"Heads up! That red coating on their surface is Cursed Blood. It's dampening fire damage!"
The Leader of the Watchers had also noticed the anomaly of the crimson blood. These two forces clearly didn't belong to the same faction, yet their combination was proving to be a headache even for the Ashen One.
This was a problem. The Undead Legion excelled at using the power of fire to suppress creatures of the Abyss. Even in the end times, when the First Flame flickered and the Abyss ran rampant—to the point where the Ghru, descendants of demons, fought alongside them—fire had been their primary tool. Now, it seemed they would have to rely on fundamental physical force.
Sensing the Leader's concern, Gawain offered a suggestion. Previously, his own lack of mastery over frost sorceries made Miracles the more potent option, but the situation had changed.
"Captain, let me enchant your blades with the Frozen Weapon of the Painted World. Once we clear that layer of Cursed Blood, they'll be easy to handle."
He paused, pointing toward the barrier of Cursed Blood walling off the area.
"The supply of Cursed Blood isn't infinite. Once we strip their protection, these Kindred of Rot will fall easily. I need to get closer—close enough to sever the connection to the power maintaining this blood."
As a puff of frost escaped Gawain's lips, the temperature of the surrounding air plummeted. As the final member of the Undead Legion—having passed the three trials, offered the Wolf's Blood Swordgrass to the Old Wolf of Farron, and now sharing the same blood through their spiritual bond—Gawain was able to coat every legionnaire's weapon in frigid rime.
He drew the Lothric War Banner. As Gawain brandished it, a red aura far more intense than Commander O'Neil's standard began to spread across the field. Combined with the blinding radiance of a Golden Vow, every member of the legion received a massive surge in strength.
"For Artorias!"
With a unified war cry, the Undead Legion surged forward, engaging the Kindred of Rot in close quarters. Where once their blades trailed fire, they now hummed with frost to strip away the Cursed Blood.
Individually, the members of the Farron Undead Legion weren't overwhelming—it was their collective existence that constituted a Lord of Cinder. However, a battlefield like this was where they thrived most.
As spiritual entities, they were immune to the Scarlet Rot. Backed by the power of the Embers, they could reform even after sustaining heavy damage. The numerical advantage that the Kindred of Rot prided themselves on meant nothing to a legion born and bred to slaughter the monstrosities of the Abyss. They were merely fodder.
Commander O'Neil leaned on his standard with one hand, the other clutching a wound where a mass of scarlet flesh pulsated in his abdomen. He forced himself to stand, watching the fighting style of these strange warriors.
Their light armor offered little protection, but it perfectly suited their agile, acrobatic movements. Beneath their uniform gear lay unparalleled coordination and discipline. Even against the giant Kindred of Rot that towered over them, several legionnaires would coordinate to bring the beast down without taking a single hit.
The flamboyant, sweeping strikes made the battlefield feel less like a slaughterhouse and more like a stage where these men showcased their supreme swordsmanship.
Gawain and Hawkwood led the charge. Though they had dueled to the death in their past for the power of the Dragon, they had fought side-by-side at Archdragon Peak, cutting through Man-Serpents to reach the altar before the Great Dead Ancient Dragon.
Facing a massive, rot-mutated stray dog, Hawkwood discarded his shield. Dropping low, he executed a spinning sweep that severed the beast's legs. Gawain entered a ready stance, and the moment the creature lost its balance, he leaped forward into a vertical overhead slam. His weapon, wreathed in storm and frost, cleaved the beast in two. He then ignited two bursts of Pyromancy Flame; without the Cursed Blood to protect them, the twitching masses of meat were reduced to ash in seconds.
Gawain looked at the Undead Legion members who had instinctively formed a perimeter around him. They had carved a path forward.
"The rest is up to you! This won't end until you deal with that thing. We'll handle the rest," Hawkwood shouted. Seeing the target was close, he shouldered his greatsword and merged back into the "dance" with his comrades.
At this point, the legion's weapons were caked in the foul residue of the Scarlet Rot. But this time, they didn't have to fear corruption or the need to purge their own ranks through infighting. The more they cut, the higher their battle spirit soared.
Gawain didn't waste the opening they provided. He channeled a frost-laden vortex into the Storm Ruler and unleashed it. A single strike froze the Kindred of Rot and the Cursed Blood in front of him into solid ice.
However, the gap was quickly filled by surrounding blood. Some of it even manifested out of thin air, as if being summoned directly to the spot.
"No wonder their numbers aren't dropping. It's endless."
He realized this was likely the work of the Mohgwyn's Sacred Spear, capable of piercing the void to summon the blood of the Formless Mother. But at this distance, he was close enough to use that skill.
A pulse of purple light radiated from Gawain's body. Under the influence of the Vow of Silence, all magic—whether it was the Bloodboil Ritual or the remote manipulation of Cursed Blood—was forcefully suppressed.
Deep within the Mohgwyn Dynasty, Mohg instantly felt his control over the Cursed Blood vanish. He was reminded of the strange technique used against him before. Though annoyed, he noted a crucial detail.
"That trick again? It seems its range is limited. Next time won't be so simple."
He lowered his Sacred Spear. Though this ambush had failed, he had gathered intelligence. There would be plenty of opportunities in the future. He only needed to be patient. As long as he remained within the Mohgwyn Dynasty, no one could defeat him while he held the home-field advantage—this was, after all, the place closest to the Mother.
With the spell maintaining the blood collapsed, the massive walls of Cursed Blood crashed down, merging into the rotting swamp. The blood coating the Kindred of Rot dripped away rapidly; its scorching temperature even dealt minor damage to the rot-creatures.
Seeing the troublesome blood gone, the Undead Legion stopped holding back. The Farron Greatswords erupted in flames, dealing devastating "special damage" to the fire-weak Kindred. After a few more rounds of their iconic sweeping dance, the monsters that dared to approach were utterly annihilated.
Gawain sheathed his weapon. With the immediate threats cleared, the Swamp of Aeonia returned to a state of eerie calm. It would take time for the swamp to gestate a new wave of monsters.
As they piled the corpses together to burn them, the Leader of the Watchers knew their mission was complete. It was time to return; staying too long would needlessly drain the strength of the Embers. The Fire Keeper was already calling them back to their thrones.
Hawkwood patted Gawain on the shoulder. It had been a long time since he had seen the Undead Legion fight as one, unified and free of internal strife. It was a memory from a past he had nearly forgotten.
Noticing his hand beginning to fade into translucence, he looked up and spoke.
"Next time you deal with these things, don't forget to call us. And... I take back what I said long ago. It seems both you and we are 'Special Undead.' To have come here, there must be a unique destiny we are meant to fulfill."
"You're right. This place can still be saved. It just needs some kindling to drive away the darkness hiding in the shadows. In that regard, we are all Lords of Cinder."
Hawkwood nodded and returned to the ranks of the legion. From the Captain to the rank-and-file, they raised their Farron Greatswords in a final salute to their last member before vanishing back into the Dark Sign.
Gawain looked down at his Great Rune, which had completely merged with the Dark Sign. He finally understood why they could manifest without damaging the seal. The Great Rune was a creation of the Greater Will; it was only natural it could perfectly harmonize with such a fundamental force.
This phenomenon gave him a subtle idea. Perhaps, like those who could influence the game's endings, he could use his unique constitution to create a Great Rune of his own. But it was too early for that; he at least needed to reach the Royal Capital first.
With the area quiet, Commander O'Neil finally collapsed. The long battle had left his body in tatters; he had been clinging to life by a thread of sheer willpower.
He took a few ragged breaths, preparing to entrust his final request to the man before him. Gawain's performance—both his mastery of the storm and his resolve against the rot—had earned his complete respect.
"I am beyond saving. The Scarlet Rot is one with my flesh. But before I go... may I ask a few favors of you, Storm Lord?"
Gawain scanned O'Neil's exposed skin. It was as the veteran said; inside, he was no different from the Cleanrot Knights he had seen earlier. His body was a map of scarlet veins, held together only by the single gold needle that maintained his sanity. To live like this was a torment; death was a mercy.
"I promise. Whatever you have to say, say it now."
O'Neil touched the spot where the needle was embedded in his chest and sighed in relief. He had guarded it well; the Kindred of Rot had not managed to snatch it away.
"Please... take the needle from my body and give it to a woman named Millicent. I once witnessed her and her sisters being born from the flower buds. She is the only one who resisted the corruption. But she did not escape; she was captured by the Kindred and imprisoned in a church. I could not stop them then. I want you to find her and give her this needle to suppress the rot. It is the last hope for resisting the corruption."
"Millicent? I promise you, I will deliver the needle to her personally. Is there anything else?"
Gawain had intended to take the needle to save Millicent anyway, but he hadn't expected O'Neil to be thinking the same thing. It seemed that even without their sanity, those who followed Malenia's resolve against the rot were worthy of respect. He wondered what exactly had forced her to abandon her pride and "bloom."
"This urn contains the ashes of my soldiers. They were all warriors originally from Stormveil. Since you are the heir to the Storm Lord, I entrust them to you. Please... take them, and my soul, back to our home. I beg of you."
Gawain took the funerary urn. The souls of the spectral soldiers he had seen earlier were housed within. These were the elites who had followed O'Neil through years of war, waiting for the day they could return to their homeland.
"Rest easy. I will take you all home."
With his hopes entrusted to another, Commander O'Neil resolutely pulled the Unalloyed Gold Needle from his chest. Because he gave it willingly, the needle remained whole and undamaged.
He handed it to Gawain with trembling hands, then immediately lost the strength to fight the corruption. Masses of writhing scarlet flesh began to multiply uncontrollably from within his body.
"Rest now. I'll take it from here."
Gawain ignited a Pyromancy Flame at the center of O'Neil's remains, burning away the corpse and the surging rot entirely. Under his conscious control, O'Neil's weary soul also merged into the urn, finding long-awaited peace alongside his men.
After storing the ashes, Gawain lit the Site of Grace at the center of the clearing. He was exhausted after the prolonged battle. He needed to recover his strength, and the haul of Runes from the slaughtered Kindred was substantial.
Observing the intact needle in his hand, Gawain decided he wouldn't take it to that old bastard Gowry for "repair." Who knew what that Kindred of Rot disguised as a sage would add to it? In the original game, there was a reason Millicent ended up collapsing just a step away from Malenia.
"You've gathered many Runes. How do you plan to distribute them this time?"
Melina sat across from him at the Grace. Having gone through the leveling process many times now, she was no longer formal or distant, naturally taking his hand.
"Twelve levels in total? Let me think... seven for Intelligence and five for Strength."
"Very well. I shall turn them into strength for you."
As she manipulated the Runes, Melina asked curiously about the warriors who had appeared earlier. From their brief dialogue, she sensed a deep, storied history.
"You want to hear about the Farron Undead Legion? Well, it's still early. Let me think... I'll start the tale from a place called New Londo. It is a legend of duty and oaths."
Melina adjusted her position to listen more closely, quietly absorbing the tales of legends from a completely foreign land. Before long, she was entirely captivated.
Since Gawain had helped repair the scars on her spiritual form, her mindset had shifted from distant stranger to trusted companion. Without her even noticing, the weight of her "purpose" was slowly being eclipsed by her enjoyment of the journey itself.
Especially seeing Limgrave slowly improving, she occasionally fantasized about having a normal life—like the daughter of Castle Morne's castellan who had escaped the influence of the Frenzied Flame. Perhaps she, too, could be liberated from her inevitable mission.
Maybe when the long journey ended at the Royal Capital and she fulfilled her duty, she could finally have a life of her own.
She unconsciously tightened her grip on her only companion's hand. Though they were currently in a land of rot, under the warm glow of the Grace, fragments of shattered memories began to resurface.
In a time long ago, a melancholic boy with red hair and his mother had stood by her side as she practiced the incantations of the Minor Erdtree. There were no Laws or Missions then—only gentleness.
She couldn't remember what happened after, but she knew she had been happy then. She truly wished these moments could last a little longer.
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Elden Ring: In the Name of Ash (135 chapter - Ongoing)
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