Death.
A heavy topic—one most people think of as distant, something far removed from their everyday lives. But when it finally arrives, it's always too sudden. Too close.
Lucian had been just an ordinary man. His parents divorced early in his life and remarried separately, but they left him a small house. Raised by relatives, he grew up healthy, attended an unremarkable university, and found a quiet, unassuming job close to home. It didn't pay well, but it was stress-free and required almost no communication with others. He had plenty of free time after work to do what he loved most: gaming.
Without the need to pay rent, he managed to save a decent sum. Outside of daily living expenses, nearly all of it went into games. On his 28th birthday, he finally completed his dream gaming setup—an Xbox, a PlayStation, and other consoles neatly arranged in a room he'd fully converted into an e-sports den.
So when brain–machine gaming hit the market, of course he was among the first to install one.
Unfortunately, it also became the reason his life ended at twenty-nine.
His lonely childhood had taught him early on to seek solace in games. Whenever life became too much, he fled to the virtual world, finding comfort there. To him, that was home.
He had imagined death before—fantasized about it, even—but he never expected it to come like this. Not now. Not so abruptly.
"Please… anyone… just let me go back…"
But the Chapel of Anticipation remained cold and lifeless, the only answer the distant gaze of the silent statues watching him from the walls.
This was the Lands Between, a world already bereft of hope. Here, no one had the luxury to care for the cries of another.
Lucian knew that.
He just needed to let it out.
"I can't survive in Elden Ring. Not in this world..."
He gritted his teeth.
"But I don't want to die again. I want to live. I have to live."
The reality hadn't sunk in fully, but Lucian knew staying in the chapel meant waiting for death.
He gently laid the maiden's body flat on the ground, pulling the Finger Maiden's hood over her face once more. It was the most respect he could offer.
With her final rites given, he turned his attention to the last item in the room: the Tarnished's Wizened Finger — A finger of corpse wax, so emaciated the bone is visible.
It is a relic of those who came before, left to help those who would come after.
Having thoroughly looted the place, Lucian took stock of what he had:
A helmet with a broken visor that he couldn't remove(Vagabond Knight Helm).
A battered yet sturdy suit of armor (Vagabond Knight Set).
A Longsword.
A Halberd.
A medium-sized Heater Shield.
TwoStonesword Keys,
A pouch of pale white dried meat,
Two strips of jerky,
A scattering of runes,
And the Tarnished's Wizened Finger.
Aside from the unexpected meat and runes, it was the standard starting kit of a Vagabond in the game.
If this really was another world, it made sense to start with some provisions.
Even so, his mood was grim. Slightly better off than the in-game version, yes—but only by a hair. Now, all he could do was take things one step at a time.
He pushed open the chapel's heavy doors. Light spilled inside, casting away the gloom. Yet, outside, dark clouds loomed overhead, and a raging storm brewed across the sea.
The brightness brought no comfort.
Lucian knew exactly what awaited him outside.
The Grafted Scion.
A true elite enemy in the game, so powerful in stats that even Godrick the Grafted, its master, would struggle to match it without his grafted limbs.
If this were just a game, he'd have countless ways to beat it. But now? He had only his human body to rely on.
He didn't know the first thing about real combat.
And even if, by some miracle, he managed to win, the chapel was built on an island surrounded by sea. The only way out was by jumping off a cliff—something the game's Tarnished could survive without question. Lucian, on the other hand, was under no such guarantee.
Was this all real?
Or was it just a dying dream, a final delusion before death?
"I'll know once I learn magic or incantations, or maybe when I use a special Ash of War," he murmured. "If I can actually feel some sort of supernatural power—if it's not just pressing a button and watching an animation—maybe then I'll know I'm really alive."
As he walked outside, a thought crossed his mind. In the game, there were two important items behind a side door of the chapel—items you could only return for after teleporting back from the mainland.
But the Finger Maiden's hood hadn't been obtainable at this point either.
Maybe it was worth trying.
He approached the side door and tugged the rusted ring handle. Locked.
But the wood looked old. Weather-worn. Brittle.
He slung the halberd off his back. A polearm combining the reach of a spear with the weight of an axe—it would be perfect.
Or so he thought.
The moment he tried to maneuver it in the narrow space, he realized it was too long. The tight corridor left no room to swing it without slamming into the walls.
Unwilling to risk damaging his best weapon, he switched to his sword instead. He wasn't planning to use it in the coming fight anyway. Against a massive, agile foe like the Grafted Scion, the halberd was a better bet.
He gripped the sword with both hands, stepped forward with his left foot, twisted his waist, and brought the blade down in a clean, diagonal arc.
The wood splintered instantly.
He blinked.
"What the… That was so smooth. Where did that come from? Muscle memory?"
He stared down at his arms. He'd never held a sword before in his life, let alone swung one with such precision.
This body—the body of a Tarnished—had been trained. It remembered.
No wonder. The Tarnished were descended from warriors.
He examined the blade. No signs of damage. Satisfied, he sheathed it and stepped through the broken doorway.
Beyond a short flight of stairs lay a crumbling balcony. At its edge, perched high above the sea, sat a small stone urn.
The Ashes of The StormHawk King — The Ancient King.
Long ago, the Storm King ruled the southwestern reaches of the Lands Between. His warhawks were no ordinary birds—each one a mighty warrior, capable of summoning storms and shredding enemies in the sky. Among them, the Ancient King was their proudest, strongest leader.
Now, even in death, his ashes rested in the highest place he had once claimed.
As Lucian approached the urn, the storm overhead grew wild, shrieking with sudden fury. Wind howled through the broken stones.
Then, silence.
All calmed, as if nothing had happened.
He waited, unsure. Then took the ashes and placed them in his pack.
To him, it was just a quirk of the weather.
But unknown to Lucian, even time could not erode the pride of the ancient king. Only one worthy of royalty could ever earn the Storm King's blessing.
And not everyone was destined to reach the Chapel of Anticipation.