice of his waaay older foe reached his ears and Lithecore stood, dusting off his leggings in the process. "That opting for a tonsure isn't the best decision to make when you reach your latter years?"

"Funny," Havel replied, rubbing his scalp with a wry smile. "But I was referring to your timely demise at my eager hands."

"Don't be one for the dramatic." Lithecore sighed, waving him off. "So, you've still got one or two tricks hidden up your sleeve. Should I be impressed?"

Havel grinned as if he had just won the lottery, "You will be when you see what I'll do next."

" Hmph," the Darkwraith combed a hand through his hair, "whilst I would enjoy humouring you, I'm afraid that's all the time you and I have left."

"Don't cut yourself short when you have me to do it for you." Havel finished their wordplay and ran forward. Lithecore closed his right eye and stared at his on-comer as his hand splayed out toward his discarded rapier. The blade trembled and scuttled against the shaded floor as the bishop closed in. His violet eye glimmered in the moonlight as he scrutinised the bearded undead for any other hidden traps he might be keeping for later. Finding none, he lightly flexed his metal-clad fingers and the rapier shot off the ground toward him. Havel reached his personal bubble and grabbed the end of his Dragontooth with his free hand as Lithecore's blade reached a third of the distance between them. He watched the compatriot of his twin point his shoulder toward him as he swung the great club downward. Lithecore impatiently swivelled his sight to his sword that was no more than twenty metres away now. He turned back to Havel and looked at the descending club and estimated that he would be able to grasp and deliver an artful stab with the blade when his opponent's weapon was a foot away from connecting with his head.

Lithecore turned his gaze back to his flying sword, watched it reach five metres from his position, involuntarily flexed his fingers, saw a phantom suddenly walk into his line of sight, observed as it died when his blade impaled it through the heart and stayed there.

His mouth twitched in mild annoyance and be backflipped away as Havel cratered the square of cobblestone he was standing on. His feet touched solid ground once more as he crouched and he found the undead twirling on the spot to deliver another attack. Lithecore dived right before said blow could hit, took half a step back and copied the movement. Havel saw him from the corner of his eye and dragged his shield inward. The back of Lithecore's heel connected heavily against the side of the bishop's shield with definitive force that caused the air to ripple. The Darkwraith sniffed at the fact that his counter failed before an invisible force snapped his shin in half and sent him reeling backward – once again grinding against the floor on his bare back.

Lithecore barked out a stunned shout as the Abyss repaired his leg with a painful snap. He sat up and regarded his bulky foe, realised he was somehow suffocating a Darkmoon Blade under him by sitting on its face and pressed down harder. Havel approached him slowly with a sickened look on his face. The wraith replied by stretching out his hand again, the body of the phantom he had killed earlier faded in wisps of light and his sword hilt finally reunited with his warped fingers. He killed the next phantom underneath him via strangulation with his thighs before it died and faded away, and he huffed as his rear hit the actual ground this time.

He was going to make a stupid joke by asking the undead to give him a lift, but Havel beat him to it by smashing his Dragontooth against Lithecore's chin in an upward motion, the vigour of his swing flinging the Darkwraith up before he smacked the floor for the umpteenth time.

Lithecore gasped as he stared up at the sky, jaw unhinged like a snake's as he bled freely. Havel entered his vision and he offered what form a grin he could. The Archbishop raised his massive foot in response and he rolled out of the way before it stomped his head open. He got back to his feet and swing his blade, Havel blocked with his shield and Lithecore recoiled, another invisible power spontaneously opening a gash across his abdomen. He tilted backward and Havel stepped in with that barbed shield. The wraith grunted as he bent his body backward until his hands touched the ground, and he kicked upward.

He landed on his feet again and twirled back to face Havel with a smile. The undead stared back impassively, even as a deep crack began to spread over his impressive argumentation.

"Put the poor thing through too much use?" Lithecore queried after he had full control over his bludgeoned mouth once more.

"Had to push it to its limits if I was going to be facing you." Havel supplied, not flinching when the armament made and audible crack and crumbled to pieces – leaving his left hand bunched into a pointless fist against his breastplate.

The wraith cocked his head in amusement, "That would explain the dark spikes and odd wounds I sustained." He pointed to his chest as the bleeding line sealed completely. "Even so, I appreciate the tribute. What was the occasion?"

"You seemed joined at the hip with my precious boy over there," Havel motioned to the unconscious Argon propped up against the wall leading down to the bonfire chamber. "Needed something to sufficiently separate your attention from him."

"At the cost of your own defence?"

Havel dusted his shoulder from the crumbled rock, tranquil despite standing in the midst of war. "The means outweigh the cost as far as I'm concerned. The safety of my boy is paramount compared to my own." Lithecore watched him two-hand his Dragontooth before resting it against his back, causing the wraith to narrow his eyes. Just what was the blasphemous priest planning? "Needless to say, my efforts have paid off swimmingly. Indeed, not a hitch in sight. After all, the idea was to simply pull you away from his side."

"Whatever for?" Lithecore asked curiously.

Havel smiled. "To exchange my time spent sweeping the floor with you to another."

The Darkwraith's mouth curled into a mirth filled smirk. "Oh, really now? And you assumed extending the distance between myself and Argon would be enough to prevent my plans from moving forward?"

Havel merely dusted his gauntlets together before turning away from him dismissively. "Quite frankly, I'm more concerned with how you'll survive from this next surprise, never mind the thought of you coming back." He held his chin in sudden thought, making Lithecore feel mildly insulted that he was impulsively being treated like he couldn't rip the fossil's soul from his body with a single grab. "Now that I think about it, this might just be a fool proof method to render that antagonising healing factor of yours powerless. About damn time too, watching you morph that sickening disease to reform the parts of you I damage is just… uncivilized. And atrociously revolting." He rambled on.

"Just what prompts this certainty that I won't return, eh?"

Havel made a hand gesture as he walked away, punching the head off an oncoming wraith in the process.

"Hell hath no fury like a crossbreed scorned."

And that was when Priscilla's scythe burst through Lithecore's midsection.

" Aaargh!"

Lithecore's eyes opened wide enough to allow a bird to roost on his irises. It was just so unexpected, the precise sharpness that the crossbreed's scythe carried with it – akin to a sun fire of pain that blossomed like bright rays cresting over the dark horizon. Although he had initially screamed in alarm, he felt as if even his voice was rendered powerless to the might of that harlot's unique ability.

Lines of red snaked their way through his body as Priscilla's Lifehunt poisoned the wraith's body. By the time his back had even snapped taut from the sensation of pain, there were more wounds opening across his skin like angry zits being popped concurrently. Lithecore groaned as his hand struggled to reach the dull grey of the blade poking out from his chest. He already knew this wasn't good. The power of the Lifehunt was a dangerous affinity. Moreso than even his fluidity over the Abyss. It was an unknown in the world, only due to the fact that no one had had the opportunity to carefully study it and all its facets. After all, said power was the rarest of the rare; created only by the coming together of the extremely indominable which made it taboo in the first place. By right, it wouldn't be a stretch to call the crossbreed the only possessor of the ability, in the entire world.

That was just how mysterious and powerful it was, this incomprehensible mix of (supposed) divinity added to the superior genes of the Everlasting Dragons. It created an anomaly, a freak of nature that was the very opposite of nature at the same time. Gwyn's line had feared it with a passion, immediately hiring the services of an artistic loon to craft an inhabitable prison from mere paint. He could understand the worry, he honestly did. Quite frankly, if he had a bastard of a grandchild that could kill him with a sneeze, it would have found itself cooked in an oven until burnt and inside his stomach before it reached an age to comprehend words. Sure, it would have been murder, but it was better than allowing the thing to roam unchecked with such abnormal strength. The fact that Gwyn hadn't killed her when he had the chance still confused Lithecore to this day.

But aside from understanding her power, first he needed to pull himself away from it. Even as he stood there struggling, it was clear that he was fighting a losing battle. He should have prepared for this, taken more time to learn about Argon's lover-yet-not-lovers. It would have saved him from the dilemma he was currently trapped within – gasping like an old man as something as simple as an elongated sickle drank his life from his wound.

Snapping his teeth together, Lithecore's left hand flared to life with putrid abyssal aura. Without wasting a second, he immediately grabbed the end of the blade protruding from his chest and focused. He couldn't simply turn back and swat her away because she had impaled him precisely where he couldn't reach her. As such, he needed to fight back with equal measure: one atrocities power wrestling with another.

"Ugggh, ack." He spat black ichor from his lips as he managed to wrench his torso forward – freeing a small portion of the wicked scythe that impaled him. Her power was unreal, almost immediately flooding his veins with toxins the moment he decided to fight back. The ectoplasm dribbling down his chin wasn't even from her occultic mastery. She was turning the Abyss against him.

It was astonishing. A forbidden art so resolute, it made the dirty influence of Man writhe in torment. Oh, he hated her so much that he loved her.

Powering through the literal flood of energy that was being pumped into him, Lithecore tried to shove more of the scythe out of his body, slashing his palm in the process only for the incision to begin a chain reaction of similar cuts that wound up his arm rapidly before collectively gushing in tandem. It was like his entire left arm just exploded.

His vision grew dark – pun not intended – and he snarled like a rabid hound, stamping his foot against the ground before violently wrenching himself from the blade that the action propelled him forward.

Lithecore showered the ground with black ichor and scarlet life essence as he tumbled over his own two feet. The lingering effects from the crossbreed's scythe almost completely numbed his limbs with buzzing agony as he rose to one knee, cradling his left arm and curling his damaged spine. The floor around him swirled with feint purple smoke before a visible ring of cloudy amethyst energy enveloped his person. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth together, moaning out loudly as he manually forced out the unfathomable magic surging through his skin like electric eels.

The shroud of abysmal power perforated into a thick haze better resembling a miasma as the Darkwraith stood to full height – skin writhing grotesquely, glaring daggers at the being he wanted nothing more than to shred to ribbons.

She stood stationary, not bothering to follow up with her first attack as he retrieved his rapier and panted animalistically. Her face was an utter mask of monotony, it annoyed him despite knowing she would most definitely put on a brave act when facing him.

Even in a setting such as this, where war raged on and bodies fell like the leaves of a tree in winter, she somehow still seemed out of place. He observed her with bloodshot eyes, heart rate erratic as he channelled his rage into a single form. All playing aside, she had really hurt him. He figured he didn't like it. And that made him livid. He was supposed to indulge in pain, not want to run away from it.

The robes she wore were like the faded runes dotting the walls of Lost Izalith – a forgotten fashion styled to worship an even foggier idol of divinity. His eye traced over everything, from her form fitting boots and black leggings to the distinct bodice that added sleeves to tightly grip her slender arms. Judging from how her curves formed a near perfect level of symmetry with circles, he assumed to understand a piece of why his twin found her so fetching. Even he could admit that she looked good in black.

Her face contrasted with the dark shade brilliantly as she stared at him through glittering, slitted emerald eyes. The brows that sheltered such reptilian features were pale and snowy, blending in well with the paleness of her porcelain skin. He watched her white hair wave at him in the wind, the long strands dancing over she shoulders and down her spine, leading his gaze to the appendage that detracted her appearance to one of a human's. A big, fluffy tail. Though the small, almost miniscule scales lining her forehead and lightly pinching her cheeks already made a statement to any onlooker, the addition of a tail was unique, more direct. It led people to understand that she wasn't run-of-the-mill, something more ethereal than their comprehension could come to grips with.

And then of course, there was that scythe she brandished so carelessly. Lithecore growled to himself as he locked eyes with her. Never once moving from his position in order to get a proper read on her.

He already spat on the grave of Gwyn as he sat in ashes in that overrated crypted people called the Kiln. But what boiled the wraith's blood was that the false god couldn't understand the weight of his most pathetic decision. Dooming the world, enslaving humanity to forever becoming his bloodline's lapdogs, killing the freaking sun in the very sky… those were all acceptable misdeeds Lithecore allowed to pass by like sand in a grand hourglass. But allowing this monstrosity of untold proportions to live?! The cowardly king had lost his brutal edge when it came to deliberation. Hadn't he understood? The crossbreed was more than just the filthy consequence of a lustful daughter of fertility and an obsessed dragon of immortality, she was the product of utter calamity.

Left to her own devices, under the care and grooming of any particular individual that saw what the Darkwraith could see, and Priscilla could have had this world in the palm of her soft hands. With the blood of both Cinder and immortal beast, she was a powerhouse. But if trained to fully bring out the capabilities of the power she so naïvely uses as a crutch in battle, and she could have become and actual god Lithecore would have no choice but to accept.

But unfortunately, her potential was wasted in an inky prison… only to be forever latched onto his obtuse twin like an oversized tick. And for what purpose? Certainly not revenge for her mistreatment, or a rise to anarchy for the cruelty of Lordran's overlords. But the sad, pathetic excuse of love. Lithecore had never been irater in his existence as a separate entity to Argon. What a chance to destroy this useless ouroboros and carve out another meaning to the very practices of law and order he himself insisted to enforce. An opportunity to take his ideals of the League and warp them to her own satisfaction, reaching a pinnacle even his skilled hands could never hope to touch!

And she wasted it on the pretence of becoming his twin's lover.

"Look who just showed up," Lithecore seethed out, spittle flying from his mouth in anger, "it's Argon's fangirl."

"Far better than his stalker, wouldn't you say?" Priscilla retorted, earning her a curl of Lithecore's sinister lip.

"I assumed you had better things to do that engage in a pointless cockfight."

"Such as?"

Lithecore shrugged as he cleaned blood from his rapier. "Inhaling the musky odour of Argon's trousers would be a good start."

The crossbreed looked to the side in shame, red coating her nose. "T-That was just the one time…"

"Truly?" Lithecore breathed, positively intrigued – despite his current rage. He never thought there would be another nymphomaniac that existed within this kingdom. To think that he would find a compatriot within the necrophagic half breed on the other hand was oddly… satisfying.

The goddess flushed a deeper shade of embarrassment at the look the wraith gave her before flinging her hands out in defence. "B-Because I mistook the skirt of one of his outfits for a towel! I swear it's nothing like the perverted scandal you're imagining!"

Her response only caused the smirk on the wraith's face to grow. " Suuure. Whatever quenches that thirst of yours." Priscilla made an annoyed sound at the back of her throat as she flipped the grip on her scythe. It was fun getting her riled up, he understood why his twin did it so much. Although, Lithecore still didn't understand how such an abomination could appeal to someone as tasteful as Argon.

Then again, Lithecore reminded himself, he honestly knew nothing about physical attraction himself when it came down to it. Perhaps it was just him seeing things in a different light. But even so, he didn't care much for a deeper understanding. He was here to kill the bitch, not ask it questions. Although… perhaps just a little bit more teasing to stir the pot until it boiled. If he could rile her up enough, perhaps he could create an opening to kill her whilst her guard was down.

As much as he hated to say it, he doubted his odds at confidently besting her when she was this focused on slaying him for the identical twin she was in heat for.

"I wonder, is the reason you find yourself desperate for but a fragment of his attention due to the fact that you haven't scratched the itch that is, for all intents and purposes, unscratchable?"

Lithecore could almost feel her blush as he laughed aloud to himself – ignorant of the blood being shed right behind him as one of his own was beheaded by sword of glowing blue aura.

"Tell me, hybrid. Have the two of you even locked lips yet? Or is that on the slowly smouldering slow-burn the two of you have agreed to pick up once the mood is right?"

Priscilla bit the inside of her cheek to calm her flurried nerves. It would do no good to give rise to his jibes – even if each insult at her disabled love life with Argon stung worse than acid – what she needed right now was untainted focus on the task at hand.

Steeling herself as Lithecore's rotten lips poisoned the very blood-soaked air they breathed, the crossbreed conducted a quick once-over of his person. Taking note of each and every individual part that made him such a capable and deadly opponent to face. Starting at his mind; a schizophrenic maze of insidious design, crafted by the hand of his father who had been even grimmer in his horrid nature. Lithecore was an enigma of an entity, who's words alone were enough to topple a society on its head. And what minds like his craved above all else was the chaotic unfolding of an ordered culture of peoples, if not to simply prove that the suggested purity of Men was but a ruse that would eventually spoil form the inside out due to nothing but the natural dominion of life itself.

That being said, her attacker was more than just an expert philosopher born from delving into his own vile intentions, he was a creature of balance. Though cut from the filthy cloth of malcontent and darkened justice, the wraith's reason for existence was his own need to regulate what he deemed unfair to the current disparity of things. The divine blood that ran through her veins was one such objective he aimed to rectify, and by that, she meant cleanse.

It wasn't so farfetched of an ideal for one to possess if she were to be realistic. The food chain in and of itself was one made unjustly to smite those who couldn't hope to brush to narrowed tip of the hierarchy. Whilst gods reigned supreme from their self-proclaimed thrones and kingdoms, living lavish lifestyles they truly didn't deserve, the rest of the world had been left to shiver in the cold and feed off the leftovers. She could attest to such treatment personally. To be frank, it could truly be said that out of all the races of the world, humanity had been left the worst off. As such, Lithecore's morals and view up until this point had been to usurp those that had decided to govern whole realms of beings simply because they possessed a stronger set of skills and power. If anything, Priscilla saw this second Argon as more of a hero for humanity, even if his methods were awfully gruesome and his respect for his own kind all but dissolved to mere splinters.

Similarly, Priscilla saw a deeper meaning behind the icon Lithecore had cemented himself as. Aside from the appalling acts of violence and mass bloodshed, the unbiased slaughtering of anything that diverged from his precise and questionable set of rules; his aim to administrate what was left of this crippled land did carry a noble silver lining to it in some faint manner. At the end of it all, he and Argon were still blindingly similar at the base of their individual making. Two sides of the exact same coin, who's missions were not without merit, but contained separate paths of equal measures of importance. Either choice demanded that things would never end up the same again yet led to the same destination: a new beginning at the eve of the unmaking of everything.

In another instance, within a completely different, almost unfathomable timeline, perhaps it would have been Lithecore that had walked through her fog door. A battered, bruised yet determined example of humanity's final vestige that would touch her heart to follow him on a path she could never foretell. And though she would have most likely followed him into his path of destruction that they both current stood within, his goal and perseverance for what was right would still make her trust in the madness he surrounded himself with.

But she wasn't in an alternate reality. And even if she were, the minor and almost invisible discrepancy between the wraith and her beloved was that Argon strove to mend what was already broken, not destroy it all because the system was wrong. Whilst she too saw that the eventual decision to either join her grandfather in the Kiln or refuse was a choice that would only cause more suffering for the world, she reckoned that she preferred struggling for a third option to avoid either, instead of living in a utopia founded under the corpses of billions.

"You shall go no further," Lithecore's brow arched as she began her march toward him.

"Is that hopefulness talking or an actual delusion of yours?" he inquired and copied her movement, dark energy menacingly cascading off his body like a visible aroma of rot.

"Argon has suffered enough at your hands, whether physically or mentally. It's time your torment ended." Her voice cut through the haze of war clearly and he glared.

"And you think you can stop me? An unwanted mistake that can't possibly grasp the value of its own nature?"

Priscilla smiled as she twirled her scythe. "Argon sees me as his rock, and I him. Whether the world despises me at this point is none of my concern. I've already found my sanctuary."

She swung at his head and he lunged back, feet tip-tapping against the floor before he rebounded, stabbing forward like a viper as his rapier eager raced to catch her throat. Priscilla titled her head to the side and Lithecore swung at the end of his first stroke. She dropped into a crouch and his blade followed her with a downward slash. Her scythe rose up to intercept the attack as her left hand left the oaken shaft to press up against his bare stomach. He looked down and aimed his armoured knee at her nose only to be blasted backward by the freezing ice her fingers tingled with.

Lithecore growled as he maintained his footing, skidding along the great expanse, his scowl trained on her slender form as if she were tonight's dinner. He saw her twirl her scythe out of habit and he straightened, leaning away from an attack from a nearby Darkmoon Blade before stabbing the claws on his fingers into its chest and wrenching.

He approached her slowly, anger building with each step taken toward another insignificant delay in his plan. He couldn't comprehend it, why all these damned beings of varying shapes and sizes assumed they could keep someone like him at bay from achieving his goals.

It was purely laughable.

Priscilla readied herself as Lithecore began to run toward her. His bloodlust was palpable at this point, rubbing against her body like hungry sharks in a vast ocean of rage. But despite his need to claim her soul and devour it solely for the purpose of ending the rivalry they competed in for Argon's affection, she was glad his focus was only on her. It would give them time. Time for her brave undead to properly awaken. It was time he faced the final demon of his past.

She only hoped he would regain consciousness soon. If he ended up taking too long, she was afraid her own emotions would seep into the plan she and Havel had concocted – causing this entire distraction to morph into a mission of revenge.

After all, it wasn't just the Darkwraith that had reason to possess hatred in his wicked heart. She was also boiling with anger. Her eyes had watched her beloved from the day they had first met, stood helplessly, unable to do a thing to aid him when his mind and body convulsed in agony as the Abyss, the weight of his quest, and Lithecore's torment had assaulted his senses to the point of breaking over and over and over again.

Now that the real thing was standing before her, alive and solid enough for her finger to touch and her scythe to bite into… she finally had a chance to pay him back for the misery he had caused the undead.

The wraith reached her and raised his arm, abyssal essence outlining his blade as he swung forward. Her gaze locked onto him and her breathing grew laboured as her heart palpitated painfully in her chest. He was right here, within arm's reach. She could smell his vile scent permeate her nostrils, hear his ugly snarling encompass the sound hitting her eardrums, taste the very thickness of the air he brought with him as his malice corrupted he space between them.

She bared her teeth at him and her slitted eyes glowed an ethereal jade, thick veins protruding against the skin of her temples as her own anger overtook her. The wraith had a moment to notice before she swung her scythe, deflected his sword and intercepted his personal bubble.

The crossbreed locked eyes with an equally feral monstrosity before her hand clenched into a fist and she socked him in the chest. She heard him choke as her knuckles broke through his ribs and she smiled eerily in satisfaction before shoving her arm forward. Lithecore rocketed backward as he slammed into the floor, spine arched in pain and she took a running start before leaping into the air.

His vision of the dark sky grew clouded by her descending form and he raised his left hand, Abyss surging around his palm and shooting skyward. She replied in kind as she swung her scythe down, Lifehunt turning the blade pale white, wisps of occultic magic trailing off her body as she collided with his disgusting power. The blast from the wraith clouded her sight long enough to allow him to roll out of the way before her weapon impaled the ground, a radius of Lifehunt magic extending a bubble of death around her that absorbed the lives of four Darkwraith's unfortunate enough to be nearby.

Priscilla's hair flew wildly about her face as she turned her head toward him, face contorted in fury. The nerves spiking adrenaline through her system forced the pores of her skin to raise, making the scales on her face twist her features to appear primally sinister. The wraith breathed out and dusted his shoulder. Priscilla straightened her spine and walked toward him casually, anger causing each step to let out a hiss of condensed occultic energy.

"Havel had better wake Argon soon," she mouthed out in such a distinct tone that a passer-by would have assumed it was a young man speaking. "I don't feel that I possess enough patience to keep Lithecore alive…"

---

Havel shivered as an eerie feeling flowed down his spine. Something told him he needed to hurry his ass up. That was easier said than done, however, when the object of his real mission was just so deeply ingrained into a state of inertia. Admittedly, whilst the undeads eyes remained open and staring at him – albeit glassily – and his lips seemed to mumble out incoherent words every few seconds, Argon was the furthest from conscious that Havel had ever seen him. And this was counting the times he had woken up during their more recent travels to find him and his lovable adoptive daughter snuggling up together fast asleep!

At present, the archbishop had attempted several methods to wake up his younger companion, including yet not exclusive to: slapping him awake, pouring an entire bottle of Estus over his head, blocking both his nostrils and mouth for more than ten seconds at a time, shaking his body with enough force for his head to roll off his shoulders; as well as, to a more embarrassing extent, whispering to Argon the first time he had ever made love to his first partner.

But as the physical representation of the Chosen Undead laid vegetative against a wall, it proved just how useless it was to wake the annoying fool up. And Priscilla expected him to succeed within a few moments whilst she vented her frustrations out on Lithecore for 'putting my darling Argon through devastating turmoil'? That hardly sounded fair. Yet the crossbreed had been insistent on this plan. She had even threatened to maim him with her scythe if he had interjected with a counterplan, and her face had suddenly morphed into this terrifying visage of Velka when she was hungover. Needless to say, he had immediately shut up and complied. There was no way in the Undead Burg he was going to further anger an occultic goddess that possessed an emotional attachment to a man with a personality disorder. He had already seen too much drama watching Gwyn endure his pregnant daughter's wrath when he had forbidden her from visiting Seath all those years ago. The power she had exerted to nearly mortally wound the Sunbringer that day had been greater than the bindings that held her chest together.

Getting back on topic, though, Havel was facing a major dilemma. Argon wasn't waking up. You would think that after his rigorous wake-up methods, and the fact that they were in the epicentre of a bloody war, it would have been enough to jolt him out of his daze. Yet, staring at his dull face even as a stray fly absently sat atop his left iris, Havel assumed that they needed to fear the worst.

Bear in mind, it wasn't as though they really needed him to wake in order to win this firefight they found themselves in. Their side did possess an actual army of phantoms from different worlds, after all. However, it was the mere fact of principle that forced his companions to jump through hoops so that he could wake up to the action ahead. Why? Well, because Havel was a man of principle himself. Or rather, he was a firm believer in accountability. You could define him under whatever religious teaching he had once been the premier of and archive his bald form within its restricting pages all you wanted. That said, aside from his faith, the ex-bishop was similarly devoted to the aspect of being severely liable for your own actions. Murphy's Law for some, Occam's Razor for others, 'Karma' for those more Eastern. And although Havel knew not who these three people were, he agreed with their philosophies.

In Argon's case, the individual chambers of responsibility he believed the undead should answer for went as follows: in the case of this Murphy, Argon possessed a twin. The possibility that said twin would turn out to be evil and go on a rampage that threatened his and everyone else's life correlated perfectly with the maxim; thus, he should be held accountable. With regards to the metaphorical razor, Argon was the Chosen Undead. Therefore, implying that he was just simply fated to doom everyone around him! So, he should take charge and kill Lithecore before his girlfriend did. As for the case of Karma… Argon decided to stupidly devour the corrupted soul of Manus, without any thought of the repercussions. And now here they all stood, facing a war within the Shining City that should be impregnable to outside forces.

Which narrowed Havel's extremely long point: this was all Argon's damn fault. The bastard needed to wake the Izalith up and take charge.

Havel's thoughts were interrupted by the sudden clank of steel against armour, and he swivelled his head to see a nearby phantom bury his burning blade into the shoulder of a Darkwraith. The monstrosity – he meant the wraith, not the oddly glowing man wearing a boar's head and wielding twin katana's whilst shirtless with baggy trousers – regarded the injury, stared back at the phantom, and proceeded to grab the effigy's arm before beginning to drain his life dry.

Havel sighed out, picked up a stone from the floor and hurled it at the wraith. The force behind his throw caused the stone to shatter the wraith's skull to gory pieces and the phantom looked down at his attacker blankly as it fell to the floor, head spurting blood like a fountain.

The archbishop cringed as the phantom turned to stare at him in awe. He had accidentally put too much force into that. It was just meant to bonk the blithering bottom-feeder on the head, not bonk his life away!

"A-Are you the legendary Sir Havel…?" the phantom asked breathlessly and Havel broke out in a cold sweat. " The legendary Sir Havel that just saved my life?!"

"Errrm…" the phantom began to skip toward him in utter joy and his mind went ballistic trying to think of a response.

"No."

The phantom wearing a boar's head stopped dead in his tracks. "You're not?"

"Nope," Havel coughed out awkwardly. "You must be confusing me with someone else."

"But you're wearing the exact same armour as him and his pupils."

The ex-bishop stiffened. Dammit. He hadn't thought about that when he had made up the lie. Now what was he going to do?

"Oh, this armour?" he let out a weird laugh he didn't know he was capable of and disarmingly waved his gauntlet. "Stole this here gear from a chest hidden somewhere in the castle."

There was no way someone was dumb enough to believe such an outright lie. If they knew what his armour looked like, they obviously knew what his face looked like. He had been taking off his helm way too much than usual, even in the presence of his enemies. Not that he could help it much, the stone of his visor kept getting caught on his beard. Anyone who had had the unpleasant experience of having facial hair yanked from their cheeks knew how unbearable that was.

"Wha? Really?" the phantom suddenly asked, his blue shoulders dropping. Havel blinked. Was this kid really an idiot or was he playing dumb?

"Uh… yeah." That was the best defence he could come up with to prove his lie.

The phantom pointed to his Dragontooth and the bishop froze. Crap. His club was the one distinct feature about him that could prove that he was actually the real deal. How had he not realised this sooner?

"The club fake too?"

Again, Havel blinked owlishly.

"… Yea."

The phantom jerked away violently as if struck. "C'mon, another goddamn phoney! Screw pretenders like you, man. You give the real thing a bad name!" he said, pointing one of his eastern blades Havel's way. The bearded undead merely sweat-dropped. He never assumed there were people dumber than Argon out there.

The phantom turned to leave when two wraiths flanked him, swords raised to skewer him into the ground and Havel immediately rose to his feet, Dragontooth in his hands before his mouth opened to shout.

"Look out, boy!"

The phantom lowered into a couch-stance instantly, twin blades at his hip and he dashed forward.

"Beast Breathing: Second Fang!"

Havel blinked for the millionth time. One second the phantom was couching, the next he was standing behind his foes, blood running from his blades as the heads of the Darkwraith's rolled off their shoulders.

"Ahh, so my hunt for Havel to be my master goes on." The phantom said wistfully and looked back toward said archbishop. "You might wanna wake your friend up, gramps. We're in a war, it ain't so safe for him to be sleeping right now."

"Uh-huh…" Havel replied dryly as the phantom ran away to slash apart another wraith heading for their position. What was the summon saying about impersonating legendary warriors again? He felt an odd sense of hypocrisy all of a sudden.

Turning back to the undead, Havel lowered into a crouch and grabbed Argon by the shoulders, gently shaking him back and forth. "Do you see the nonsense you put me through, you little runt?"

Argon's head flopped forward in response. A tick mark grew on the bishop's forehead as he clenched his jaw.

"WAKE UP AND ASNWER ME ALREADY! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WAITING FOR ANOTHER DUMB WISECRACK FROM YOU?! I SWEAR, IF YOU DIE FROM THAT SICK TWIN'S BRAINWAISHING, I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF AND PISS ON YOUR GRAAAAVE!"

Havel panted as he finished violently shaking the unconscious undead to and fro in an attempt to bring him out of whatever mental blow Lithecore had dealt him. But Argon remained silent as before, his mouth silently talking in a tongue that was too soft and filled with too much mumbling to understand. It caused the bishop to sigh out in desperation and press his forehead against the undeads shoulder.

"Just what do I do to wake you up, son?"

---

"Ever heard of the Rebis, filthy abomination?" Lithecore asked after Priscilla slashed open his shoulder and back handed his face – causing his body to ragdoll five metres away and meet chest-to-metal with a phantom's poisoned spear.

The Phantom jumped from surprised as he fell backward, impaling Lithecore even deeper before the wraith sighed, pulled himself out, locked eyes with the gaping visage of the Darkmoon Blade and sucked his soul from his chest.

"Toward further corners of this dystopian globe, there is a practice of magic derived from a mere collection of but seven metals. The researchers that undergo this deep dive into the unknown and occultic, respectively, are known for a specific yearning." Priscilla raised her scythe as the wraith sprinted toward her. The edge of her boot tapped the floor gently before she backstepped his jab and countered with a high sweep of her blade. Lithecore ducked out of the way and lunged into her unguarded midsection, delivering a direct fist that sunk into her diaphragm before rising up as she lowered, grabbing the back of her head.

Her eyes squinted from the pain as she took up at him. Lithecore merely grinned before slamming his skull against hers so hard it resulted in a minor shockwave that pushed an incoming wraith backward.

" OOOH."

The Darkwraith groaned as he saw stars. He hadn't expected her head to be that hard. A feint trickle of blood ran down his forehead and he frowned, looking back at an equally dazed crossbreed only to see the tiny horns dotting her brow tinged red from his blood.

Oh. So that was why it had hurt.

"The 'great work' or magnum opus. The pinnacle of their work, appropriately named the Rebis," he continued after Priscilla had regained her breathing and chased after him – face as feral as it had been when they had begun clashing blades. He quite liked it, her enraged form leaping at him like some rabid dog. The prospect of always staying sane was a waste of time and effort, in his opinion. She showed some promise. Engaging with someone's darker side always held more information about them compared to their sober counterparts. " Predictably enough, it requires the souls of two specific individuals that must be separated for individual objectives. One that has undergone petrification, whilst the other immerses themselves in great purification. Then they are to return, in order to combine to form the supposedly gloriously divine hermaphrodite; the grandiose Rebis.

"It interests me when explaining it to a creature like yourself. Quite frankly, you might be the closest example to the Alchemic magnum opus there is, residing within this moth-eaten crag you people refer to as a land of kings. Hmm, actually, now that I think about it… maybe Gwyn's lastborn is a better fit for the name? After all, his legs are comprised of snakes. And this talk of a hermaphrodite almost perfectly coincides with the crown-wearing freak. I mean, if Argon of all beings can't decipher its gender…"

"Is there honestly a reason to your ramblings?" Priscilla asked before parrying his sideward slash with a twirl of her scythe. Lithecore's arm rebounded back and she followed up with a decent riposte by launching her heel into his stomach. He flew back four steps but righted his footing, offering her a smile as he took a step forward, only for the trap she had laid on the ground beforehand to spring – blasting him with a concentrated amount of her ice.

Steam billowed from the point of impact, obscuring her view of him and she growled. She desperately hoped he hadn't died from something so infantile in method. Her body was still buzzing from the anger she felt toward Argon's torturer. It would be waste for him to die before she even had the chance to fill his spleen with so much occultic essence that he imploded for the fun of it.

"Oh, there certainly is," Lithecore mouthed before walking out from the icy haze, body glistening wet as the Abyss covering his left side flared in that ungodly flame it possessed. "You see, the essence of this practice of magic is to better understand the prospect of Divinity. I had… naïvely assumed upon our arrival back to Firelink upon killing Manus that, to properly best the true opponents known as this land's divinity, one would need to understand the way in which they thought. The Rebis was an idea that stood parallel to my goals after Argon and I met our fateful separation."

He ran forward and she met his pace, scythe emitting bitingly cold trails of ice that formed snowflakes in her wake. When they closed the distance, she swung forward, expecting him to do the same. Instead, he twisted backward as her weapon sunk into the ground like a knife through butter. He grinned and cocked his arm back to deliver a lightning-fast stab to her exposed side when she allowed the magic in her blade to explode outward. His occultic rapier neared her lung and she blanketed the area with a haze of angry, cold biting fog that froze his nerves upon impact. He blinked and tried to locate her with his violet-coloured left eye, before realising that the frosty mist he saw wasn't magic, but pure icefall itself. He smiled at her craftiness and lowered his sword, lowering himself into a defensive stance as he continued his explanation.

"I had theorised that if I left him on the path to siding with these fake gods whilst I slunk about the shadows, doing the dirty work within the Abyss, and subsequently relinking both counterparts into one at a later date, we would effectively create a pseudo-Rebis capable of actualising the objectives the League has sought for more than a century.

" However, before I was about to not-so-gently force my beautiful twin to become one with me once more, an epiphany struck me. What use was it to become so powerful and devour those that paraded around as gods when there was no one around to share in your triumphs? I won't lie to you, having Argon within me once again or being within Argon forevermore would be simply rapturous. But having him by my side… now that would please me more than the death of your entire line ever could. Including the black-haired one married to the Pygmies. If's she inherited the blood of Gwyn, or any self-proclaimed Divinity, she has to die."

Priscilla frowned as she stepped in from the icy mist and slashed Lithecore down the back before turning invisible. Lord Gwyn had another child? This was news to her. Perhaps she should ask her uncle to clarify? She couldn't just take Lithecore at his wicked words.

"But enough about the depressing stuff like family."

Lithecore swung his sword within the mist and hit nothing. He sniffed, took a step in another direction, and felt another gruesome wound mar his flesh by that cowardly crossbreed. His mind snapped into focus as the pain reached him. He immediately stabbed toward his right side before his blade was deflected and something shoved him toward an unknown direction. He clicked his tongue.

It was bad enough that he was fighting the one being alive that could render his use of the Abyss null and void – pardon the triple negative – but it was harder to fight someone that cast a large area spell to blind you whilst the natural lighting above wasn't any better in the first place. He had to hand it to the green-eyed hybrid, though, to use such methods in order to trap him and simply bleed him out was smart. There wasn't really a way for him to win in a war of attrition with her… unless he evened the playing field.

Gathering abyssal mana in his left hand, Lithecore morphed the sickening substance into a frenzied orb and slammed it into the ground. Lifting his foot into the air, he waited for the orb to settle before he crushed it to pieces. In an instant, the energy within the abyssal orb exploded and spread like wildfire, draining the lives of phantoms and wraiths alike, before it finally zeroed in on the one person he had been searching for.

He attempted to pull her soul into his body as he did the others with his impromptu use of Life Drain only to feel her pull back. He grinned and allowed her to fight back as he walked toward her position, rapier hungry to taste the blood of an abomination. She had really underestimated his tenacity. Now, here she stood, about to pay the price. It was a shame really. He ended up liking her a small bit. He honestly assumed she would have lived long enough to watch him turn Argon's mind back into what it used to be: a stone-cold killing machine devoted to the way of the League. Pity.

The fog Priscilla cast began to fade away to nothing but cold wisps of air as Lithecore neared her position. Despite the area of effect attack, he found the battle on upper Anor Londo still raging on with a fierceness. It was admirable, a shame she wouldn't be able to see its eventual end with his forces marching proudly.

He found the place where his Life Drain was being fought with and slashed forward, hoping to draw a surprised gasp as his blade cut into her body, just like the one she had gifted him with earlier. Unfortunately, all he felt was his sword cut through cloudy air. He righted himself and flung out an arm, clearing the mist away only to furrow his brows in outrage when he found her Lifehunt scythe stabbed into the ground, actively fighting against the destructive effects of his abyssal powers.

So, she had been baiting him this entire time? How sneaky. As he said before, he was starting to like her.

And that was the moment when Priscilla buried her claws into his shoulder blades.

"Aaaaaahhh!"

The scream left his lips quicker than the feeling of her oddly malignant magic suffocating his body.

"I hope you weren't expecting me to simply stand still whilst you monologued about nothing in particular." She whispered into his ear as her nails grated against his bone, shearing away their structural integrity as her wandering hands decided to traverse toward his spinal cord.

"You see, whilst I am not one for excessive displays of violence," she mentioned as her hand found one of his lungs and squeezed tightly, cutting off his air supply as she overdosed his body with Lifehunt energy, "the thought of you even breathing on my Argon has me writhing to tear you to pieces. And I know that injuries mean nothing to you, but that just means more fun for me. It would be the perfect way to vent out all of my frustrations without worrying that I'd have killed you. Then maybe when Argon eventually wakes up and finds me brining you to the point beyond insanity as each hour passes, they'll have a proper reason to dump me in that accursed painting and throw away the key."

Lithecore's back arched and he let out a scream as she burst his appendix from within his body. He would have never guessed she would be this adventurous in the method of torturing him. And although the pain reached all time high's, it was the unexpected feral nature that took over her usual cool and collected self that got him riled up. It was purely exhilarating to see, something that honestly made him not want to kill her – all for the sake of letting her go wild just to see whether she would turn out like him. Oh, that would be a plot-twister these false gods would never see coming. A goddess hunting her own kind! Oh, he liked it. He liked the idea so much it made a pleasant tingle flow down his body for a split-second.

Oh, wait. That was just her hand ripping his back to pieces.

"D-D-Do yo- aaaghh," Lithecore began as she ripped her left hand out of his body with a violent tug. "Do you pr-promise to keep me in such agony?"

Priscilla turned his body just enough so that he could see her malicious smile. "Only if it would make you feel better."

Lithecore's eyes rolled to the back of his skull before he looked at her and grinned so wide his cheeks split open. "If you're going to take away my freedom, allow me to at least repay the favour."

"How so?" she asked.

The Darkwraith held back a chuckle as he straightened his spine and yanked her remaining hand out of his bleeding back, the terrible wounds healing just a little bit slower due to her monstrous energy coursing through his veins. She gasped in shock when he latched onto her wrist, kicked her feet out from under her and caught the back of her head. She hadn't been expecting him to be pretending. That was okay. He had not expected her to get on his good side after becoming his twin's breeding tool.

And so, without further ado, Lithecore did what he said he would do. He took from her as she had already taken from him. The cost of stealing his precious Argon from him, required great compensation. But what would justify as a suitable repayment, coming from an untouched lady that was the half-breed of dragon and god? Well, that was obvious.

He leaned his head forward and sealed his lips against hers. Priscilla's anger faded away as quickly as ice melting in a pot of hot water. And instead of primal fury, the feeling of absolute horror rocked her soul as Lithecore kissed her with all the disgusting passion he could muster – causing her body to go into shock as her mind recorded this moment for the rest of her life, her lips shivering as they remembered the feel of this monster's cold lips pressed against her own.

It was over before it had begun, but for her it lasted a lifetime. Lithecore withdrew his face from hers with a satisfied grin. He had never expected to act that romantic with anyone in his lifetime, never mind a beast like her. But he supposed there was always a first for everything. Now that he thought about it, kissing wasn't all that bad.

He let go of Priscilla and the crossbreed fell to her knees in utter shock, hands immediately rushing up to her face to scrub her lips as she looked at him with wide, teary eyes. The action was just so priceless that he had to laugh.

"Wh-Wha-What have you done?" her voice was almost too quiet as she spoke. The shock coupled with the horror of the event itself was simply delicious. "Y-You just… on my… a-and it was my first…"

"Hah! Serves you right for stealing Argon away from me! I know that I can never connect with him now that you've sunk your claws into him, but no matter. Remember and curse this day to your leisure, dear Priscilla. For whenever you kiss your beloved from now on, my face will forever be engrained into your memory!"

"No," the crossbreed held her head in misery, curling into a ball as Lithecore laughed villainously. "Stop. D-Don't say a-a-another word. Don't say-"

"What?" Lithecore cut in. "That you wanted Argon to be your first kiss?"

"No, stop! Don't say it!"

"Well too bad. Because it was me, LITHECORE!"

"NO!" Priscilla cried in terror as she covered her face, bitter tears flowing down her cheeks as she came to grips with reality. It was really the end of the world. Her honour had been ruined. Ruined by the very man wearing Argon's face. Oh, how cruel the hand of Fate was!

"Bah-hah-hah-hah-haaah!" Lithecore laughed so loud, the Abyss shrouded his form like a sinister cloak as he lifted his sword arm once more. "Lay there and cry in agony. Weep all those terrible fears away as you're finally put out of your misery," he finished before stabbing his rapier toward the crossbreed's exposed nape.

---

Havel felt an odd tremor as he attempted to wake his companion up with an application of the few healing scriptures he had actually bothered to learn. Whilst he couldn't recall half the chant, he clearly remembered the feeling of tapping into such a power. And if he could perfectly connect with his more lethal invocations, it was a safe bet to assume that this healing magic could potentially help the undead at least look at him with life in his dead eyes.

The problem was that as soon as he had tried to begin the prayer, the ground below him began to shake. The bishop frowned. Had someone's spell caused a quake? Nonsense. These summons didn't possess the skills to wield such powerful magic. Could it be Gwyndolin, then? Again, it was unlikely. The boy – or girl – wouldn't go risking the integrity of his father's castle just to kill a bunch of wraiths. So then, what was this rumbling he was feeling?

Havel looked down as he crouched in front of Argon. The ground was shaking alright. He looked at the battle around him. It seemed that others hadn't noticed yet. Or was that because they didn't feel it? But wait! The ground was only shaking around the two of them!

He observed himself and Argon critically as the ground trembling intensified only to gawk. His healing scripture. He had cast it wrong. His healing scripture was the reason there was an earthquake! By all that was holy, he had just doomed them to die because of a botched spell! Out of all the dumb, reckless, an idiotic things he had ever done in his less than noteworthy life half hollow stuck at the base of a bloody burnt towe-

"NO!" he heard a scream and started to his feet.

That shout was Priscilla's! Oh no. She was in danger! He had to help. Oh, but he couldn't! He had promised he'd wake Argon up. But he couldn't do that either! What was he to do? Should he rush to her aid? But what of Argon? He was still in a daze. Still stuck mumbling to nothing on his toned posterior right below him. Right- wait, where the heck was Argon?!

Havel felt the ground rumble to even greater proportions as he turned and found the undead standing to his side, his signature mask over his features as he lowered in a crouch.

"Argon?" Havel asked, mystified.

"Where's Priscilla, old man?" he asked in a tone so serious, the ex-bishop felt compelled to quickly point in her direction. "Thanks," he mouthed before Havel saw the Abyss ripple from his right side, wrap around his feet, before he jumped and it launched him so high into the dark sky that Havel could barely see him when he reached his summit.

The archbishop felt the rumbling stop and he looked own to where Argon had stood but a mere few seconds ago, noticed the indents of his feet he had left into the ground and smiled like satisfied kitten. That healing scripture had done wonders, it had. He knew he should have listened to Gwynevere when she told him he had a knack for healing people.

---

Lithecore felt a distinct shift in the atmosphere as his sword neared Priscilla's neck. It felt as though a great pressure had just been released. As if a sense of terrible foreboding was shadowing his form even as he stood there. Now, he had never been one for superstitions, but for some reason this felt odd to him. Alien. As if he should be slightly worried. He made a face.

Was he constipated?

And then he heard the wind whistling above him and turned, looked up and saw Argon barrelling toward him from the sky.

" Argon?"

"LITHECOOOOOORRRREEEEE!"

The undead collided with his twin. The air made a strange pop as Lithecore's back hit the ground, before an impressive shockwave rushed outward and turned the rubble below them to pebbles.

The Darkwraith blinked in awe as he stared up at the snarling face of his other half, hands wrapped round his throat and choking him as the twisted one of the pair wheezed out in joy.

"I was prepared to go along with your shenanigans before intervening, but now you've crossed a line that should never have existed in the first place," he growled.

Lithecore opened his mouth to respond and Argon lifted a hand from his throat to grab his forehead and crush his head into the cobblestone. The wraith's vision blurred from the pain. He could scarcely breathe as his twin straddled his waist and continued to use his head as a battering ram for the floor.

Yet, despite the unpredictable turn of events, Lithecore was smiling. Yes, he wasn't pleased that his gaslighting had been undone by the shrill cries of the hybrid but Argon seemed to gain his second wind. Things were about to get awfully exciting; he could feel it in his nether's. Or was the act of being suffocated by his gorgeous other half turning him on somewhat? He didn't know, there wasn't much air travelling to his brain to adequately think. Either way… he was going to enjoy this next round.

---

The shrill shriek of the King's sword seemed to scream at it cut through the very space between Gwyndolin and itself. It was absurd, of course, that some twisted and brainwashed monster of the unknown could possibly grasp the ability to tear away the distance of its prey with mere swipes of a blade. The reason being that whilst the King before him was a construct of the Abyss, it was no Manus. Deadly? Yes. Unkillable? Hmph. It wished it was.

He wondered if perhaps this was where his father's folly began to corrupt his own will to fight. Not knowing thine enemy meant running into one's own unmaking, he knew as much. However, his father had been taught, educated to an advanced level about the very terror that threatened to consume his home should the First Flame die out. And yet he had still walked into the Throne Room to find his visage shivering with fear as his advisors bickered over the next course of action to keep the public oblivious to their impending doom.

The image depressed Gwyndolin greatly. He had seen where the strength and might of his once glorious father fail and dive into a river of despair. A King should never show his underlings worry, should not emit a pathetic aura of misery. The duty of a King was to inspire hope into the hearts of many, display to the kingdom and beyond that fear existed only to be trampled under the boot of the brave.

The Abyss, in all its terrifying power, was not something that he should have feared. The Everlasting Dragons were more of a challenge if he were being honest. And this miscreant that screamed and lunged at him like some angered child? The god was not impressed.

His sceptre glowed as it drew another golden rune, teleporting him away from another awfully ranged swing that the New Londo King aimed his way. He heard it growl, snap, slobber and shout as its missing legs glided over the blood-soaked floor toward him. The Darkmoon god looked down for a moment as it approached, admiring the way the lifeblood of so many seemed to create a perfect crimson mirror below them. The King swung his grotesque blade and Gwyndolin fired a volley of soulmass that imploded on contact against its chest. The King screeched as it reeled back, gigantic blade falling backward as it moved almost in slow motion. He breathed calmly and levelled his sceptre at the beast. Large rings of sapphire wrapped around his catalyst as he formed the incantation in his mind. The King seemed to right his lack of footing in the time it took Gwyndolin to finish preparing, and when it lunged to sever him in half, he complied by releasing his magic.

A bright portal of power, clear and crystal in colour exploded from the massive rings of magic surrounding Gwyndolin's sceptre. The wave that rushed toward his foe punched out like a strong fist that caused the King to gasp as it was pushed back a foot. Gwyndolin tightened the hold on his catalyst, funnelling more of his magic through the tool to enhance the spell.

A scream was heard, and the god lowered his gaze a smidge to see his power burn a hole through the Kings chest, the unending surge of power forcing its way through the abyssal King. It wailed in what Gwyndolin assumed was pain and he heard something audibly tear around him. It took him a moment to realise that it came from the King, watching as his magic tore through its off-white body and spiralled toward a pillar in the far corner of the Great Hall – eviscerating it with the final vestiges of its might before fizzling out.

Gwyndolin exhaled as he lowered his sceptre, the end steaming like an overheated kettle. The King seemed even worst, standing there rigidly, a hole in its chest large enough for a Silver Knight to climb into. He twitched but it didn't move, barely reacted to the threat of being attacked. He waited for whatever sick extension of the Abyss it used to heal over the wound it possessed but found silence as it just… stood there. As if a single, solitary blast was all that was needed to bring the thing down. He received his answer in the show of the New Londo King flickering with light before simply deteriorating to nothing, leaving nothing but empty space behind.

The Dark Sun huffed in disappointment. His Father had feared something as pathetic as this? How tragic. To be afraid of an oddly formed human swathed in a disease it didn't fully understand. How the mighty fell at the first sign of trouble.

"Is this all thine hath to challenge me, wraith?" he questioned, flicking his sceptre toward a pile of corpses. As if smacked by a hammer, the pile scattered like shattered glass, exposing one Darkwraith Commander that was thrown into Gwyndolin's line of sight.

Kirk scrambled to his knees, three paces away from the Darkmoon Lord as he sighed out, yanking off the dismembered arm stuck to the barbs on his shoulder. He half expected to be discovered. How well could one hide themselves from a slew of deadly magic with only dead bodies, after all?

"Last I recall, the Four Kings were not a single entity."

"Perhaps only one of them could stomach making the journey to this dump." Kirk bit back dispassionately.

A snake at Gwyndolin's feet shot forward and sank its fangs into the wraith's shoulder. The fangs themselves seemed to ignore his armour, injecting numbing venom into its target.

"AAGH!" the Knight of Thorns yelped before smashing a fist against the head of the large snake. The only thing it did was prompt the serpent to bite harder. Kirk growled in pain but relented.

"Further displays of arrogance will result in the removal of thine head. I suggest more direct answers this time."

"Like the terribly taste you have in fashion?" Kirk spat. The Dark Sun offered a raised eyebrow at his defiance. Not that the wraith could even see the gesture. "Last I heard, they called you Sir Gwyndolin. Kind of destructive to the expectation to find a gender confused god in boots he has no real feet to fil- Ah!"

A second snake, paler than the ivory tiles stained red and larger than the first dived in to chomp into Kirk's hip. Whilst this one wasn't poisonous, the deep stain of red the wraith's armour seemed to bleed with explained of a different fate the Commander would experience if he continued to flap his lips.

"How well, I ponder, will thine last this interrogation without the use of a few limbs, or loss thereof?" The god tapped his sceptre against his palm casually. "The thought that mine serpents enjoy fresh meat almost escaped my notice."

Gwyndolin waited for another cocky response to grace his dignified hearing. Unfortunately, the welp wisely remained silent – prompting Gwyndolin to curl the corner of his lip in mild satisfaction.

"I shall enquire once more. Where art the other Kings of New Londo?"

This time, the Knight of Thorns let out an amused grunt. "Just look behind you."

Gwyndolin stared at him impassively, not rising to the bait. He was beginning to regret the poor decision to question an obviously useless piece of the Dark. Whilst uncouthly confident and suave, the Commander of the Darkwraiths was a pointless hub of knowledge to even attempt to glean anything from. Where at first, Gwyndolin had seen the infamous Barbed Knight as a portal of insight into his overly elaborate and unnecessary plan to conquer Anor Londo, starting with the position of the remaining three Kings he referred to as 'pets', what he found was the joking visage of a trap door.

Even if the god broke the half mortal with torture, he doubted he would gain any useful knowledge worth using to even the playing field. The wraith was just wasting his time, playing the jester, keeping him busy from the real fight his forces were dying from by the minutes he wasted on this pathetic fiend.

He should have just killed the Darkwraith, Gwyndolin mused as his snakes lifted Kirk to his line of sight – lowering his sceptre to rest against his black armour as the tip glowed with power. The wraith struggled in the grip of his snakes; Gwyndolin couldn't comprehend why went it was already too late. It was a waste, however, to purge this cursed land of a mind so engrained in the art of war and tactics. If anything, he would have enjoyed a thorough explanation of just how the Commander founded the idea to trap him within his chambers before the full assault on his city began. Alas, it was not to be. Gwyndolin breathed out an inaudible sigh as his sceptre burst with light to blow the wraith to pieces.

And then he felt it. A cold, impure feeling of unease; coupled with the sinister aura of something only the Abyss could conjure within this confined space – if one could call a Great Hall small.

The second King of New Londo rose up from the pool of blood that flooded the entire walkway of the Great Hall. Its form was contorted, as if it were squeezing through a gap in the fabric of whatever vortex it created, eventually towering over Gwyndolin's smaller form entirely. The god turned his head to it as it unfurled its twisted body, flinging the Barbed Knight in his grip across the room in the process to prepare for his next deathmatch.

The King, likewise, stretched its gangly limbs as it looked around the hall. It took in everything in a slow, sluggish manner that reminded Gwyndolin of a mechanical sentry. He watched as its pale face swivelled around itself, taking in the fallen bodies on the ground, the rippling river of blood beneath them, the panting form of the Darkwraith Commander, and finally the shape of the Darkmoon God himself – staring back silently in contempt.

The King locked its sight on him, murky white eyes not even blinking as the two shared a staring contest that lasted all of two minutes. Gwyndolin noticed a slight intelligence in the second King that the first did not possess and tensed.

The King reacted to such an action immediately and Gwyndolin lunged out of the way as it flung out its sword arm, detaching several violet-coloured projectiles in the process that chased after the white robes of the Dark Sun.

Gwyndolin clenched his jaw as he leaned out of the way of the volley of attacks sent his way, only to hiss when said projectiles doubled back toward him in response. If there was one thing he hated about the powers of the Abyss, it was the ridiculous ability to create homing spells upon will.

In regular sorcery, even Divine incantations like his own, the method of enchanting a spell to follow and target and enemy required a set of pre-requisites that relied on the castors ability to simultaneously focus on firing off the spell, maintaining its power, and forcing it to stay of course toward its destination. Abyssal magic was nothing like that. And even though this King exuded wisdom in each and every move it seemed to make, did not mean its skills in spellcraft was superb. If anything, the lone benefit of casting any Abyss-ridden form of magic meant that it impulsively targeted anything either living or not yet corrupted by its sickening presence.

And that fact alone was why Gwyndolin knew he would detest this fight with a passion. Even after he emerged victorious.

The projectiles he dodged for the third time swerved in mid-air and flew at him for the fourth time, whilst the dead-faced King floated forward as the god accidentally entered into its range, swinging its blade at him in am outlandishly long arc.

Gwyndolin's snakes hissed and snapped as they swivelled his body to the side as the black blade came down. Unfortunately, he was unprepared for the trail of purple that followed the blade, or the eruption of abyssal energy that extended from the blade upon impact with the floor.

The god growled as the blast struck him, burning his skin and clothes as he was repelled backwards. As he flew through the air; he heard a dull whoosh and turned his head – only to see the projectiles from earlier heading straight toward his unprotected spine. He muttered out a complaint about the disgusting infection before waving his sceptre. The tip pulsed and a dozen orbs of azure energy burst forth, racing to intercept the speeding arrows of the Abyss as he fell toward ground level. Refusing to stain his robes further with all the blood coating his floors, Gwyndolin extended his free hand. His body plummeted toward the ground and his hand was a foot away from touching it before his fingers splayed out.

A rich, golden wave of translucent magic leapt from his palm to form wings that flapped against the ground, propelling his body upward in a gentle gust of wind. As he ascended, the projectiles crashed into the blue balls of soulmass, exploding behind him to create a Picasso of pure and putrefied energy that mixed together before dissipating.

When Gwyndolin felt his body reach the summit of his rise, he pointed his sceptre at the King, about the same time the King decided to send another attack the lastborn's way. The god's catalyst crackled with power as it let loose an arrow of soul energy. The King's black blade glowed darkly as it used its entire body to swing the weapon downward, sending a wicked crescent of malevolent energy to streak toward the god.

Both forces of might once again crashed against the other, showering the room in impressive collaborations of colour. Gwyndolin and the New Londo King, meanwhile, prioritised leaping through the air only to clash weapons. The second King snarled in Gwyndolin's face, obviously outraged that the small deity refused to give in and die; whilst the Darkmoon Lord glared impassively at the King, surprised that it was able to hold its own against his strength. The two waged a silent war of attrition against the other, trying to see which would relent against the oppression of the other's might before they suddenly both pushed each other back.

The King brought its sword to shoulder height before it swung at the Dark Sun. Gwyndolin, spun in the air, his crown ducking under the attack, allowing his snakes to assault the King's face in a dozen different ways as he hovered upside down.

The King roared, pale hand reaching up to block its face as more than twenty giant serpents sank their fangs into its shoulders, chest, forearm and head. The venom they injected into its skin caused it to shiver, and Gwyndolin looked up to see it's visible veins pump with acidic toxins. He felt the King break away from the iron-tight grip his snakes availed upon its person and he drew a circle with his catalyst, fading away to mist even as the King lashed out with a lightning-fast claw shrouded in abyssal energy.

The monstrosity snapped its head around the Great Hall as its face inflated from the intrusion of venom. Its blind eyes found Gwyndolin, standing within the wings of the hall and bared its teeth, flying toward him in a fit of rage as it swung another Abyss-charged blade his way. The Darkmoon Lord responded with a cheeky flick of his wrist, sending a flurry of azure balls of flame its way. The wraith-like King collided with the balls that exploded against it upon contact but never lost its speed, blade whistling as it neared Gwyndolin's throat.

The god noticed the monsters play and took a step back. The blade passed harmlessly by his adam's apple before getting stuck in the pillar directly next to him, causing the King to jerk its arm in sudden worry. Gwyndolin smirked and swung his own weapon. The golden sceptre impacted with the King's temple and it screeched – the force of his blow flinging it into the stairwell and cracking its skull on the banister.

Before the King could recover from the sudden physical attack, Gwyndolin leapt from the wing of the hall, falling down to the ground of the main walkway before he levelled his sceptre at the King's head and fired. The beast wailed loudly as a soul spear impaled it through the left eye, the cyan construct sizzling as it burned the New Londo King.

Rage filled the beast and it flung out a hand wildly, incidentally, backhanding the Dark Sun and he went crashing into the opposite wall. Gwyndolin grunted in pain as he got up from the floor of the opposite wing, dusting off his clothes as the King rose to its full height and turned around to face him. The god sighed out; this was marginally different compared to the other King. The obvious difference being that this one was partly intelligent. Yet, even so, the display this much magical skill was impressive in his eyes. He should probably reward such attempts on his life by going all out.

Then again, he didn't want to overexert himself. Although the light of the moon shone directly upon his form, he was not naïve enough to assume that this buff to his magic would mean he couldn't feel fatigue. Even as he stood there eyeing the second King, his limbs felt awfully heavy. It was the result of not resting enough from his battle with Argon. Again, the fault lied with his champion's darker twin and that mouthy Darkwraith Commander. Nevertheless, it mattered not. It wasn't like his foe would take his excuses as reason to cease their battle. And quite frankly, he didn't see grounds for it either.

He was having fun, despite the annoyance of the Abyss sullying his halls, the act of engaging in a battle with a somewhat worthy opponent enticed him to continue. He didn't understand how his father could fear such beings, though. When all they were was overpowered humans without half the wit to effectively utilise the power at their fingertips, this became less than a threat to their kingdom and more of a job to assert actual dominance.

Both the King and Gwyndolin dived forward from their respective perches. As if operating within the same sphere of thinking, they charged their weapons with immense power, enough to cause the air to ripple before sending it in a large stream toward the other. Bright cyan clashed with deep violet and black as the two forms drew closer. The centre of the streams formed a bubble that pressed together like the opposite ends of a magnet. The constricting forces grew as their castors neared, the bubble growing bigger as currents of energy cascaded outward from the twin surges.

The rebounding magic destroyed everything it touched. The grand alabaster pillar to Gwyndolin's left, the blood-soaked floor below them, forming a deep crack that drained all the blood leaving small puddles behind. Even the piles of corpses around them were hit, turning bleeding bodies to mountains of ash that hissed with smoke.

Gwyndolin and the King neared as close as ten metres away from the other before the bubble between them suddenly ruptured and ignited, throwing both parties backward. A brilliant flash of light went off before the shared energy formed a crater in the centre of the Great Hall, destroying the lower set of stairs belonging to the right wing, along with a third of the walkway between.

Gwyndolin crashed against the banister, his back arching from the pain as the King slapped the floor mightily, force strong enough to bounce its body up into the air. Gwyndolin saw this and immediately fired another soul spear – smiling in triumph when the projectile impaled the monster, making it scream.

The god recovered his breath and charged his sceptre as the King got to its feet. It looked at him and Gwyndolin flicked his wrist four times at the plaything of the Abyss, sending out wave after wave of hundreds of soul orbs to crash into the New Londo King with a righteous fury. The King roared in pain from the barrage and curled in on itself, its stomach forming a small violet sphere that began to grow as Gwyndolin's attacks assaulted it. Soon the orb encased the very King itself and Gwyndolin stopped his attack, jumped into the air and waved his sceptre. A bubble of blue magic surrounded him just in time before the King self-destructed.

There was a shrill ringing of bells in the distance as an unholy wave of virulent amethyst flooded the Great Hall. It ripped apart the walls, the stained glass remaining, the pillars half standing, the very tiles from the floor. The fading wisps of the wave caught Gwyndolin's bubble and he flew against the furthest corner of the ceiling. The magic around him flared and sparked, protecting him from the brunt of the force. However, what it could not protect against was natural physics as the bubble cracked from the aftershock of the blast, shattering to pieces as he hit the corner of the upper wall painfully and slid down.

His eyes filled with tears when the back of his head thumped against sharp corner and his sight blurred as he fell. The snakes at his feet hissed as they did their best to grab onto whatever they could to soften his fall. Luckily, he managed to subvert the damage by using a quick teleport to drop him closer to the ground. He used his shoulder to crunch into the broken floor and his body flipped over his head from the momentum. His face met the floor and he bust his lower lip, hissed in pain but barked out a laugh. At least he would live.

He used the hand still holding his sceptre to help him to his knees and he looked up, saw the prone from of the second King slowly fighting for control of its body after the massive use of its twisted magic. His body moved on impulse, snapping his arm out to point at the King as his catalyst formed three concentric rings of a powerful incantation. He breathed in to calm his nerves before he let the rampant magic in his sceptre go, watched the beautiful tunnel of blue magic spiral with utmost grace. Blinked as the terrifying magic smashed against the still curled from of the second King, covering it with burning essence as it tore to pieces in the span of six seconds.

"Hmph," Gwyndolin grunted to himself as the spell faded, revealing nothing but smouldering ashes at the end of his spell. He panted as he rose to his feet shakily. That had been an intense fight. The second King had been shrewd, unflinching, proud of his abilities. It had made the battle that much harder, forced the god to prove himself that much more that he wouldn't allow himself to be expunged like the rest of his people. It also brought much insight into his mind, educated him that perhaps his father had a reason to fear the Abyss. For such coveted power could do more than corrupt, it could cause mass devastation the likes of which he had never seen before.

He walked down the broken stairway, hopping over the missing step here and there before coming to a halt in front of the second King's ashes. If his Knights and Blades had been present, they would have all been positively wiped out in that last attack. The thought didn't sit well within the god's belly, but it eased his worries somewhat to know that he had asked for his forces to clear out beforehand. At least now he could take solace in the fact that he was the only one injured from such a powerful blast.

He didn't doubt that the Barbed Knight survived, the only issue was finding him, however. There were still more questions to be asked yet his turquoise eyes couldn't find his cowardly form hiding anywhere. Perhaps he should create a batwing demon to search around? Or maybe he should conserve his energy to better fight the hordes up above the-

Gwyndolin's eyes widened as he sensed an ominous presence enter the Great Hall and turned. His eyes found the flat of the third King's blade speeding toward his face a second before impact.

"Aagh!" the blow knocked his body up the stairs leading to the Throne Room and he rolled against the ground before smashing into the base of a nearby pillar, his crown falling from his head. His silvery hair spilled over his face, framing his cheeks and running down his small shoulders as he panted for breath, uncovered eyes staring down as one of his snakes retrieved his sceptre. That had been a painful blow. He needed to be slightly more aware next time.

He looked up to assess his next combatant, and instead found the snarling forms of the final two Kings of New Londo staring down at him. Gwyndolin smiled grimly. There really was no rest for the wicked, was there?

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Word Bank:

1. Cyaneous – (adj.) a sky-blue colour.

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As I said previously, please forgive me for posting this so late. This year hasn't been the best, but I'll do my best to bring you awesome chapters to combat that.

Please note, the next chapter will be the closing of the Jekyll And Hyde Arc, as well as the filler chapter where Argon and Priscilla receive some well-deserved down time. HUGE THANKS again to CarlosInferno for consistently messaging me to check up on my progress. Even though I have a fever, its because of his insistence that I finally finished this chapter. So, expect chapter 40 soon. I mean it. SOON.