The Sunlight Flame roared around him, yet to him it did not roar at all—it breathed. It was no longer something he conjured, but something that lived with him, through him, inside him. For the first time since he set foot in the Lands Between, he felt truly whole.
The heat pressed against his skin, but it did not scorch. The light shone into his eyes, but it did not blind. It was warmth, not weight. A presence that filled his veins as surely as blood, that burned without taking, that consumed without destruction.
He lowered the Giant-Crusher to his side, feeling the tremors still rolling through the Forge. His chest rose and fell slowly, steady, controlled. The knowledge did not frighten him. It did not intoxicate him. It simply was.
His mind wandered to the others he had seen wield flame. The Fire Giant, shackled and broken, burning for an ancient oath long past its meaning. Rykard, who fed fire with flesh and hunger. The Frenzied, who used it to unravel all things. Even the Black Flame of the Godskins, seething, hateful, meant only to slay.
But this… this was not theirs. This was not anyone's.
This was his life, transfigured into radiance. His will, sharpened into fire. His humanity, unbreakable and whole, given shape.
He gazed at his hands, at the soft pulse of white flame rolling across his knuckles, at the endless shimmer rising from his arms like sunlight on water. He had been beaten, bled, scarred, buried beneath ruin and trial—but nothing had broken him. That same endurance, that same resolve, had taken form in this flame.
It was not faith in an Outer God. It was faith in himself. Faith that he would endure, that he would rise, that he would hold until the end.
The forge below him groaned as the fire caught within it, white light spilling into its empty basin. He looked upon it, knowing the truth: he had succeeded where none had before. He had lit the unlit forge. He had done so not by submission, not by sacrifice, not by bargain—but by becoming the flame himself.
And as the radiance reflected against the distant wall of thorns at the base of the Erdtree, he clenched his fists and bowed his head.
He no longer wondered if he could fix this broken world.
He knew he would.
He sat, bare skin shimmering faintly with heat, and let his thoughts unspool.
The Rune of Death.
It would not be enough to wield it raw, to simply tear at the Erdtree's thorns with its edge. If he was to integrate it with the other Great Runes, and thus, the Elden Ring in its totality, to wield it as part of a true, balanced rebirth, then the Great Runes themselves had to stand whole, restored to the fullness of what they once were.
He traced their presence in his mind—those he already held. Radahn's, strong but scarred, weakened by Scarlet Rot's hunger. Rykard's, consumed by the vile shape of the serpent that had consumed him. Morgott's, still ringing with his twisted obsession and cursed blood. Godrick's, a hollow echo of stolen might and still echoing with the stench of grafting. And the others, each bears the stamp of its former bearer.
They were fractured reflections of their true selves. Corrupted, not by time, but by what their holders had become.
But if brought together, assembled as a single body again—then each could strengthen the others. Their warped edges could be tempered, their borrowed stains undone. The Great Runes were born of a single law, a perfect unity beneath the Elden Ring. Together, they would remember what they were.
He then thought of the Mending Rune of Perfect Order. That rune promised a repair unmarred by madness, a return to a world where cracks no longer admitted outside influence. He did not have it, nor would he seek it as it is not what exactly he wishes, but its form struck him like a hammer to stone.
Perfect order.
That was what he sought, his own perfection. Not by kneeling to law or faith in some distant power, but by gathering every fragment, cleansing them of their scars, and making them whole and giving them new purpose beyond the outer gods.
When it is whole, perhaps he could integrate his Sunlight Flame? The runes show their ability to take on aspects of their wielders. If the flame were to be integrated into the core of the Elden Ring, and spread through its entirety, the Lands Between would be fueled by the light of the sun. Of hope.
And when this was done… they would no longer bend to the profane touch of outer gods. Not the Frenzied Flame, not the Greater Will, nor any hand beyond his own. And the land, the people of the Lands Between would know life anew. They would know the purity of life, enduring. Of humanity.
A deep breath passed through him, his chest rising and falling with calm weight. He could see it clearly now. The flame he had forged, the Sunlight Flame, was the next step. To burn the Erdtree, to forge the world anew, he needed the true strength of the Great Runes, made clean, and the Rune of Death bound within them, returned to their proper place.
The next few he needed still remained out of his grasp.
The Great Rune of Malenia, the Blade of Miquella—as yet unconquered, rotted, being the champion of rot, yet peerless in battle.
The Great Rune of Mohg, the Lord of Blood—the twisted priest of an outer god. The Formless Mother
And lastly, the Great Rune of Ranni the Witch, cast aside in a location unknown.
He opened his eyes, the grace's light catching in them like fire.
He would claim their runes. He would restore them all. And when they stood beside his flame, no thorn, no god, no shackle could keep him from the Ring.
The path was sharper now, but also clearer.
He rested at the grace, its familiar golden glow paling now in comparison to the fire that lived within his chest. He held out his hand, summoning it again—his flame. Not gold, not scarlet, not black. Pure white. It flared to life in his palm, brighter than any torch, yet soft like morning light. It was not holy, nor profane. It was his.
The brilliance licked across his knuckles, washing his skin in pale fire, and he did not flinch. It was warmth that could sear mountains, a blaze born from willpower, not godhood. He clenched his fist and the flame obeyed, folding back into him as if it had never been.
But the path ahead was not simple. The Forge had stirred, but the Erdtree resisted. The Rune of Death was still needed, and to bring it into the weave of Great Runes, he required them all. Malenia's. Mohg's. Ranni's.
He stood, hefting the Giant-Crusher across his back. The weight was absolute, yet it moved like part of him, as natural as breath. The flame answered his call at will now—curling around his weapon in a rush of pure white heat, or bursting outward like the first rays breaking a storm. Together, stone and flame would see him through.
Northward he went. The cliffs to the Consecrated Snowfield loomed, sheer and merciless. No medallion guided his way, no secret mechanism at the Grand Lift of Rold. He would climb as he always had—by his strength alone. The frozen wasteland did not welcome him, but he advanced regardless, the snow hissing beneath each step where stray tongues of sunlight flame bled from his body.
He moved like a figure apart, a mortal who had forged something new in defiance of gods. A man carrying a hammer heavy enough to make the land tremble, and fire bright enough to blind the heavens.
Malenia, the Sword of Miquella awaited.
The climb broke him into the Consecrated Snowfield at last. A vast, pale void stretched in every direction, the world erased beneath ceaseless snowfall. The air cut sharper than any blade, the cold deep enough to stop lungs, but his body held fast. Heat pulsed quietly in him now, the ever-burning core of sunlight flame keeping the frost at bay.
Shapes stirred in the white silence. Albinaurics, their warped forms dragging through the snow, spears jutting from the mist. Their cries were faint, strangled by the storm. The warrior strode forward, both hands wrapped around the haft of the Giant-Crusher.
The first came rushing. He swung once, a low arc. The hammer met the earth with a thunderous crack, snow lifting in a geyser as the Albinauric was smashed flat beneath the weight. The shockwave rolled outward, scattering others off their feet.
But he did not relent. He lifted his hand, pure white fire blooming across his palm. The flame caught like sunlight on water, brilliance spilling into the storm. With a thrust, he sent it outwards—a stream of searing light, cutting through the mist, swallowing another pack of enemies. They shrieked as snow turned to steam around them, their bodies consumed in silence.
He moved seamlessly between hammer and flame, one flowing into the other. A backswing shattered frozen earth, the follow-up a burst of fire that melted what remained. Each impact of the Giant-Crusher rang like thunder across the barren field; each flare of his sunlight flame burned with impossible purity against the endless white.
The storm thickened, shadows barely visible ahead. The pale knights of the snowfield came next—silent warriors, blades flashing as they surged from the fog. One leapt, curved sword poised.
He caught them with the hammer head-on. Steel and body shattered alike, fragments scattering like ice against stone. Another lunged, and his flame answered: he raised his hand, and light poured forth, cloaking the knight in fire. They dissolved in silence, leaving only the snowdrifts behind.
Through it all, he felt his strength as undeniable, unshaken. What once would have driven him to his knees—cold, hunger, exhaustion—now barely registered. The sunlight flame within him did more than burn. It sustained. It pushed him onward.
Step by step, hammer dragging deep gouges in the ice, he advanced toward where he knew his true foe waited: the Haligtree, and Malenia within.
The snowstorm broke in sudden pockets, revealing walls half-swallowed by ice. Ordina, the Liturgical Town. Its streets lay silent, buried in frost, its towers like the bones of giants picked clean. No flame burned in its lanterns, no soul moved through its alleys.
He walked through its hushed avenues without pause. The puzzle that lingered here—the wards of fire, the hidden shades—meant nothing to him. They were not his concern. His path was direct.
At the rear of the town, a stair rose into the white. He climbed it in silence, boots crunching frost, until he reached the top. There, framed by ruined walls, stood the warp gate: an ancient arch, its surface sheened with a faint light, resisting the weight of centuries.
He stopped before it. The stone hummed quietly, its power steady, old, unquestioning. He did not linger. One step carried him through.
The world bent—snow and stone tearing away in a rush of pale brilliance. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then his feet struck wood.
The world opened beneath his feet—high branches arcing into the void, pale bark slick with sap, the air thick with rot. Wind whistled faintly, carrying with it the notes of distant horns.
Ahead, on a great branch stretched like a roadway, stubby white figures capered and tooted on their instruments—the Oracle Envoys. Their music was not joyous, but eerie, mocking.
They did not get to play for long.
He strode forward, the Giant-Crusher balanced easily in his hands, and swung. The first envoy disappeared beneath the hammer, body and horn both crushed into pulp. The others squealed, trying to scatter—but with his free hand, he cast forth the Sunlight Flame. The pure white blaze spilled outward, catching their robes, swallowing their tiny forms. The horns clattered to the wood as ash blew away in the wind.
He continued on. The branches dipped lower, twisting into a tangled slope. Misbegotten crawled from the knots in the bark, their twisted bodies straining with raw desperation. They shrieked and charged, broken blades flashing in the gloom. He met them without pause.
The Giant-Crusher came down like falling stone, snapping wood beneath it, the force of his strikes shaking the branch itself. Each swing flung misbegotten sprawling, limbs torn from bodies, wings crumpling like paper. When their numbers grew too thick, the Sunlight Flame answered—an expanding arc of white fire, washing over them, burning their deformity away in a cleansing blaze.
Farther still, he found what remained of the Haligtree's people—rot-infested commoners, bodies sloughing apart, eyes clouded, voices whimpering in half-words. They stumbled toward him in piteous droves. Once, he might have hesitated. Not now. For them, mercy was fire.
The hammer ended them quickly, bones crushed to powder. The flame ended them completely, leaving nothing for the rot to cling to.
The branches gave way to walkways of pale wood and stone, descending into the heart of the city itself. Towers loomed. Bridges stretched across empty air. The knights of the Haligtree stood waiting in polished silver, their order and discipline still unbroken.
The first Haligtree knight braced his halberd, steel point set like a spear against a charging bull. Behind him, rows of silver-armored warriors stood in silence, unyielding.
He struck.
The Giant-Crusher came down like a god's judgment. The stone beneath the knight's feet buckled and split, the ground warping as if it were no stronger than clay. The knight was driven into the floor, armor mangled flat, the force of the blow sending fissures racing out across the courtyard.
They surged.
Spears stabbed, swords flashed, shields locked tight in a disciplined wall. But it was nothing before him. He swung wide, and the very air seemed to rip apart. Knights were sent tumbling, shields splintered like kindling. A column beside them cracked in two, collapsing in a storm of dust and rubble as though his hammer had struck it directly.
They pressed tighter, blades carving for his flesh. He gave them fire.
The Sunlight Flame roared out, not gold but pure white, burning with life and heat. It bathed the square, brilliant enough to turn shadow into nothingness. Knights caught in it screamed, armor glowing red before crumpling into ash. The brilliance seared upward, licking the banners overhead until they fell in burning tatters.
Still he advanced.
Misbegotten tried to ambush from the rooftops, but the shockwave of his strikes crumbled the ledges beneath them. They fell screaming before being dashed apart by falling stone. Rot-warped commoners shambled from doorways, but his flame consumed them in an instant, leaving nothing but blackened bones behind.
And then silence, broken only by the distant creak of a rotted bough. The street stretched ahead, littered with shattered helms and mangled bodies, white fire smoldering in the cracks of ruined stone.
Through that ruin loomed the great archway of Elphael. The fortress-heart of the Haligtree, its walls half-swallowed by roots, its gates shadowed by waiting knights who had seen what he had done and yet still readied their weapons.
The Giant-Crusher trailed sparks as it dragged against the broken ground. The Sunlight Flame flickered in his palm, a living reminder of what he had forged. His path could not be denied.
The gates of Elphael creaked wide, knights braced in their ranks, halberds steady, shields bright with faded oaths. The air was heavy with faith—faith in the Haligtree, faith in their duty, faith that they could stand against him.
He tightened his grip on the Giant-Crusher. For a moment, he paused—this… this is the old way. To swing wide and brutal, to let the fortress collapse beneath his blows, to erase everything in his path. But he stopped himself.
"No. I don't need to do that anymore. I don't need to tear the world apart to prove my strength anymore. I'm not here to ruin what stands—I'm here to cut through what resists."
He remembered the Zamor ruins, the mountains of Gelmir, the walls of Leyndell—so much broken rubble in his wake. He had always fought like a storm, overwhelming, unstoppable, unthinking. But now? Now his strength was too great, his power too absolute. If he fought like that here, nothing would remain—not the walls, not the branches, it's possible that not even the path that leads deeper to Malenia would remain..
"This isn't about destruction. It's about purpose."
The first knight charged. His hammer came down—precise, sharp. The shield shattered, the body beneath split apart, but the floor beneath barely cracked. Controlled. Deliberate.
Another rank advanced, halberds crossing in practiced rhythm. He answered not with an explosion of ruin, but with fire. The Sunlight Flame pulsed from his palm in a narrow burst, a lance of pure white heat that cleaved through the formation. Men dropped, their armor glowing faintly, but the wall behind them remained untouched.
Step by step, he pressed forward. The fortress shook with each blow, but it did not crumble. Every strike he chose, every arc of the hammer, every spark of flame—measured. Only what was needed. Nothing wasted.
A misbegotten leapt from above, claws flashing. He pivoted, drove the hammer upward, pinning the creature against the very pillar it sprang from. The stone cracked, dust fell—but the pillar held. He didn't swing again. Efficiency. Precision.
"Strength without control is just destruction. But strength in control… that's dominion."
He carved his way downward, through knight and misbegotten, through rot-blighted corpses and Envoys' song. The Haligtree fortress still stood, scarred but whole. Its defenders, however, lay shattered in his wake.
Roots twisted and widened, eventually leading to a chamber where the rot pooled thick as tar, breathing like a living wound.
Malenia. Blade of Miquella.
The weight of her presence was different from any foe he had faced, but his resolve did not waver. The Giant-Crusher rested against his shoulder, sunlight flame coiling in his palm like a star too bright to look upon.
The chamber's silence broke like glass.
The petals stirred first—red blossoms rising on unseen breath, their beauty sickening when paired with the rot that dripped from their stems. Then came the figure at the pool's heart, rising slowly, deliberately, as if every motion was both ritual and challenge.
Malenia. Blade of Miquella.
Her hand clasped the hilt of her scarlet katana, still sheathed. The water pooled at her feet rippled with her movements, though she made no sound. She regarded him—tall, bare, his body corded with strength, hammer in one hand, a pale flame circling the other. He looked like a legend walking, a being torn from half-remembered tales.
She broke the silence:
"I am Malenia. Blade of Miquella. And I have never known defeat."
The petals exploded outward. She surged.
He met her charge with a ground-shaking step, the Giant-Crusher swinging in a low, brutal arc. Malenia leapt, impossibly high, her blade flashing with the precision of centuries. She twisted midair, riding the hammer's shockwave instead of contesting it, and her katana licked across his shoulder in a shallow line.
The cut closed in moments, his body unyielding—but she was watching. Calculating.
She never gave him the same angle twice. When his hammer swung, she wasn't there; she was behind him, to the side, already in motion, already forcing him to waste energy. She made him chase her shadow, her blade striking in bursts like lightning—precise, unrelenting, seeking seams even in his impossible strength.
And yet—his power bent the battlefield.
Every controlled swing of the Giant-Crusher warped the floor, shifted the air. The Haligtree's roots trembled with each impact, forcing her to adjust. And when he let his flame loose, white fire flashed so bright it blinded, forcing her to guard, her steel singing under the force.
Her strikes bit flesh, and with each strike her body mended. The rot pulsed, greedy, feeding. But where other warriors would falter, he endured. His strength regenerated as fast as hers, a contest of persistence against persistence.
She pressed harder. A flurry of strikes, petals exploding into a storm—her Waterfowl Dance. Death for any other.
But he didn't run. He planted his feet, raised the hammer high, and as her storm descended he brought it down with all the control he had honed—timed, exact. The blast of force ripped the air, knocking her from her perfect dance, scattering petals into the pool in broken patterns.
For the first time, Malenia faltered.
Her eyes narrowed, and the air grew heavy with rot. She stepped back into the pool, her voice ringing clear and resolute despite the sickness that choked the chamber.
"Miquella… my brother… I will not let this be my defeat."
Her body convulsed, scarlet bloom bursting wide. Wings of rot unfurled, her second form awakening in a storm of sickness. The room shuddered, petals burning to ash in the Sunlight Flame's glow.
He tightened his grip, flame swirling brighter, hammer poised.
This was no longer a duel. This was the clash of two forces of nature—her intelligence, her precision, her endless bloom, against his overwhelming strength and the flame of his unyielding will.
And neither would break easily.