This was a ruined coliseum, weathered by countless years and already on the verge of collapse.
Darrick had expected to see a person lying on the ground, barely clinging to life. However—
"Gah?"
Standing there was an ugly Abyssal creature. Upon noticing him, it even let out a confused cry.
"A monster?"
A trace of surprise flickered through Darrick's eyes. He scanned the surroundings but found no sign of any normal person.
Where was the one who had spoken earlier? That voice had sounded extrely weak—there was no way they could have gone far.
…Don't tell it's this thing?
Did it mutate that quickly?
The Abyss truly was terrifying.
"I'll send you to rest," he said, raising the Farron Greatsword and preparing to end it.
He knew these monsters were once Oolacile's residents, infected by the Abyss. He also knew that once mutation began, there was no cure. The greatest rcy he could offer was release.
Darrick's greatest strength lay in his empathy. Throughout his struggle to conquer the Painted World, he had felt the pain of these twisted residents.
Because of that, his hatred toward the Abyss only deepened. If the Lord of the Abyss were standing before him right now, he would charge without hesitation.
Sensing his hostility, the monster nervously spread its arms, clearly preparing to fight to the death.
Before the battle began, Darrick scanned the coliseum once more, unease creeping into his thoughts.
Co to think of it—such a vast arena, yet only a single monster?
Based on past experience, whenever a large space appeared in Sein's dungeon, it usually ant—
An overwhelming sense of danger slamd into him.
Cold sweat broke out as Darrick desperately rolled backward!
"Boom!"
A pitch-black greatsword crashed down from the sky.
Stone shattered. Dust exploded outward. The Abyssal monster was pierced straight through the chest, nailed firmly to the ground.
When did that weapon fly in?
Through the swirling dust, Darrick forced his eyes open—and his heart skipped.
That greatsword looked… familiar.
As though he had once wielded it, fighting countless battles with it in hand.
The blade was soaked in filthy Abyssal blood. Though its body was black, it carried a faint sense of holiness—proof that its master had once been a noble soul.
"I rember now!"
Darrick's eyes widened.
He finally recalled where he had seen that sword.
In the painting of the Wolf Knight.
"Thud!"
A dark silhouette streaked through the air.
The figure landed beside the monster with wolf-like agility, reached out, gripped the hilt, and finished the creature off completely.
"Splatter—!"
Blood sprayed, staining the stranger's silver armor. Sacred steel was defiled with filth, as though holiness itself were being eroded by darkness.
"Ugh… hn…"
A pained groan escaped from beneath the helt obscuring his face, as though he were enduring unimaginable agony.
Purple-black Abyss seeped from beneath his feet. The violent aura surged uncontrollably, shaking the entire coliseum.
No—more than that.
It felt as though all of Oolacile was trembling.
What terrifying power.
And without question, this warrior had already been corrupted by the Abyss—standing at the brink of madness.
Or rather… the Abyss had nearly taken full control.
If that was the case, then the Abyssal monster earlier should have been his companion. Why, then, had he killed it?
And how was he still holding on under such corruption?
Was it sheer obsession—clinging to the duty of eradicating the Abyss with iron will alone?
"Leave!"
The growl tore from clenched teeth.
It was the sa voice Darrick had heard earlier.
He was clearly on the verge of losing himself, yet he still warned Darrick to flee.
"…Ah."
In a situation like this, even a fool would know to run.
Yet Darrick stood frozen.
He stared at the stranger, disbelief etched across his face.
Before entering the coliseum, Darrick had imagined many possibilities—how to prolong the life of the one who warned him, or how to grant them release.
He had even guessed their identity: perhaps a survivor of Oolacile, or another lingering remnant.
But there was one possibility he had never considered.
Never imagined that standing before him would be—
The Abysswalker.
Artorias.
That posture. That greatsword. There was no mistaking it.
But… why was it Artorias?
Wasn't he supposed to be battling the Lord of the Abyss?
If there was one thing Darrick had looked forward to most upon entering the Painted World, it was eting Artorias.
One of the Four Knights of Gwyn.
The Abysswalker.
Sif's companion.
The idol of the Farron Undead Legion.
So many titles elevated the Wolf Knight to near-mythic status.
Aside from the Undead Legion, he was the ancient hero people knew most about. Who wouldn't want to et such a legend?
Darrick had hoped to fight alongside Artorias—or at least relive his journey.
Instead, he had died again and again in the fortress, growing numb.
It was Solaire's warmth that lted that numbness, leading him to believe the Painted World existed so he could retrace the Wolf Knight's path and understand the hardship of battling the Abyss.
He had thought he would never et Artorias himself—at most, experience fragnts of mory.
Yet here he was.
The real Artorias.
Darrick's emotions surged as he opened his mouth.
What should he say?
That in the modern era, people still lived—that the Abyss had been sealed? Artorias would surely feel relieved.
That the Farron Undead Legion revered him and carried on his legacy? What expression would he make?
Humanity's respect for him—though perhaps he was already used to such things.
But—
As the dust settled and Darrick finally saw Artorias clearly, the words died in his throat.
Black aura surged.
Artorias's body trembled.
Sothing was terribly wrong.
His left arm hung limply, swaying unnaturally—broken.
His armor was covered in scars.
Bite marks. Claw rips. Spell burns. Deep dents from crushing blows.
Ti had fused those wounds into battered steel, transforming the knight's aura into sothing tragic and desolate.
A shattered arm.
Ruined armor.
Missing greatshield.
Sif nowhere in sight.
This was not the valiant Wolf Knight of legend.
But none of that compared to the greatest shock of all—
The Abyss.
Why was it pouring out of Artorias himself?
"How could this…"
Darrick's voice trembled as he stepped backward.
Was he retreating out of fear of the Abyss… or because he refused to accept reality?
He had wanted to et a hero.
To hear his teachings.
To witness a legend.
Why show him sothing so incomprehensible?
His sword hand shook. The blade tip struck the ground with a clang.
The sound caused Artorias's fragile sanity to waver.
With a violent motion, Artorias hurled the monster's corpse at Darrick!
Danger!
Darrick dove aside just in ti.
The massive impact shattered the decaying wall, collapsing the rear of the coliseum and sealing off his escape.
There was no ti to run.
Artorias was already charging.
A leap.
A spin.
A slash.
Wolf-like. Swift. rciless.
The technique Darrick had seen countless tis in mory—
The Wolf Leap.
I'll die!
The greatsword descended toward his face.
His body refused to move.
His mind barely registered the danger.
He was about to die—
"Bang!"
A trendous force slamd into his abdon.
Darrick was sent flying like a rag doll, crashing into the wall.
"Cough—!"
Blood sprayed from his mouth as he clutched his stomach, trembling.
Yet his eyes were fixed on the spot where he had stood monts earlier.
He saw what had happened.
At the last instant, Artorias had changed direction.
Rather than cutting him down, he had kicked Darrick away—putting distance between them.
"Leave!" Artorias roared, nearly screaming this ti.
Darrick stared at him in a daze.
Ordinary people lost their minds the mont the Abyss touched them.
Yet Artorias—burdened by so much corruption—still suppressed it through sheer will.
What kind of resolve was this?
Darrick knew he should leave.
He couldn't suppress the Abyss. He was only a liability.
Even the faint sound of his blade touching the ground could trigger disaster.
He needed to run.
But—
Dense fog enveloped the coliseum.
Darrick knew that fog all too well.
The barrier of a boss chamber.
aning—
He couldn't leave.
Staring at the fog wall, Darrick felt as though so intelligent observer within the dungeon was mocking him.
His idol had been corrupted by the Abyss.
Endlessly suffering.
Was there any scene more satisfying for a sadistic watcher?
Pain sharpened his thoughts.
A reckless idea ford.
"I've always been slow… socially awkward… never much help," he muttered.
"But this ti…"
Using the Farron Greatsword for support, Darrick staggered to his feet, spitting blood mixed with flesh.
As expected of Artorias—one kick had nearly killed him.
Who else would dare face such a being?
"Go…" Artorias growled again, his control slipping.
He was waiting for soone strong enough—soone capable of slaying the Lord of the Abyss.
That was why he guarded this place.
To warn wanderers away.
To await the one who could grant him a fitting death.
Darrick was not that person.
Too weak.
He shouldn't have survived the forest at all.
Yet the fool still wouldn't leave.
Then Artorias froze.
Because Darrick assud a stance.
One arm holding the sword level.
The other resting atop it.
Head bowed.
The salute of the Farron Undead Legion.
The stance of the Abyss Watchers.
The highest honor paid to the Abysswalker.
Artorias had never seen it.
Yet sothing resonated deeply within him.
Even the Abyss's pain dulled, if only slightly.
He felt genuine reverence emanating from Darrick—reverence like that once shown by Anor Londo.
Perhaps even deeper.
He sensed intense fighting spirit.
Was this "dwarf," after witnessing his power… still challenging him?
"…Though it may invite ridicule," Darrick said quietly,
"I still want to do this."
He lowered himself further, assuming the perfected Farron stance.
After the Legion's trials and Sword Saint Gapar's guidance, he had mastered this style beyond imitation.
Facing Doslepo again—even at full strength—he might have won.
Against Artorias?
A delusion.
But trapped behind the fog, facing a hero tortured by the Abyss, Darrick refused to flee like a coward.
He would fight.
Even if it was like a mantis challenging a chariot.
At last, he understood.
Artorias had lost.
The Abyss had won.
The knight had escaped—grievously wounded, companion lost—wandering here to slay monsters and warn others away.
Reality was not a fairy tale.
Justice had not prevailed.
If possible, Darrick wished for Artorias's release.
So he issued the challenge.
Artorias remained silent, motionless—granting him ti.
"Glug, glug, glug."
Darrick downed his final potions.
[dium Strength Boost]
[Slash Enhancent]
[dium Constitution Boost]
[Blood Recovery Potion]
Muscles bulged. Clothes stretched. Blood leaked from his mouth.
Still not enough.
[Flowing Form]
[Imitation Slash Domain]
[Demon Rampage]
Light flared again and again.
His body reached its limit, sustained only by will.
Finally—
Burn Wolf Blood!
"I'm going in!"
Darrick roared as the Undead Legion stance erupted.
He flashed to Artorias's side, the Farron Greatsword carving toward a vital point!
Artorias showed no intent to fight.
He didn't even draw his blade.
He simply swung his intact arm.
A simple blow—
Yet it carried the weight of death.
Such was the difference between them.
Barely, Darrick evaded.
Using Undead Legion footwork, he dodged, reappeared, and struck again.
Artorias sidestepped effortlessly.
Abyssal energy exploded.
Darrick raised his blade to block, his arms numbed.
Normally, he would retreat.
But he couldn't.
Buffs overloaded his body. Collapse was seconds away.
He grit his teeth and leapt high, driving the blade down with everything he had.
Only then did Artorias react.
"…Sif?"
The Undead Legion's swordsmanship was born of Wolf Blood.
Of Great Wolf Sif's movents.
Artorias finally raised his greatsword.
"Bang!"
Sparks flew.
Artorias didn't move.
Darrick was smashed into the ground again.
He rose.
Charged again.
Artorias was confused.
He had never t this man.
Sif certainly hadn't.
So why was this style identical?
Not coincidence.
As Sif's companion, Artorias knew every motion of the wolf.
This was Sif's technique—refined to its peak.
Impossible.
Unless—
Artorias suddenly looked up, knocking Darrick aside again.
Ti here was distorted.
If this man ca from the future—
Joy surged within him.
Why joy?
Because Darrick's swordsmanship proved sothing.
Sif survived.
Sif escaped.
Sif left a legacy.
He sensed faint Wolf Blood within Darrick.
What could bring greater joy?
More than that—
His barrier shield could protect Sif, but not let him escape alone.
aning—
Sif had been saved.
By whom?
Gwyndolin? Gough? Ornstein?
None could defeat the Lord of the Abyss.
Then—
Perhaps the exiled firstborn.
mories flooded back.
Artorias stabilized.
Temporarily.
But it was enough.
Even if madness returned, it didn't matter.
The future held hope.
Soone would defeat Manus.
His suffering was not aningless.
Artorias shouldered his greatsword, assuming his classic stance.
Against such a warrior, holding back would be disrespectful.
Yet—
If he fought at full strength, the Abyss would take over.
Reluctantly, he chose restraint.
He would grant Darrick a swift, honorable end.
Darrick, anwhile, couldn't even touch him.
Sha and fury burned—not at Artorias, but at himself.
Even the full Undead Legion couldn't defeat a wounded Artorias.
How monstrous must he have been at his peak?
And how terrifying, then, was the Lord of the Abyss?
Darrick was a silver-rank fool on a god-tier battlefield.
"This can't end like this."
He slamd his chest, forcing Demon Rampage again.
His body turned red. Blood seeped through his skin.
"Damn it! Body—give power!"
At the brink of death, strength surged.
Not much.
But enough.
He charged.
Leapt.
Spun—
Wolf Leap!
Everything into one strike!
"Slash—!"
Blood splattered.
"Thud."
Darrick's upper body rolled across the ground.
He still clutched the broken hilt of the Farron Greatsword.
His expression froze mid-roar, never realizing his body had been severed.
Artorias stood unhard.
Darrick was too weak.
But even the weak could earn respect.
Before losing his remaining sanity, Artorias planted the broken sword before Darrick.
For a warrior, a blade as gravestone was honor.
Artorias was grateful.
Darrick had brought him sothing priceless—
Hope.
Hope was what allowed him to endure.
To remain here.
Soday, the Lord of the Abyss would fall.
That knowledge was enough.
Still—
He smiled bitterly.
If only the one who would defeat Manus could arrive sooner.
Pain surged.
Before madness reclaid him, Artorias dragged himself into the forest.
The ruined coliseum fell silent.
Darrick's bisected body lay still.
Yet his consciousness saw sothing else.
The continuation of the mory.
He beca Artorias again.
He saw himself gifting silver pendants to survivors.
Saw himself battling the Abyss without one.
Saw his defeat against the Lord of the Abyss.
Saw himself leaving the barrier shield to protect the injured young Sif.
Saw the Abyss take hold.
Saw himself slaughter monsters until reaching the coliseum.
Amid madness, he saw loved ones.
Friends.
King Gwyn.
"Do not let the Abyss spread!"
Those were the final words Darrick heard before leaving the Painted World.
Spoken by Artorias.
Strong.
Resolute.
In his final fading thought, Darrick smiled faintly.
"That strike was amazing, Artorias."
(***)
So ti later, Darrick awoke.
"Darrick? Darrick!"
He jolted upright, colliding with a gray wolf that yelped and fled.
His mind was hazy until soone poured a high-grade ntal recovery potion into his mouth.
Clarity returned.
He looked around.
Familiar faces.
The Farron exploration team.
The raiding parties.
Even Roger.
"This feels like a funeral…" he muttered.
"What happened?" he asked weakly.
"Darrick!" A girl threw her arms around him. "You're alive!"
"I'm fine…"
"Fine?! Do you know how many days you were missing?!"
"Days?"
"Three days! You were gone for three days!"
Druid cast Calm.
He explained.
"You vanished after entering the dungeon. Two hours ago, soone found you unconscious near the gate—still clutching the painting."
He placed a ring in Darrick's palm.
[Wolf Ring Replica]
Darrick stared at it.
"What did you go through?" Druid asked quietly.
Darrick smiled.
"I lived through a legendary adventure."
And thus, the story of a wolf knight who bore his duty was told.
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