"I fell asleep...?"
Beowulf sat on the edge of the bed, gauntleted hands resting on his knees, a flicker of doubt in his otherwise stoic gaze.
He—an Undead—had slept.
In the old world, sleep only came beside a bonfire's gentle flame. But here...
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three calm knocks on the wooden door disrupted his thoughts.
Beowulf rose and opened it.
Standing outside was Archbishop Anthony, wrapped in layers of twilight silk and solemn grace.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Beowulf greeted with polite reserve.
The Archbishop formed four clockwise points on his chest and smiled warmly. "Would you care for breakfast?"
Beowulf hesitated. "...You may call me Beowulf."
A pause. A breath. A name remembered—not his real one, but the one that remained.
Archbishop Anthony nodded in understanding. "Very well, Beowulf."
The two descended to the refectory in the rear of Saint Samuel Cathedral. Warm bread and cured meats awaited, the scent unfamiliar but pleasant.
"I've tailored this to Loen's customs," Anthony said, gesturing to the table. "If you desire something different, simply say so."
Beowulf removed his helmet in silence. A handsome, pallid face appeared beneath it—beautiful, but lifeless. He picked up the bread and took a slow bite.
He did not need to eat. Not anymore.
But to be human, one must act human.
Three meals a day.
That's what memory told him.
"Thank you for the meal," Beowulf said as he stood, replacing the helmet over his hollow expression.
An ice-blue longsword shimmered into existence in his hand, radiating chill.
Without a word, he turned and walked back toward the grand hall.
Clang. Clatter.
The echo of heavy armor rang out as Beowulf stepped inside the sanctuary—
—and stopped.
The once-empty hall was now filled with people: men and women, cloaked in reverence, kneeling in prayer beneath the kaleidoscope of stained-glass sunlight.
They did not turn. They did not flinch.
Even his presence, steel and cold, did not disturb their whispers to the Goddess.
"Beowulf."
Archbishop Anthony appeared beside him like a shadow.
"The Goddess bids me tell you: this world is no longer what you knew. You'll need time to adjust."
Beowulf said nothing. His gaze swept across the worshippers—devotion etched into bowed brows and clasped hands.
He turned and walked back to the refectory.
"Beowulf," the Archbishop began again—
"Just Beowulf," he corrected flatly.
Anthony chuckled gently. "To help you acclimate, I've prepared an identity for you. You'll act as a Night Watcher under the Church of the Night."
He handed Beowulf a folded slip of parchment.
"Go to the Backlund Detective Agency, behind the Cathedral. Seek a man named Eyre Hansen. Once you report in, you're free to roam. No need to return right away."
"And your name—for now—is Ashen Black."
Beowulf arched an eyebrow.
'How ironic !'
"And this—" The Archbishop placed a leather pouch in Beowulf's hand. "A hundred gold pounds. Your operational funds."
Beowulf studied the currency. "Gold pounds? Not... black soul?"
"Gold pounds are the standard here," Anthony said. "I'm afraid I don't know what black soul is."
The world truly was alien.
"Lastly," the Archbishop added, eyeing the gleaming armor, "consider a change of clothes. Perhaps something subtler—like the congregation's garments."
Beowulf paused. With a flick of will, his shining plate vanished, replaced by a dark brown Undead Legion armor set—low-profile, rugged, quiet.
"Better," Anthony said. "And the helmet?"
Beowulf obliged, revealing his face once more.
The Archbishop smiled. "You're free to act. Should you need guidance, my door remains open."
Beowulf offered a silent nod and stepped back into the main hall.
The congregation had finished their prayers and begun filing toward the altar, depositing golden coins into the offering box.
Their eyes drifted toward him—curious, fleeting.
A noble eccentric, they likely assumed.
Beowulf didn't care.
He crossed the crimson carpet and exited through the great doors.
And then—sunlight.
Bright, warm, golden.
He flinched.
This was not the dusky twilight of Lordran. Not the cold embers of firelink ruins. This... was life.
Beowulf tilted his head to the sky, eyes locking onto The Sun.
"It really is… different," he muttered.
A tide of people moved through the streets, loud, alive.
In his world, there were no bustling crowds. No markets. No laughter.
Just death. Just cycles.
And suddenly, a question bloomed in his mind:
Was the Lordvessel still needed... in a world like this?
No answer came.
Only one directive remained: Find the Black Emperor.
He turned toward the Cathedral once more.
"Backlund Detective Agency… behind the Church?"
He followed the stream of people, finding a small path curving off the main road. No guards. No locked gates. No collapsing floors or hidden serpents.
Three minutes later, he stood before a polished wooden sign that read:
BACKLUND DETECTIVE AGENCY
Beowulf's brow furrowed.
"No ambushes? No winding catacombs or illusion walls?"
He narrowed his eyes at the door.
"…What kind of strange world is this?"