Chapter Text
“Mother…can someone cursed like me ever be a hero?”
That was the question that started it all. And her answer was why he had pick up that stick in the road to practise swinging every week, why he picked up that sword to defend his village when marauders came, why he kept hoping even when the followers of Allfather Lloyd dragged him to the Undead Asylum with no hope of release, to wait out his days until the ends of the world.
It was why, may all the gods help him, he was now fighting against the very will of the First Flame itself. He was fighting to kill the world.
An amalgamation of all the souls who, unlike him, were fit to be cinders. Those worthy enough to keep the First Flame alive, to perpetuate this dying world of theirs. And gods help him, he was trying to end it all.
The flaming sword hovers inches away from his face as he barely leapt back, but the heat itself was enough to sear his flesh against the metal of his helmet. He holds back a scream as the Soul of Cinder swung its sword again, this time he retaliates with a swing of his shield, slamming away the blade with all his might and causing the avatar of the First Flame to lose its footing.
A chance! He tosses away his melting shield as he levels his blade and quickly thrusts, an excellently executed riposte by all definitions.
The blade thrusts and an inflamed arm stretched out to meet it. The enchanted steel blade in his hands was heated until it glowed a molten orange and his sword struggled before giving away and snapping from the heat and force.
A flaming blade punches through his chest, melting a hole through his plated armor as the heat burns every organ in his body. He was lifted in the air for a moment, their eyes meeting, and he sees the burning determination of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands.
To think he could have been one of them at some point, he muses to himself as he was tossed like the garbage he was. An Unkindled, unworthy to be even cinders.
How he wished his mother had told him no, that he should have given up his dreams and Hollowed away like the cursed undead he was. How he wished she hated him instead, for her love had given him the determination to carry on.
The Souls of Cinder turned its back on him, preparing itself for the next time they will face. This was not the first, nor the second, in fact he had lost count how long they had duelled for the fate of their stagnant, dying world.
Tears fell from his eyes, but they were not tears of despair. They were tears of golden light, tears of denial. And with the burst of energy the miracle provided, he rose to his knees as the Souls of Cinder took notice of how his presence had not faded just yet.
His helmet’s straps were burnt off and it fell, revealing messy and sweaty locks of forest green hair as he hastily he uncorks an emerald flask of Estus, downing the last drops of it’s miraculous healing contents before rising to his feet once more, his wounds healing as he picked up his broken sword.
They were both on their last legs. He could see the fire that made up the Souls of Cinder flicker weakly, if he can get in one more good strike it would all be over. But the same can be said for him, the Estus may have given him another chance but it was only one. He was close, far closer than all his previous attempts, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep going after the next death. He has to succeed this time.
With a guttural roar he lunges forward with his broken blade and melting armour, as the Souls of Cinders did the same, the two clashing in a shower of sparks.
***
“Dude, are you sure this is a good idea?” a teenage boy in a school uniform asks his friend who eagerly shovelled away mounds of dirt that block two large sets of stone doors.
“Of course! Don’t you realise what this means?” the second boy, “Look, don’t you know how old this thing is?”
“Do you?” the first student asked doubtfully as he shrugged.
“Not a clue, but it’s definitely ancient! The entrance only got uncovered thanks to that earthquake yesterday, so you know what that means?”
“We’ll be the first ones here.” the first student says with realisation.
“We’ll be freaking rich!” the second student says excitedly, “We’ll split the profit 50/50! Now help out with your damn Quirk, will ya?”
“Right.” the first student says before touching the dirt mound that was blocking their way before activating his Quirk, and the mounds of dirt began peeling off in a small landslide that the second student barely backstepped to avoid.
“So what do you think is inside?” the first student asks, as he rubs his sore wrists.
“Whatever’s inside we’ll either be rich or famous or both.” the second student says ignoring the dirt on his pants and shoes as he marches forward to push the doors, “Damn it, this thing’s heavy as hell. Help me out will you?”
***
“Ashen One, hearest thou my voice still?”
He awakes with a shudder, like he has always done for the past years. How long has it been since he extinguished the flame? How long has it been since he locked himself away in the Firelink Shrine that now serves as his home and tomb? A dozen decades? A century maybe? Perhaps even hundreds of centuries?
Every time he awakes, hearing her voice in his head, reminding him of what he has done. Oh how he wished he could go Hollow, where once he would have feared such a prospect. But when he had first attempted to link the First Flame and failed, embers of it still remained in him, preventing it from happening.
He had fallen to slumber soon after dragging himself to the Firelink Shrine with the Fire Keeper, content with waiting out the rest of their life but he received no such mercy. Now here he was, the Firelink Shrine’s sole occupant.
He doesn’t get up from where he lays, next to the bonfire as always. Instead he shifts his body before closing his eyes once more. Maybe this time will be the last. Maybe this time when he closes his eyes he will never open them again. Please, may whatever new gods this new world has, let this be his final rest.
He can feel it, whatever connection he had with the First Flame of his time persisted with this new flame. Perhaps it was the reason he awoke, and finds himself unable to rest. A part of him has thought to open the gates of the Firelink Shrine and explore this new world he had a hand in creating, but he doesn’t.
He rather not know, it was easier to tell himself that it worked. That when he extinguished the flame, it allowed a new and better world to rise from the ashes of the old. A world without the Undead to fuel the flickering flames with their humanity, a world without crumbling cities on the verge of destruction, streets full of Hollow.
It was a wonderful dream, one he hopes he doesn't have to wake himself from.
But of course, he would have no choice in that matter, and for the first time, only gods know how long, the doors to the Firelink Shrine open. The stone creaks as aged hinges grind, the twin doors cracking open and for the first time light shines through, nearly blinding him.
He stands and reaches for the weapon embedded into the bonfire before him, pulling out a coiled sword before standing up to full height. He may not care what happens to him, but the Firelink Shrine was still the tomb of those he called companions and friends. None will disturb them, not while he still stands.
*One Week Later*
“Do we have an update?” Naomasa asks as he glances at the entrance of the ruins from behind the barrier the police have set up, armed SWAT officers pointing their guns at the entrance in case their query decides to stop hiding and come out with sword blazing.
“Negative sir.” an officer replies, “The negotiator still hasn’t gotten a response, and the latest Pro Hero strike team we sent in came out a couple minutes later with bruises and burns.”
“Again?” Naomasa asks in disbelief, he had been sure that with Eraserhead on the scene the situation would have been resolved far quicker, “Where is he now?”
“With the medics.” the officer gestures toa medical tent nearby, “If you want the full report you should check with Eraserhead, he’s the only one still conscious when they pulled out.”
Naomasa nods his thanks and approaches a white tent with the red cross on it, finding Eraserhead being checked over by the medics.
“Eraserhead, how’re you feeling?”
“I’ve been through worse.” he grumbles as he shrugs off the medic fussing over him.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me something new this time?” Naomasa asks hopefully, “How bad is the villain hurt this time?”
“How bad?” Aizawa scoffs, “I suppose he was a tad bit more annoyed than usual. Besides that it’s all the same old thing, by the time he completely dismantled the strike team he went back to that campfire, and sat down.”
“So no difference at all?” he sighs, “Did he manage to avoid your Quirk or something?”
Aizawa shook his head, “Negative, I was sure I used my Quirk on him but the bastard was as strong as always, he threw around Death Arms like a ragdoll and set Kamui Wood on fire.”
“So it’s some sort of Mutant Quirk then?” Naomasa suggests and AIzawa shrugs.
“Or maybe it’s that armour that’s blocking my view, if we can get it off there may be a chance but I wouldn’t bet on it.” Aizawa says before looking into his eye, “Look if you came here for my suggestion on what to do next, it’s to just wait it out. That guy’s gotta run out of food or water eventually.”
“Reconnaissance shows that he’s never moved from that spot ever since we first laid eyes on him.” Naomasa reminds, “Maybe he doesn’t need them?”
“In which case, maybe just close up the doors and bury him.” Aizawa suggests, “Hell maybe he’d even want that.”
“We can’t do that.” Naomasa shook his head, “He’s already attacked two kids who found him, one of them has third-degree burns. And he also attacked the officers sent to investigate, the SWAT team and the Pro Heroes. If it was an accident he would have turned himself in, this shows that he’s hiding something inside.”
“In which case, I recommend you bring more heroes. I can’t erase his Quirk, anything we try to incapacitate him like sleep gas or paralysis can’t work. The only way that seems plausible is to just overwhelm him with superior power.” Aizawa says before lying back down on the cot, “In which case you need to get someone preferably high ranking, we don’t know how long this guy can go before he starts seriously hurting or killing so we have to take him out quickly.”
“Trust me.” Naomasa says with a smile, “I think he’ll find the next one too much for him.”
Aizawa raises a brow in recognition before sighing, “That blonde idiot, doesn’t he start in UA next week? He should be preparing for that instead.”
“Hey this is him we’re talking about. He should be done before lunch time.” Naomasa says confidently just as the two of them heard something land outside along with familiar laughter.
***
He stares into the blazing bonfire as he awaits the next one that would enter the shrine. After the first two discovered it, there had been no end to them. They were definitely human, that much he can tell, to his relief. It meant that he had succeeded, the thought of that alone had him laugh and cry tears of joy even as he drove them away.
Whoever it may be, he will not let anyone disturb the Shrine. Still, he had not meant to injure one of them that badly. The first two he had attempted to scare away with a torrent of flames from his Firelink Greatsword, but to his surprise the flames had been much stronger than anticipated, nearly setting them on fire as they fled in fear and panic.
Like the bonfire, the embers on the armour he now wears was somewhat stronger. The armour of the Souls of Cinder that he had found where the Shrine Handmaiden had been when he first awoke after gods know how long after he snuffed the First Flames.
He had searched every inch of the Shrine for any sign of life but all he found was death. Whatever happened after the snuffing of the First Flame, he became the sole living, or rather undead, tenant of the Firelink Shrine.
Perhaps it was left to him as a reminder, perhaps to mock him for his choice? Whatever message leaving the armour for him was meant failed to register but he kept it on anyway, a way of reminding him what he has done.
After he chased away the intruders, he had given it little thought and sealed the doors once more, content with the knowledge there was a new world, and hoping for rest. But then the doors opened once more and two more men arrived, dressed in blue and wielding strange items in their hands pointed at him.
Some sort of projectile launcher, like a crossbow, but they set off loud bangs like thunder. They definitely move faster than crossbow bolts and hit harder, but they possess no overall threat as he disposed of the two enemies and tossed them out broken and bruised, but alive. They had no killing intent towards him, so he will not take their lives.
But then the third group of men came, clad in black armour made of strange cloth with larger weapons. They again posed little threat as he sent them on their way out of the Shrine.
Of course that wasn’t the end of it all, strange sorcerers came next. Warrior mages of sorts, likely an elite fighting force of whatever kingdom the Shrine has found itself in. He does not recognise their unique form of magic, they were similar but so unlike the sorceries, pyromancy and miracles he had faced before. Had it been in better circumstances he would’ve jumped in joy at seeing such fascinating spells and analysing how they function.
Days pass and they keep coming, and he keeps fighting them back each time. Occasionally they would shout at him with their strange tongue that he does not understand, it sounds vaguely Eastern but different at the same time. He ignores whatever they were speaking and continues his watch to make sure no one would defile the Shrine.
In truth these intruders did provide a brief reprise, a few moments to forget it all and be lost in the thrill of battle, but he still hoped they would eventually leave. He hoped with their latest defeat just hours ago, these warriors would be convinced of the futility of their mission and abandon their siege, to return to whatever home they have. But he knows firsthand how stubborn humans can be. He was living proof of their stubbornness after all.
Still, he has no intention to kill any of them, he has seen enough death and caused too many.
But if they force his hand…
He pauses his thoughts as his senses sharpen at something outside. The doors may be sealed once more but even through the thick stone he could sense the overwhelming power. Someone, or something, outside and it felt strong. It reminded him of battles against dragons and the Lords of Cinder. Whatever was approaching must receive his full undivided attention, unlike those that came before him.
Suddenly the doors explode, and he raises his armoured arms to shield himself from the raisn of broken masonry as a large figure emerges, one with strength befitting a lord, whoever this was he was likely some lord or even god of this new world.
He pushes away his annoyance and mild anger at the sight of his beloved Shrine being wrecked in such a manner, focusing and raising his blade towards this new foe that finds his way to him.
Be it man, lord or god, no one will step a foot in the Shrine while he stands watch. For his companions, friends and those that died here because of him it was the very least he could do to make penance.
“Sassato kōfuku shiro, vu~iran!” the giant of a man wearing a suit of strange fabric with the colours of gold, red, white and blue belows a battlecry in his strange tongue as he took his stance, “Naze tte? Watashi ga kita!”