"At last... it's almost over."
Gazing into the flickering flame before him—less a bonfire, more an ancient forge—Alistair's eyes were heavy with reflection.
How long had he wandered this forsaken realm? He could no longer tell.
He remembered only the moment of his arrival: a sharp chime in his mind, the emergence of a foreign presence called the "Dark Soul System."
It had happened right as he was immersed in a familiar struggle. He was certain of one thing—he had crossed into the world of Dark Souls.
Though part of him should have rejoiced, for this was a realm he adored and understood like few others, he found himself gripped by dread.
After all, this was Dark Souls.
A land teeming with monstrosities spawned from decay, hollowed husks thirsting for flesh, ambushes lurking in every shadowed alcove, and intricate deathtraps strung across silent catacombs. Every echo a warning, every corner a threat.
But then came the chime once more, and with it a message from the system.
[The current world has been judged excessively lethal. Host combat ability: insufficient. One simulation will be granted as a novice trial. Death will terminate the trial. All gains are retained in full. Accept?]
Alistair didn't hesitate. He selected 'Yes.'
The world that followed was familiar but twisted.
Despite being a seasoned Soulsborne veteran, a so-called "Soul 5"—a term mockingly used to describe those who knew only this franchise—Alistair doubted his survival. Skill in the game meant little in a realm where dodging wasn't guided by button inputs and animation frames.
But then it happened.
A perfectly timed roll let him evade a hollow's blade. He should have been cleaved in two, yet the sword passed through his body harmlessly.
He stared, disbelieving.
It wasn't just instinct. There were invincibility frames—real ones.
Every tumble was exact, every invincible moment calculated. The movement was rigid, the outcomes predetermined. Enemies moved as though animated by predictable scripts. Even their aggression mirrored game logic.
The world around him was too precise. Structures, loot placements, idle NPCs spouting static dialogue—it was all a perfect imitation.
This wasn't reality. This was the game—rendered in terrifying clarity.
And so, Alistair embraced it.
He looked up at the wandering hollows and tightened his grip on the straight sword in his hands.
There was only one path forward.
The path of carnage.
Time lost meaning. All he knew was the kill.
Hollows, spirits, knights.
Men, dragons, gods.
He butchered them all. Torn the souls from their withered husks, offered them to the Fire Keeper's altar, and transmuted them into raw power.
Daggers gave way to straight swords, then greatswords. Incantations and sorceries layered over martial skill.
With every conquest, his arsenal grew. Weapons enchanted and refined to their peak. A spellbook brimming with forbidden knowledge. Items hoarded in such abundance that he had to discard entire stockpiles.
He no longer knew how many he'd slain. The simulation continued, but its fabric had begun to fray.
Monsters repeated patterns without change. NPCs grew emptier. Once-drained souls could no longer be harvested, and entire zones began to flicker and vanish—like ghosts realizing they had overstayed their purpose.
Eventually, he felled the Flame Incarnate once again.
It vanished like the rest.
One final soul. Just enough for one last ascent.
Level 802.
All stats capped at 99. No room for further growth.
He opened his inventory one last time. Rows upon rows of maximized weapons. Every known incantation. Every relic and artifact, polished and perfected.
"It's over," he whispered.
There was nothing left to gain.
No reason to linger.
Before ending the simulation, he turned. There she stood.
Draped in black, face hidden behind a silver blindfold, hair cascading like moonlight.
The Fire Keeper.
She who had stood beside him through it all, lifting his soul toward transcendence.
But like the others, she was merely a shade—an echo caught in a loop.
He spoke anyway.
"I'm leaving now."
He smiled faintly, voice thick with both gratitude and sorrow.
"Thank you for staying with me. When I return to the real world... I'll come find you first. Even if you don't remember me."
She said nothing.
Just as she never had.
Alistair didn't expect a reply. He turned back to the flame.
Reached forward.
And then it struck him.
He'd chosen the ending of flame transmission. He hadn't summoned her, which meant...
"Goodbye."
The fire consumed him.
And the world vanished.
When he opened his eyes again, Alistair spun around.
No trace of her. Just a cold stone wall.
A corpse, draped in faded robes reminiscent of a sorceress, lay slumped in a corner.
This wasn't the Cemetery of Ash. It wasn't Lothric. Not Anor Londo. Not anything he remembered.
This wasn't Dark Souls.
"Where... am I?"
He stepped outside the chamber.
The architecture was wrong. Ancient, yes, but foreign. He descended stone stairs, crossed a weathered bridge, and arrived in an empty clearing.
A statue loomed in the distance—of a goddess, maybe. The air shimmered with distant magic.
This place, though alien, felt oddly familiar.
He squinted toward the sky.
Any moment now, something was going to crash down. That was how it always went.
Bang.
A hulking creature fell from the heavens like a meteor.
It was a grotesque fusion of flesh and steel—like a malformed graft of crab, limbs, and rusted weaponry, all clutching a massive blade and shield.
Alistair's grin widened.
Now this felt right.
This place, whatever it was, followed the same brutal logic. Perhaps this was a fragment of some Soulsborne realm he'd never seen. A hidden corner of the metaphysical tapestry. Or maybe he had stepped into another iteration.
Maybe even... Elden Ring.
Now wasn't the time to theorize.
He raised his hand. A greatsword of black steel formed in his grip, jagged and burning with ancient embers.
Time to kill.
Then, without warning, the heavens cracked.
A golden meteor speared through the air and struck the abomination's skull. The thing howled once—then melted into vapor.
Light bloomed in the clearing.
From within it stepped a girl. Blonde hair fell over a silver-gray robe. Her face was delicate, expression unreadable, and her eyes shimmered like the stars in a midnight sky.
She surveyed the ruin before finally fixing her gaze on Alistair.
Her brow furrowed.
This presence... did not belong.
Not here, in the Lands Between.
A soul so dense it shimmered. A patchwork of madness, trauma, and staggering power—wrapped in human skin.
She stared.
And Alistair stared back.
His stance shifted. The black greatsword vanished, replaced by a spiral blade burning with crimson flame.
This one wasn't like the last beast. She radiated true danger.
The monster was merely a show.
She was the threat.
Usually, a first-zone boss was brutal but manageable. Now? This felt like facing an endgame optional boss right out of the gate.
As Alistair prepared, the girl's star-forged blade shimmered into existence—a weapon shaped from constellations, with a hilt that yawned like a void.
But then... it vanished.
"Why are we fighting?" she asked softly.
As though confused by her own instinct.
***
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