Chapter Text
The Unkindled crossed the barrier that protected the city forgotten by time with firm and resolute steps, his movements breaking through the icy mist that seemed intent on denying him entry. His footsteps echoed ominously over the cracked ice, ice that had accumulated over the ages, bearing witness to the abandonment and oblivion that had taken root there. The cold was biting, like small blades piercing exposed skin, and the wind howled through the ruins like the lament of those who had perished within. Ahead of him, outlined against the backdrop of eternal night, the silhouette of Irithyll’s towers rose with majesty and melancholy, touching the star-strewn sky with their silver spires, all bathed in the moon’s bluish light.
Yet despite the city's breathtaking beauty—a beauty that seemed frozen in time like a living painting—there was something deeply wrong. The perfection of the scenery only masked the hidden horrors that lurked in the depths of shadows and deserted alleys. Twisted creatures of abominable shapes and erratic movements roamed aimlessly, specters of a realm that had once been glorious and radiant, a bastion of culture and faith. Now, however, it lay corrupted and tainted, ruled with an iron fist by a merciless tyrant.
Feeling the weight of history and decay hang over his shoulders like an invisible mantle, the Unkindled climbed the city’s wide stone stairways. Each step seemed to groan beneath his feet, as if protesting his presence. Upon reaching a higher landing, he was ambushed by spectral knights—skeletal, ethereal figures that emerged from the mist like apparitions from an ancient nightmare. Their armor, still gleaming with the shine of ages past, glinted under the moon’s pale light, casting a ghostly aura that intensified the surreal atmosphere.
Without a shield for protection, relying only on his dexterity and the strength of his Claymore, the Unkindled dodged the first strike with a swift, agile move, feeling the enemy’s blade slash the air mere inches from him. In a precise and powerful counterattack, he spun his body, sending the Claymore in a deadly arc that struck the specter, dissolving it in a burst of silvery ash carried away by the wind like forgotten memories. With no time to rest, the Unkindled pressed on, every muscle tense, his eyes scanning the path ahead, feeling in every fiber of his being the oppressive presence of the evil that permeated that place.
The faint light that seeped through the windows and cracks of old houses suggested that life still lingered in Irithyll—but its inhabitants seemed like prisoners in their own homes, isolated and afraid. One could easily imagine them refusing to step outside, hidden behind locked doors and heavy curtains, fearing what prowled beyond. Most of all, they feared their new self-proclaimed ruler, whose long and dark shadow loomed over every street, every corner, every thought.
Continuing his path, now more determined than ever, the Unkindled reached the top of a long staircase that led to an ancient church—a solemn and melancholic structure marked by the silent presence of a forgotten faith. The half-open doors let a whisper of cold wind escape, and for a brief moment, the Unkindled felt the presence of something sacred—but distant, as if even the gods had forsaken that place.
Leaving behind the broken serenity of the church, the Unkindled moved through the deserted streets, where the moon seemed colder and the air heavier. Ascending the frost-covered road and facing more horrors that haunted the way, his steps finally led him to Irithyll’s true cathedral—the tyrant’s domain.
Entering the massive cathedral cautiously, its iron doors demanding all his strength to open, the Unkindled found himself in a vast, shadowy hall, lit only by the cold light filtering through stained-glass windows—some shattered by the cruel advance of time—casting distorted patterns on the stone floor. And there, in the heart of that desolate hall, awaiting him like a ruthless judge before the accused, stood Pontiff Sulyvahn. His mantle swayed gently in the icy air, and though he had no face, something like blades of frost drove into the Unkindled with a mix of scorn and challenge. The inevitable battle hung in the air, heavy and sharp like a blade poised to strike.
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Sulyvahn raised his enchanted blades and laughed.
“Another fool in search of fire and glory? You shall not pass, Unkindled.”
The duel began. The tyrant unleashed swift strikes, one blade spewing profane flames, the other steeped in what seemed to be corrupted moonlight magic. The Unkindled dodged, feeling the heat of each slash passing mere centimeters from his body. One misstep would mean death.
The metallic clash of blades filled the great hall, echoing between columns stained with dust. Sulyvahn’s swords hissed through the air with supernatural fury. Each blow that struck the ground left scorched marks, cracks spreading like spiderwebs beneath their feet. The Unkindled dodged, rolled, spun with surgical precision, as the suffocating heat and the scent of scorched stone filled the chamber.
A particularly fierce blow struck one of the columns, blasting shards of marble and hurling debris across the hall. The Unkindled shielded himself with his forearm, feeling small cuts burn against his skin—but he did not falter. He knew that giving in would be his ruin.
Sulyvahn charged again, his flaming sword leaving trails of fire across the floor. Each thrust, each strike, seemed intent on shattering not only the Unkindled but the world itself. The tyrant fought like a cornered beast—furious and relentless.
The blades clashed in bursts of light and sparks. The Unkindled blocked a high blow, his knees buckling under the force, but he held firm, shoving Sulyvahn back with his Claymore. The statues lining the hall trembled, some already broken-faced, as if the temple itself crumbled beneath the weight of the battle.
Sulyvahn roared, unleashing more flames and corrupted magic from his blades that cracked the floor between them, and surged forward. With a precise sidestep, the Unkindled dodged, feeling the hot breath of magic graze his face—and drove his lightning-imbued Claymore into the Pontiff’s ribs.
The tyrant staggered, gasping, but did not fall. His blood—dark as ashes mingled with night—spilled from the wound and stained his mantle.
Sulyvahn was no ordinary foe. With a dark gesture, his fingers traced a symbol in the air, and from his body, an ethereal image of himself emerged. The twisted phantom appeared with a silent laugh, doubling the assault.
The hall descended into chaos. The illusion struck in unison with the real, and the Unkindled could barely keep up with the deadly dance of flame and shadow. A strike from the clone grazed his thigh, tearing through armor and drawing hot lines of blood. A second blow narrowly missed, its impact blasting part of an altar to rubble.
With brutal effort, the Unkindled swung his sword in a wide arc, cleaving through the illusion. The specter dissolved into bluish mist, releasing a cold gust that snuffed out some of the smaller fires on the ground.
But the real Sulyvahn did not relent.
The battle intensified. Both fighters were wounded, bloodied, their bodies covered in soot and sweat. The floor was flecked with blood and ash, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. Every strike made the walls tremble, every parry sent echoes through the profaned chamber.
The Unkindled felt his strength waver—but reaching for a nearby brazier, a spark of renewed fury surged within him. He tightened his grip on the sword, dodged a final strike, ignoring the pain throbbing in his ribs, and with all the strength he had left, swung his Claymore in a brutal arc—driving it through the chest of the true Sulyvahn.
The tyrant staggered, spasms shaking his body as his trembling hands tried to lift his faceless head to face his executioner. The statues of the old ruler watched him—cracked, but unbroken. A silent vengeance fulfilled by the one who ended the tyrant’s life.
“This world... belongs to...,” Sulyvahn murmured, spitting black blood before collapsing, staining the floor with ash.
The echo of his fall reverberated through the ruined hall, like a final sentence.
With the Pontiff’s fall, the path to Anor Londo was finally open.