The Kiln of the First Flame. The air there felt heavy, as though the weight of countless ages bore down upon it. The ashen ground crackled beneath my boots, and the distant, flickering flames seemed to draw me toward the inevitable. This was it. The end. The culmination of everything I had endured, every soul I had claimed, every foe I had vanquished. Waiting for me was the Soul of Cinder—the embodiment of all who had linked the flame before me. A being of pure, relentless power.
I stepped into the arena, the wind whipping at my cloak, the faint glow of the flame casting long shadows over the blackened earth. And there it stood. A knightly figure, yet not bound by any mortal limits. Its stance was calm, almost mocking, as though it had seen countless challengers before me and expected little difference. I smirked. “You’ll find I am not so easily broken,” I murmured, gripping my staff tightly.
The battle began with a ferocity I had never faced before. The Soul of Cinder moved with an unnatural speed, its blade striking with an unrelenting rhythm. It was as though the laws of stamina, of mana, meant nothing to it. Every spell I cast, every strike I landed, was met with a counterattack that left no room for error. Its movements were fluid, switching seamlessly between swordplay, sorcery, and miracles. A single mistake, and the punishment was swift and brutal.
At first, I faltered. My usual tactics—interrupting spells, forcing openings—were useless. The Soul of Cinder was relentless, its attacks unceasing, its magic unbroken. I found myself on the defensive, dodging strike after strike, the ground beneath me scorched by the fiery remnants of its spells. My mind raced. This wasn’t a fight of strength or power. It was endurance. Precision. A dance of survival.
I adjusted my rhythm, focusing on the spaces between its attacks. The subtle pauses, the shifts in its stance. I learned its patterns, its timing, and found my openings. A dodge here, a parry there. Slowly, I began to turn the tide. My spells found their mark—Dark Flame Cascades and Soul Eruptions tearing through its ethereal form. And yet, it endured, shifting its tactics as though it were adapting to my strategies.
The battle raged on, my stamina waning, my flask nearly drained. Just when I thought I had gained the upper hand, it changed. The flames around it surged, and its form twisted, now wielding the might of Gwyn himself. A blazing greatsword, its strikes imbued with fire, rained down upon me with terrifying strength. The echoes of the past were alive within it, each strike a testament to the Lords of Cinder who came before.
But I refused to yield. This was my journey. My destiny. Every step I had taken led to this moment, and I would not falter. With a final burst of energy, I summoned the last of my magic. The air around me crackled as I unleashed a barrage of violet flames, each one burning brighter, fiercer than the last. The Soul of Cinder staggered, its fiery form faltering. Seizing the opportunity, I closed the distance, my blade glowing with dark energy. One final strike.
The arena fell silent. The flames dimmed, the oppressive air lifting as the Soul of Cinder crumbled before me. Its essence lingered for a moment, a faint glow, before dissipating into the ether. I stood there, my breathing ragged, my body aching, but victorious. The First Flame burned faintly before me, awaiting its fate.
I could feel the weight of my journey in that moment—the choices I had made, the battles I had fought. This was the end, and yet it felt like the beginning of something far greater. I sheathed my blade, turning my back to the flame. My path was my own now, the ashes of those before me left to fade into the dark.
Ravenna Noir had claimed her place among legends, not as a savior or a martyr, but as a force of her own making. And so, I walked away, leaving the flame to its quiet end.
Come to the dark side: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQRPy70pDgKWZPzdPFo3NP6Zbh7EI__pb
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