Crossing the swamp after the Road of Sacrifices wasn't a problem for Eraqus.
Yes, the filthy water, the foul smell, and the giant crabs slowed his progress, but it wasn't anything to worry, just dirty, dirty, irritation.
The stagnant, waist-deep water, thick with the stench of centuries of rot, the oppressive canopy of twisted roots and skeletal branches that filtered sickly green light, even the skittering giant crabs that snapped at his heels-all of it was merely an irritation, a foul obstacle to be endured rather than feared. The filth clung to his cloak, the miasma burned his nose, but the Keyblade Master pressed on, wading through the detritus of a world drowning in its own decline.
Along the way he scavenged a few more relics for his growing collection: rusted helmets, crumbling shields, other such lost and abandoned items, but the one artifact stood out was a charred tome bound in blackened leather. Its pages, scarred by ancient heat, bore illustrations of billowing flame and unknown glyphs he could not read. The imagery hinted at pyromancy, something Cornyx would surely covet, and the prospect of learning a new discipline kindled a spark of genuine curiosity within Eraqus.
Eventually, the mire gave way to the ruins of a castle, its walls slumping into the bog like a dying beast. He had barely stepped onto firmer ground when two figures burst from the shadows and halted his advance. They closed the distance at a lurching sprint, each hefting a massive weapon with the frenzied strength of hollowed fanatics.
The first swung a greatsword in a vertical arc meant to cleave him from crown to pelvis; Eraqus's legs coiled, and he threw himself aside with a dancer's grace, the blade splitting the stone with a crack that shivered up his spine. In the same motion, his Keyblade, sheathed in a rime of glistening frost, bit deep into the man's ribs. But he retreated instantly as the second assailant brought a huge wooden club crashing down toward his skull, splintering the ground where he had just stood.
Eraqus did not grant them a prolonged fight. He sidestepped into the space between them, and with a flick of his wrist he conjured a searing fireball that detonated in a bloom of orange fury, scorching both attackers. Their flesh blackened, but they did not fall.
Recognizing that neither seemed to possess a ranged attack, he decided to end the skirmish before some lurking horror arrived. He thrust his palm forward and in rapid succession, unleashed the triad of magics he had carried since his earliest days as a Keyblade Wielder. Waves of fire, razored shards of ice, and bolts of crackling lightning bombarded the two warriors in a merciless barrage. They screamed-human sounds turned animal-as their bodies were burned, frozen, and electrocuted in no particular order. When the last ember died, both dissolved into drifting souls, their weapons clattering to the stone, now pieces of his ever-expanding hoard.
He waited, breathing steady, watching the gloom. No further foe stirred. Perhaps the men he had faced were merely hollowed husks, driven insane by the land's corruption. Still, he would not let his guard down.
Ahead, a square pit opened in the flagstones, a rusted metal staircase descending into the earth. He paused at the edge, peering into the darkness below, but detected no movement beyond the usual shadows.
Taking the rungs one by one, he discovered a small chamber with a coiled sword thrust into a pile of ash-a bonfire, one of the few respites that dotted this dying world. He lit it with a thought, letting its warmth banish the chill, and continued through a crumbling archway, only for his face to twist into a grimace of pure frustration at the sight beyond.
The swamp resumed, more vile than before. Where the previous stretch had been open muck, here the terrain was choked with dense, prehistoric vegetation, colossal trees whose bark seemed to ooze black ichor, and tumbledown structures that made him ache to see them in their glory days. And the water-dark as old blood, so fetid and muddy that its depths were an absolute mystery. The stench was a physical presence, heavy with ammonia and decay. He had to fight the visceral urge to turn back. Where would he go? The next Lord of Cinder was somewhere in this festering wasteland. Retreat was pointless.
He drew a shallow breath through his mouth-choking anyway-and surveyed the flooded expanse to his left, where a chain of low islets formed a precarious path to a larger island. Atop a stone tower there, a lone flame burned against the twilight. He snapped a dead branch and tested the water's depth; it would reach his waist. His pack held clumps of purple moss, and one of his scavenged rings promised resistance to poison, but he would sooner avoid touching the filth altogether, both for his health and to prevent smelling even worse than he already did. A clean stream had been notably absent for miles.
An idea crystallized. With a simple ice spell he froze a swath of water solid, forming a shimmering walkway to the nearest islet. The ice crackled under his careful steps, each placement deliberate. A second bridge led him to a collapsed stone arch, and a third to another patch of dry ground, but not before he collected an Estus Shard half-buried near a sunken dome. He repeated the process until he reached the larger island, and there he finally noticed the inhabitants.
Crucified bodies were the first warning-flayed torsos lashed to branches, their features contorted in eternal agony. Then, movement among the trees. In his long travels, Eraqus had faced werewolves in other worlds, but these creatures appeared trapped in an incomplete metamorphosis: tall and emaciated, with gray, leathery skin, legs bent backward and ending in cloven hooves, fingers tapering into claws like gutting knives. Their faces were hidden by grotesque masses of twisted horn, so heavy it was a wonder they could remain upright, let alone see.
Yet see they did.
One let out a bleating roar and scrambled up a cluster of rocks, hurling itself at Eraqus in a predatory dive. A lightning bolt caught it in the chest, the crackling impact flinging the creature backward with a shriek and a wet thud.
A second goat-man advanced, carrying a crude spear and wooden shield, while a third creature, unarmed, circled to the island's edge, seeking his flank. The first thrust missed as Eraqus swayed; the second never materialized, because his frost-limned blade sheared the spear's shaft in two. Seizing the broken stump, he shoved its wielder into the path of the circling creature, tangling them in a thrashing pile of limbs. They screamed in an incoherent cacophony, never to rise, for a wave of scalding flames rolled over them seconds later, reducing both to ash and soul-dust.
The fight won, he approached the blazing tower. At its base stood an altar of cracked stone, a small vessel cradling a spectral flame. He suspected the other towers he glimpsed in the distance held similar flames, and that they were connected to something further ahead. Carefully, his gauntleted hand closed around the fire, snuffing it out. High above, the tower's beacon vanished in response. Nothing world-shaking occurred, but two more fires still burned. So he moved on, crafting another bridge of ice toward a smaller landmass, then onward.
The second altar's flame died without much struggle-the enemies this time were a mix of the goat-men and raven-like horrors that vomited clouds of poison. The corvians' ragged feathers and gurgling caws made them particularly miserable opponents, but they fell just as easily. The tower fire was extinguished, leaving one. A long, intact stone bridge stretched toward a cluster of ruins where a bonfire flickered. Along the way he spotted immense creatures ambling among the giant trees: wolf-faced, fur-covered, with heads crowned by curling horns, each carrying an entire tree trunk as a club. He gave them a wide berth; provoking such behemoths without cause was folly.
The bonfire offered a moment of rest. He knelt, letting the flames soothe the weariness in his bones, then pressed on. The next bridge ended in a swamp again, and he finally understood the purpose of the flames. Ahead, a massive stone door stood embedded in a rock wall, its surface carved with intricate, faded reliefs. Around it, three braziers—two still lit, one dark. The final flame was guarded by distant raven-men who spewed poison from afar, forcing him to zigzag across ice bridges and close the gap. They flapped away cawing, but he caught them with a volley of magic. The third fire went out, and even from this distance he heard the grinding crash of the great door swinging open.
The island path looped around a collapsed colossus of masonry, and he resumed his frost-wrought bridging, connecting to a cave where a scroll of shimmering golden parchment lay clutched in a skeleton's grasp. Orbeck would appreciate this. He stowed it safely, making a mental note to deliver it once he returned to Firelink Shrine.
At last he stood before the opened door, the three braziers now burning. He did not rush in; instead he halted at the threshold, studying the ascent beyond: a hillside of dead trees and gray earth, punctuated by swords of every size thrust into the ground—a graveyard of blades. At first he sensed no threat, but as he climbed, the distant clangor of battle reached him.
The fortress loomed at the top, a titan of dark stone at the end of a shattered cobblestone road. Two forces clashed at its entrance: a band of goat-men draped in tattered yellow cloaks, wielding curved sabers and shields, and a pair of towering knights in jet-black armor festooned with bones, giving them the chilling appearance of reanimated skeletons. Eraqus slipped behind a tree, observing and calculating. Letting them bleed each other dry and finishing off the survivor seemed the wisest course. While the battle raged, he explored a side passage to the right, discovering a rectangular chamber with another bonfire, which he lit. Refreshed, he returned to the fight just as only one skeletal knight and a single goat-man remained.
The knight, oozing dark ichor from countless wounds, dueled with ferocious speed. Its left hand flared crimson, and reality warped around its palm, manifesting a shadowy vine that parried the goat-man's saber with a resonant twang. Balance broken, the creature had no time to react before the dark blade swept its head from its shoulders.
The knight did not pause to gloat. It strode toward the fortress entrance, reaching for the great doors. Whatever purpose drove it was cut short-a blistering salvo of fire, ice, and lightning slammed into its back, the magics swirling in a catastrophic blend. The knight crumpled without a final word, its soul streaming away into its slayer.
Eraqus stepped over the corpses and paused before the portal, considering the skeletal knights. They reminded him of something: a presence he had felt before-a darkness older than the realm he now walked, a hunger that paralleled the shadows that had once consumed other worlds.
Shaking off the thought, he pushed the ancient doors open. On the threshold, he brushed a pale summon sign with his fingers, and in a ripple of white light a figure materialized: a man in dark clothes, silent, twin swords gleaming at his sides.
Together, they stepped into the crumbling keep to face whatever waited within.
END OF CHAPTER