Edit: Formal thanks to my new beta-reader, ekaterina016, who is going back, rereading my chapters, and doing an excellent job cleaning up a lot of mistakes I didn't catch. I'll be updating chapters accordingly as he finishes his work.

If he ever found himself alone in a room, none to judge within earshot, he'd admit aloud to being fearful. More fearful than he had ever been, and would likely ever be, which was as odd a feeling as he had ever experienced. It was as unfamiliar a feeling as any he knew; it left him to ponder why he was feeling so hesitant. Perhaps it was because the odds had never been quite so stacked against him?

Who wouldn't he be scared, really? He was about to face something which had rendered the legendary knight Artorias, the Abysswalker himself, as little more than a corrupted husk, a mere shadow of his once-glorious self. A terrifying prospect, indeed.

Of course, he had dealt with seemingly insurmountable odds in the past. He had defeated the dynamic duo of Ornstein and Smough, albeit with a few attempts and much difficulty. He had also freed the infected corpse who dared to impersonate the real knight Artorias. He had faced Gravelord Nito in his tomb, and reigned victorious. He also braved the Duke Archives to find and slain Seath the Scaleless. The mother of demons which resided at the base of Lost Izalith, too, fell at his hand.

Yet, the Abyss awoke that primal instinct of fear in him more than anything he had ever encountered. The feeling of it, the sight – it was why he had avoided the Four Kings of New Londo for as long as he had. The Abyss made his skin crawl, and he feared that might be a bit more literal if he failed to defeat Manus in his first attempt.

Indeed, if left in a room by himself, he would admit to being scared, fearful, and hesitant. Yet he was never alone, as he's either with the enemies who seemed to constantly surround him, or his allies who slowly disappeared, one by one, as he delved further and further into his journey. Until the time he was truly and well alone, he would remain the beacon of hope he was expected to be. It was, after all, his duty.

He was chosen.

"Hmm, the Greataxe of the Black Knights, or the Demon Machete…" He wondered aloud, staring at the two weapons in front of him with narrowed eyes. His head inclined slowly as his gaze settled to the right.

It was another great decision made. "Quite right."

The debate over, he returned the Demon Machete back into his bottomless box. It was his best kept secret; he kept the peculiar box which had been bought remarkably cheap in a pouch near his side, only made possible by the box's ability to shrink to the size no greater than that of a ring.

The box was easily the best investment he had made in his entire journey. Just the thought of not having it at his side made him shudder – without it, his arsenal would be no more than six or so weapons at most! Just the thought made him sick; it was unthinkable. He was a hoarder, keeping every single makeshift weapon he could find and lift. Given his relative strength, that was every weapon he encountered, even those he could hardly picture himself using. From a large, poison-soaked branch to a demon hammer made of arch stone, he had them all.

The art of combat was one he was distinctively familiar with and most definitely what he was best known for. He could admire it in its many forms, and oh, how many forms there was! There was a certain beauty in each one, yet far more often combat was a grotesque, brutal thing. Even still, he found beauty in that.

He'd hardly consider himself an expert in every type of weapon which could be wielded; he wasn't that arrogant. However, he had wielded most of the ones he had come across in some way or another. Versatility was key. He hardly saw a reason to fight hollows and men with a weapon meant for slaying demons, after all. It was impractical at best. Though with his strength, there was some satisfaction to be found in sending them flying a dozen feet or more.

On the rare occasions when a conventional weapon might not be perfect for a given situation, he'd use his trusty pyromancy or sorcery. While slightly fonder of the former compared to the latter, it was a negligible difference. He was a master of both, through no real skill of his own. His teachers had been something incredible, after all, and he believed quite frankly they could have turned a demented hollow into an expert in the particular fields of study each had practiced.

…well, perhaps they had!

Clearing away the chuckle in his throat before it could manifest, he instead focused on something else about his magic: the application was a skill of his own making. It would not be bold to say he knew how to wield magic better in combat than his master teachers ever had been able. He was a beacon of experience, painful and… well, mostly painful. His particular brand of the Dark Sign disallowed such a silly concept as release and hollowing. A killing blow left a scar on his refurbished flesh, not a corpse.

Still, he never failed to remember his masters were the ones who had taught him the actual casts. They had enabled him in more ways than he cared to count. It was impossible to pay them back, both while they'd all been alive, and especially now, when they were dead or gone.

It was somewhat ironic, given his current situation in being a few centuries back in the past. Time and Lordran had no issue dragging him back to fix issues he hadn't caused, but those of his own making? They were cast in arch stone, unbreakable and forever true.

Gah. If there was something of value to be found in regret, he and many others had yet to find it. It had served no purpose for those before him, and it would serve no purpose to him, either. Some might say what he was currently doing also served no purpose, though it was something he preferred not to think about.

It was a conundrum, in the simplest words. If in the future the spread of Oolacile's Abyss outbreak had been relatively masked or otherwise extinguished, did he even have to do anything, now that he's back in the past? Or would there be no impact in the future only because he was here, seemingly the only one capable of eliminating Manus and stopping the spread.

That was the plan, anyways.

Going through said barrel of thought about time travel made his head spin. Time was convoluted, as they say, and it certainly had yet to get any clearer in his stray through Lordran. Nothing ever got clearer, not even here in Oolacile, which was apparently far enough from Lordran to be considered a different kingdom. He certainly wished he could have seen it at its peak, as a great city it should be, as opposed to… whatever it was now. Everyone spoke of it as though something great: a mighty kingdom.

To him, it seemed to be nothing but a source of pain and suffering. None were spared the pain it dished out: from giants, gods, to men, all suffered with hardly anything to show for it. And why? To his knowledge, arrogant leaders thought they could harness the Abyss. Practically suicide, far as he was concerned, but perhaps not everyone was as in touch with their base instincts as he was.

…it was always them, though, wasn't it? Those unaffected by the regular people's woes… he'd kill them himself if he had the chance.

The only thing he could admire about the entire kingdom was the magic they wielded. Such odd, elegant magic it was. Unlike the other sorceries which would often be passed around, they kept theirs within the kingdom – at least, he assumed so. Sorcery didn't simply get forgotten with time otherwise. While still under the same branch of Soul Sorceries which had long since been developed, the people of Oolacile did not cast mighty Soul Spears, capable of breaking the thickest of breastplates, nor did they augment their blades in the blue hue of the soul manifest, enhancing its capabilities far beyond ordinary metals.

No, theirs was far more interesting than the simple, brute force approach Vinheim and other kingdoms favored. The ability to hide oneself with the environment, to turn sword, shield, and body transparent, and cast lights which shone as brightly as the sun. Perhaps most useful was the ability to repair one's blade or shield with a simple cast.

If only Logan was still around; the old frog would have given his left leg to study such sorceries.

Sibyl paused in his steps, leaning over to take a peek down the cliff side.

…not that he gained much from it. He couldn't see anything; it was complete and utter darkness. And here he was, going deeper and deeper into it without a companion, too. How wonderful.

The fog gate was in the distance, an eerie grey which seemed so out of place in the surrounding black. He'd still, after all this time, had no idea on how exactly they existed, nor why. He and Seeker Logan had discussed it at length, coming to a largely assumption-based conclusion it was a way demons and other powerful beings marked their territory.

There was also a theory it was a hunting tactic, more so for demons than the others. Demons did hurt people, not fellow creatures. It made as much sense as anything else he could conclude, and given he was centuries in the past, it would have been ironic for him to say it made no sense.

…even if it did make absolutely no sense. Nothing made sense, not anymore.

Sighing softly, he spared a glance around. Nothing was trying to kill him at the moment, so it seemed he had some time to try and figure out how in Izalith he was going to manage and get down to the fog-gate. Reaching for a pouch at his hip, he retrieved a single, smooth prism-stone. They were quite useful as marker rocks; when shattered, the dust within them would glow quite spectacularly. They also smelled absolutely awful when cracked open, but seeing as how he had ventured into the depths of Nito's Tomb, it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever had the displeasure of smelling.

Letting the rock fall from his fingers, it plummeted below, shattering with an echo. He didn't much care about the noise, though it was nice to hear safe falling distance. But, given his mastery of sorcery, falling distance hardly mattered. A simple spell of Fall Control would allow him to fall from damn near any height with nary a buckle of the knees. It made falling much more exhilarating than stressful. While he preferred the beauty of pyromancy, the conventional aspect of the Soul sorceries could not be argued.

Reaching down, he slid out the Oolacile Cataylst, an ivory branch from a magic-enchanted tree, which was tucked into his boot. His mind focused, picturing the cast as vividly as possible. From how it would look, how it would function, all the information flowed through his mind. A moment later, he felt the spell wash over him, the enchantment taking affect. It was a warm feeling, as most sorceries were.

Well, there was hardly reason to wait around. Stepping forward, he fell, the air brushing against his face before his fall stopped as abruptly as it had begun. By the gods above, Fall Control was perhaps his favorite sorcery outside of Repair. Before his lessons in sorcery, he had been forced to judge such falls by his eyes alone.

His knees had shattered more than once, forcing him to either break a Homeward Bone or keep crawling until he could fall another cliff to fall off and die from. His back had been broken from one such fall, too.

Ignoring the spasm of phantom pain from that particular memory, he shook his head and adjusted the Black Knight Greataxe which rested against his shoulder. It was a weapon he had favored for some time, since his initial venture into the Catacombs. It served him well, primarily against the… larger foes he faced.

Assuming the hand which grabbed him and brought him into the past was no abnormality compared to the rest of him, Manus would be one of his largest foes yet. He figured a shield would be of little use against something that large, so he didn't even bother with one. Pyromancy would have far more usefulness in the fight to come.

There was another leap to be made before he could enter through the fog-gate. Getting a running start, he leapt, landing with a roll for conveniences's sake than any worry about lightening the impact. The gate was a dozen or so feet in front of him, yet it had never felt more far away.

His fingers brushed against the silver pendant around his neck, something which didn't belong to him nor anyone else, not anymore. It was far too useful a tool in combating the Abyss to simply be abandoned, however, so he would borrow it to put an end to the madness around him. This was it. This was it. Him versus Manus, Dusk's life and safety the only prize he was certain of. Whether his actions here would affect the future of Lordran… well, who knew.

With little more than an axe, a pilfered Astora Knight armor, and an assortment of magic, he would face the Abyss.

It had to be done, else he'd never manage to get back to Lordran and link the flame. Even if doing such only gave temporary relief to the undead, it'd give him peace everlasting.

Eyes closed, he forced himself through the fog-wall. The other side was hardly unfamiliar. It was exactly the same as everything else down here: dark and tinged with the Abyss. It was far quiter, however. The moans of the torment from those transformed couldn't be heard, not this far down.

The Sunlight Talisman at his waist found its way into his palm subconsciously. He rose a hand above, mouth moving in a silent prayer of familiar words. While he hardly liked miracles and the gods they represented, there was a particular brand he did practice. He'd hardly feel reasonable calling himself a Sunlight Warrior if he was unaware on how to conjure lightning bolts.

Said lightning bolt formed in his hand, sparks flying from it and its crackle filling the previous silence of the cavern. He tossed it, the spear flying like a javelin through the darkness. It illuminated the Abyss in a way only the sun could.

He spotted it only for an instance, and no more.

A great beast which, perhaps long ago, could have called itself a man. It was just as dark as the rest of the Abyss, complete with glowing, red eyes all over.

He tensed, sliding his left foot backwards as he readied for combat.

It turned out he wasn't ready enough, as the same hand which had dragged him into the past kicking and screaming wrapped around him again. He struggled in vain against the suffocating grip, attempting to conjure a flame in his hand to burn the damn thing off. Before he could do so, however, there was a roar from below and he found himself thrown.

He slammed against the ground painfully, digging up the dirt beneath him as he slid.

Damn it. He wasn't going to beat Manus if he got slung around so easily. Forcing himself back to his feet, he cursed, readying his axe back against his shoulder. The area they were fighting in was more natural than he expected; there was a pillar ahead, indicating that this, much like the rest of Oolacile, had once been more than just a feeding ground for the Abyss.

Eventually, it sauntered forward, the ground shaking lightly with his every move. Manus got close enough for him to see the being in full, ant it was quite the sight. A head full of horns, not to mention red eyes everywhere except where eyes should be. One arm was small and thing, holding a catalyst of some sort, while the other was thicker than the torso of some demons, covered in a black fur which moved as if it was alive.

This was what had caused everything. Perhaps not on its own, but it still had been the source of all the pain. It dragged him to the past, delaying his quest of self-sacrifice. It rid a woman of her love, a giant of his friend, and a great wolf of its master, not to mention the countless families who now resided as either an infected monster or black sprites.

Giving his best impression of Siegmeyer's roar, he charged forward.

Manus responded with a swing of his arm, aiming high and hoping to take his head off with the first swing. Sibyl would have scoffed if he had the time to; he ducked his head, lowering the axe from his shoulder to drag along the ground. His left hand, previously free, came and grabbed the pole end of his weapon as it dug against the dirt below.

He slashed upwards, but Manus leaned back and avoided the blow. The primordial man retaliated with a swing of his staff, putting far too much power and rotating his deformed body. A simple step back and an adjustment of his Greataxe allowed him to avoid the bludgeoning attack, bringing his weapon down diagonally and getting a deep cut into the shoulder of his foe.

Manus roared in anger, a large, deformed arm coming overhead in a wild attack, trying to flatten him into little more than paste. It wasn't the first creature to try and do so, and it would not be the last. The tremors from each strike did make him lose his balance, but he managed to dance between the attacks.

He had lots of practice.

Managing to land a glancing cut, he was forced to roll backwards, using the weight of his axe head as a way to fling his body even further back and to the side. It created only a temporary space, however, as Manus leapt far higher than something that large should ever be able to. Not feeling too strongly about his ability to outrun it backwards or dodge it to the side, he made the split-second decision to sprint forward.

Manus's right foot came mere inches from decapitating him. The difference of inches often made a fight, so Sibyl hardly hesitated to slide to a stop and swing his axe back across his body overhead, turning his hips to get as much force in the attack as possible. It left a deep gash, and he felt his decision to use such a large weapon validated.

Death by a thousand cuts, while possible and a respectable choice, was not his preferred method of combat for anything more than triple his height and weight.

Sibyl hardly had time to think when Manus hit him with a backhand, its deformed arm sending him flying. If not for how thoroughly he had reinforced his Elite Knight Armor, Sibyl feared the fight might have ended right there. The blessing of Titanite, however, enabled his armor to take many a great blow.

He managed to shrug off the attack, adjusting himself in the air and landing on somewhat wobbly knees. Head ringing as loudly as the Parish Bell, he ignored it with a grunt. He had to. Leaping aside, the undead dodged, Manus's large hand impacted in an overhead smash where he had landed.

Foot against the dirt, he pushed off, going against the weight of his axe to swing it overhead and sideways, the thick, black metal slashing through the darkened flesh of the Abyssal Father. It slid out, but as he prepared for another swing, the attack hit nothing but air as Manus shuffled backwards.

Sibyl blinked, trying to figure out what in Izalith's name Manus's next move was going to be. It just… stood there, staring with silent anger. The undead's mouth opened in a silent curse when the beast of a man rose his catalyst to the air. Hand flying to his chest, he grasped the silver pendant which hung from his neck. The Abyss fell in large quantities, forming dark raindrops all around him, yet the enchanted pendant protected him from harm with a burst of a golden, blessed aura.

Letting it fall from his hand and back against his chest, he walked forward, his axe's pole held with both hands and resting against his shoulder. Manus, too, maneuvered forward. Things were silent for a few moments before Sibyl acted; he leapt forward, swinging his axe overhead with one hand. Simultaneously, his free hand conjured his favored pyromancy: Chaos Storm.

As his overhead swing missed and Manus stepped forward with the intent to crush him, his left hand pressed against the ground. Large, towering pillars of red formed all around him, multiplying underneath Manus himself. Beast of the Abyss or not, it hurt, and Manus was left rearing back in pain.

Or perhaps in anger.

Sibyl managed to avoid the first wild swing and limit the second one to a glancing blow, but Manus's tantrum was not one easily contained. The third blow slammed against his side, tossing him aside and ending with his back slamming painfully against one of the far walls of the room.

On his hands and knees, he tried to get his breathing under control. His eyes opened, and he blinked. There was a summon sign, here of all places. What mad soul would venture down here to lay a summon sign? Outside of himself, of course.

Deciding not to give it much more thought, he placed a hand on the sign and beckoned forth the phantom. He glanced up just in time to see Manus leaping into the air, and rolled aside as a foot landed inches from his vulnerable cranium.

Unfortunately, Manus had landed on the end of his axe. Forced to release the weapon or find his skull cracked, he did so with a scowl. Scrambling back to his feet, he ducked under a swing and retaliated with a quick fireball, trading power for a slightly faster cast. Not that the cast was weak – no pyromancy which came from his flame could ever be defined as weak.

All it seemed to do, however, was anger the primeval man even more.

The chosen undead rolled backwards; the moment his feet touched the ground, his hand moved clockwise, casting a great whip of chaos fire. Whatever impact it was supposed to have was cut short, though, as Manus's great arm came through the center of the flame and grasped him in a manner it had done three times, beginning with their very first encounter.

He'd later swear his eyes bulged out of his skull as he was waved around, slammed into the ground, the wall, and a pillar as his chest nearly caved in at the strength of the grip. Manus must have got bored, as eventually Sibyl found himself flung across the room and against a wall. His body fell quite pathetically to the ground below, blackspots filling his vision.

His right hand was limp, so he was forced to use his left to reach across his body for his Estus flask. Not that it much mattered – he could already see his impending doom. Nonetheless, he would try. He always tried, if nothing else.

One arm still hanging limply, he managed to dodge the end of Manus's staff coming down on his head. Stumbling on his feet and nearly falling, he made to consume the essence which comprised Estus. It was no liquid – not pure Estus, at least. There was a fluid called Estus soup which was known to have a similar, if lesser effect on the undead. He himself only knew the recipe thanks to Siegmeyer.

Pure Estus, however, was the essence of bonfires, kindled hundreds, if not thousands of times. It was what filled his flask, and it was what would, hopefully, revitalize his wounds and give him the strength to face which none other could.

A glancing blow at his side did little to stop him from pouring the essence, even as he continued to retreat backwards along the wall. While his right arm still stung with pain, he could at least feel it and move it. It would have to make do.

He prepared himself to dodge an upcoming strike from Manus, unsure if he'd actually dodge it, when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. A white blur with just a streak of blue threw itself into the fray. It was rapidly approaching, zig-zagging its path towards them. He nearly thought of it a threat, but… well, for lack of a better description, he could feel it wasn't a danger to anyone in the area, except for Manus.

The Abyssal Father reared backwards as the white blur dashed across its stomach, tearing and cutting along the way. Sibyl, not one to waste an opportunity, used the moment of distraction to dash across the makeshift arena, grabbing his Black Knight Greataxe from the ground.

It was far more of a struggle then it should have been. The damn injury was limiting him, however minor it was. Yet, with the help of the white blur… perhaps there was hope. Manus kept attempting to smash his phantom helper, yet each strike missed. Sibyl finally caught sight of just who his helper was, and the grin on his face was so wide, one might even be able to see it beneath his visor!

Sif, the grey wolf companion of Arotrias.

Something about him always rung familiar in his head, but he swore to have never encountered him before venturing to the past. Or… or had he? Shaking his head, he dismissed the thoughts; it was not the time for thinking. It was time to slay Manus.

As his opponent's attention was focused elsewhere, Sibyl thought it was a good idea to take advantage. The only sound to be made as he rushed forward was from his feet kicking dirt back. As he closed the gap, he jumped, and his axehead came down in an overhead swing straight into the back of Manus.

It dug at least eight inches deep, and immediately, Manus's attention was shifted from Sif to him. There was no small amount of effort put into simply trying to hang on as the Beast of the Abyss flailed around, trying in vain to buck him off like some enraged boar.

Eventually, the wild flailing accomplished something: it dug his weapon loose. Knowing he was about to be bucked off, Sibyl slammed his free palm against the thick, black hide which so vaguely imitated man. A Great Combustion shot forth from his palm, and he used the knockback to help finish prying loose his Greataxe.

He landed on his buttocks, quite exposed, but Manus was reeling and unable to finish him off there. For once, fate smiled upon him. Sif was still in a frenzy of offense, striking rapidly around its legs. He forced himself back to his feet with help of his weapon.

His focus shifted back to Manus when he heard a loud 'yipe'. Sif was sent flying and skidded along the ground, quite painfully it seemed. Sprinting forward, he slid underneath the wild swing of an outstretched arm. As soon as it passed, his heel dug into the ground, propelling his body back upwards and forward as his axe came straight down from over his shoulder.

It made close acquaintance with Manus's horned head; he was quick to pull it out and strike again, this time from below in an upward swing. A foot came forward and connected with his chest, sending him backwards as his axe slid from his grasp for the first time since just now.

As Manus raised his catalyst, Sibyl recognized it for what it was: a race. He managed to grab the Oolacile Catalyst from his boot, raising it quickly and casting the second most powerful spell he knew: Crystal Soul Spear. A stream of black Abyss shot out towards him, little more than pure blackness. His own spell glowed with a teal light, and as the two collided, he had no idea which would win.

They fought for little less than a second before his seemed to win out, piercing through the middle of the Abyss. Whatever happened next, be it the end of Manus, he had no idea. The collision had sent some of the Abyss essence towards him, launched from the encounter with his Crystal Soul Spear. One spot of the Abyss landed right over his visor, spewing through and against his left eye.

He collapsed, trying in vain to reach his hand through his visor and stop the pain, but he couldn't. He tried clawing through it, but his leather gloves made it all but impossible. With shaking hands, he managed to, somehow, remove his helmet. He tossed it aside, one hand instantly cupping over his eye as his body writhed. He cupped some dirt beneath him, slamming it into his eye in some vain attempt to stop it.

It burned. It burned worse than the lava of Izalith, than the sting of a spear through his stomach. He couldn't stop shaking – why couldn't he control his damn body! He screamed, a blood chortling thing which sounded so unfamiliar to him he would've sworn it wasn't even coming from his mouth agape.

He tried to grab his Estus, but it slipped straight through his hands. He couldn't be bothered to find it, not with how the Abyss seemed to be seeping over to his right eye. It was spreading. Oh gods, it was spreading. Why was he having trouble breathing – Velka above, it was suffocating! He rolled onto his back, coiling up like a snake as his feet repeatedly kicked against the dirt.

Something cut against his face – he had no idea what, and to be frank, he hardly cared. The pain didn't' stop with the cut, no. The black essence seemed angry at the attack, yet he could feel it had stopped spreading across his face. His one-eyed vision finally improved, and the first thing to grace his sight was the white, phantasmal fur of Sif.

He grabbed the wolf, pulling him closer into an embrace as he tried and failed to speak for several moments.

"D-Du-" He dry-heaved, feeling a bit of bile trying to work its way up through his throat and out. "Dusk. Dus-sk. Safe?"

Sif's snout pointed over yonder, and it was only thanks to the assistance of the great wolf that he managed to even turn his head and look. She was laying on the ground, still dressed in that white gown of hers.

He pointed. Sif seemed to get the message. His one good eye glanced upwards as the ringing in his ears finally seemed to end. There was a general shaking all around the cavern, and now he had heard that, he could see the dirt falling all around him. Sif deposited him next to Dusk.

The cavern was collapsing. Even his pained mind could realize that. They were all going to be buried – his eye flared up again, and he nearly tore some fur off of Sif, not that the wolf complained. He didn't even whine. Nodding in thanks, he settled down next to Dusk, ignoring the dirt which fell into his hair.

Instead, he reached down to his hip and into a pouch. A small bone lay within, though it was nothing so ordinary. A Homeward Bone, able to send someone to the place they most closely associated as home. For undeads, it was the last bonfire they had resided at. The bone would not work with two; he had tried so before.

He was left with a choice. Lordran needed him; his destiny was to burn in the First Kiln, to rekindle the flame for another thousand years in hopes of, albeit temporarily, lightening the plight of the undead. Dusk… her kingdom was destroyed, her people dead. It would have been a mercy to leave her here, to her death while she lay unconscious and unaware.

Perhaps… perhaps, just this once, he could be selfish.

Placing the bone in her unconscious hand, he squeezed down for her, watching as the bone cracked and promptly crumbled to dust. Her body disappeared a moment thereafter, nothing but a memory for his pained mind. Sif caught his weight as he collapsed, and Sibyl could see even the phantom pup would fade in mere moments.

He whined, digging his head against Sibyl's chest.

"N-Not to wor-ry, Sif." He smiled lightly, resting his head against the transparent wolf. He was tired. Very tired. His eyes slowly shut, and he found himself unconscious just as a white, blinding light illuminated from where Dusk's body had rested.

Sibyl knew not where he was. Then again, how could he? There was not exactly much to judge by. If he had to describe it, he'd say it was almost a parallel opposite to the Abyss: a glowing, white, luminescent flat land. The aura even felt pleasant, as opposed to the fear-inducing aroma of the Abyss. The ground and the sky blended together so well, he could hardly tell up from down.

How long he had spent in this place, he did not care to know. It seemed as though an eternity and a second had passed simultaneously.

Yet, even in this seemingly pure place of nothing, his eye remained infected and burning. Would it spread eventually, turning him into something as terrifying as what Artorias had been rendered to? Had the Abyss truly followed him to the afterlife? And that had to be what this was: the afterlife. Nothing particularly grand, but he had stopped believing the afterlife was anything pleasant long ago. It was a lie and a hope for those who refused to see reality.

At least he'd never been such a fool, else this might have been rather depressing. As it were, he just… waited. For something, for nothing – it hardly mattered. Whether he'd ever be free from this place or not was a mystery. He might eventually just… fade.

Being no stranger to situations of the peculiar, odd, or otherwise otherworldly, the knight took it in stride. At the very least, were he alive, his life was no longer in direct danger, a notable step up from his previous arrangements. He was left wondering how in Izalith he'd gotten here, much like he had wondered upon awakening in Oolacile after the arm of the Abyss ceased him.

Ideally, this venture would not be so dangerous once he uncovered its secrets… but things were so rarely ideal. He had a theory, albeit one far-fetched. It mostly had to do with some apparitions he had passed by in his pointless wandering. Yes, they were the only thing who resided in this place outside of himself. Transparent and nearly impossible to see, given they glowed the same white as everything else and blended in splendidly with the background.

He saw them wandering with no regard to him. A great many of them even passed through him. It was quite the assortment, as well. Demons, silver knights, black knights, the moonlight butterflies – he even swore to have seen the figure of one Quelana in the distance, but she disappeared just as quickly as it showed

Sibyl had seen some common ones, though they hardly caught his attention in the way the others did. Stray, regular hollows he could recall ending multiple times. He had even seen an Astora knight figure, complete with a crest shield. It was the undead who saved him from the asylum, who gave him purpose. He, too, wandered the white plane, though he was not of the talkative sort.

There were more, though. It was when he saw Solaire he was rendered silent; a moment thereafter, the figure of Ornstein passed by him. Everything he saw, everyone in this white plane, was someone he had slain. The white, too, was very similar to the white of the soul he absorbed so many times. It was a frightening conclusion, but one he was forced to make.

He was within his very own soul, and trapped alongside him were the souls of his enemies and friends alike. It was sickening. Completely sickening, and his stomach churned every time he saw one of the apparitions. He feared encountering them, nearly as much as he feared the Abyss which clung to his eye threateningly.

"Oh, what's this?" A voice whispered, causing him to tense and fling the Black Knight Greataxe he had been dragging along the ground into a readier position. Yes, his armor and weapon maintained their physical presence, even here. He glanced around, watching with a raised eyebrow as the white all around began to change.

It started with a single, small spot, spreading out further and further. It was a darkness, perhaps not as vile as the Abyss, but not something pleasant in any way. He blinked, and when his eyes opened next, he was surrounded by darkness. It… irritated his eye, moreso than the constant, throbbing, passive pain he had begun to get used to. It would still flare up on occasion, sending him into painful spasms, but it was nothing a few minutes of time did not fix.

Luckily, it did not render him a complete mess.

"A bright soul, yet I find you here of all places…" A hand reached out, brushing against his cheek.

He slapped it away instantly. "Show yourself!"

She laughed, a taunting voice which made him grind his teeth. "Ah, there it is. What an intriguing eye. It reminds me of…"

There was silence for a few moments, and he felt fear. His hand reached for the pendant around his neck, and with a flare of blessed energy, the darkness disappeared.

His breath left him as his eyes grew heavy. Collapsing, he spat out a curse before he, too, faded.

Qrow had learned to not expect much from his thrilling ventures into the Badlands, and he sure as hell wasn't wrong for not being believing every single one was going to result in some great revelation. Maybe when he first started going into it, back when he thought he was saving the world with every damn trip. Nowadays? He saw them for what they were: ninety-five percent of the time, a complete waste. He was either chasing circling trails or urban legends which changed more often than he had to refill his flask.

The other five percent, though, was as vital as anything in the world. More than James's little robots, even more than the students at Beacon. They made all the difference; even the slightest bit of information, no matter how vague, could change the tide of the little shadow-war they were engaged in. It was a thankless job, investigating and exploring all these loose ends, but that sort of came with the entire shadow war thing.

It was an important-ass war, which was why he bothered to be out here all the damn time when he could be visiting his nieces or at local bars talking to busty women. He barely saw either of them, but he sure wished he could more. Moreso the former than the latter, as he wasn't that vain. Ruby and Yang… God, they were about to be attending Beacon!

With all the moves which had been happening recently, it made his trips out here even more important. He had to find something.

On this one, especially, because Ozpin had insisted he check it out as soon as possible. Ozpin was as close to patience incarnate as anyone was ever going to get, so when he insisted on something, it was usually damn important. Why exactly it was important he go and check out some dusty old town which had been taken out by Grimms a few months ago, he didn't know. It just was, according to Ozpin, and that was enough for him.

He sure as hell wasn't going to tell Ozpin 'no', even if he had little idea on what the man was thinking half the time. The other half? He had no idea, yet, despite all of that, there was none he trusted more. So, when it fell for him to do the dirty work, he did it. They had agreed it was the best way to do it, seeing as how he was the strongest of their small would-be group of protectors.

And yes, he was the strongest. Maybe Ozpin could beat him, but he wouldn't count on it consistently. The old bastard had all the other important qualities, though. As for Glynda… She was good, but not as good as he was.

Hell would freeze over before he uttered those words to her, though.

Not for the first time as he wandered through the desolate town, he wished Ozpin would have given him clearer instructions than just 'go investigate'. The hell was he supposed to investigate, exactly? The bloodstains on the ground? Because while his investigations never took him anyplace nice, this was another level of unpleasant.

Everyone had died literally just months ago; he was just glad the Atlas military had come in and buried what mangled bodies they found lying around. He pitied the town people, moreso the kids than anyone else. They didn't deserve to die because their parents lived in some outskirt village, thinking that just because they had survived for generations out there alone without help, they would continue to do so.

Sure, they probably had a peaceful life until they got wiped out. Emphasis on until, because when Grimm came, it was anything but peaceful. Maybe that was what he was supposed to be investigating? Why the Grimm had converged on the town – not that they ever seemed to need a reason. Not one beyond a chance to cause pain and misery, at least.

Qrow sighed, staring at a torn apart cradle on the ground, busted in half, wood splintered. He unscrewed his metal flask, taking a gulp and letting the warm liquid burn down his throat for a few seconds.

Yup. His job sucked. A lot.

And people wondered why he drank all the time.

Shaking his head, he turned to stare out the nearby window. And it was a mighty fine thing he did, because there was a raging inferno in the sky. An inferno of red and white, tinted with black, swirling with no signs of stopping. It was unnatural, that much was certain, and he had a really strong feeling it was what Ozpin had sent him out here to investigate.

How the hell did Ozpin always know…

Thoughts for another time. First, he needed to figure out what the hell was going on over there.

Sibyl awoke with a groan. A heavy, heavy groan. That wasn't anything too uncommon, given everything about his life. It would have been odd for him to not awake with a groan, actually. Why did he usually awaken with a groan? The reasons were near uncountable. It could be from a phantom pain, a kink in his back which came as a side effect of sleeping in his armor, or in remembrance that since he had awoken, he was inclined to do things which typically resulted in pain. None of those were rare, nor were ones of anguish like when his dreams were haunted by his many mistakes.

This time, however, it was none of those. Because while he felt a pain, it was no phantom pain. His eye burned just as it had continued to do so, yet it was not the limit of his pain. He felt absolutely sick, which was absurd because it was damn near impossible to get an undead sick. Yet, that didn't stop the bile from workings its way up his throat-

He puked, his throat burning as his stomach emptied itself on the dirt beneath him – wait, the dirt? His one good eye blinked in wonder at the grass, covering the dirt completely. His fingers curled, digging into the ground in an attempt to confirm that no, it was no ruse. Head jerking up, he looked around. There were trees, too. Very alive tress, not ones tinged by the darkness of the Abyss.

Even if the trees had been tinged, he would have been glad in some way. There had been nothing but his own nightmares in the flat, white plane which he had found himself trapped in after defeating Manus. Had he escaped that dreadful place? Was he given the illusion of freedom once more? Chuckling softly, he collapsed back to the ground, staring up at the sun above. As beautiful a sight as he could think, honestly.

He was alive! Somehow, someway, he had survived his encounter with the Abyss – no, he had done more than just survive. He had won, something not even the knight Artorias, Velka bless his corrupted soul, was able to do. There was even still hope for him to get back to Lordran, to try and make his worthless adventure actually mean something. His chuckling continued, eventually growing into full blown laughter.

The joyful masquerade did a remarkably good job masking his wet eyes, even from himself.

All things came to an end, however, and he eventually settled his laughter down, panting for breath. Gods, his lungs burned. Manus had done quite a bit of damage, even beyond his eye. It had never stopped him before, however, and he would not allow it to stop him now.

He needed to get up, perhaps find his Greataxe. From there, he could attempt to figure out where in Izalith he was. Perhaps in the outstretches of the Darkwood forest? That had been where Oolacile stood, so incredibly long ago.

As he rose to his feet, he took another gaze around. Any exact details were near impossible to come to; he was surrounded by woods, though not as lively or as green as Lordran's own local forest. Few were, if what Shiva had told him was true, so he hardly saw it as a mark against it.

Sibyl paused, taking a moment to pluck his Greataxe free. It had ended up lodged into the lower half of a tree which was remarkably close to where he had been laying. A mighty good thing it hadn't ended up lodged in him. His armor still clung to him, so perhaps it wouldn't have cut him in half. Still, it was hardly a bet he wanted to take, even moreso if it hit his helmet-

Wait, he was missing his helmet. Where had he left it? Oh. Oh. Damn it all! He had reinforced that thing with a Titanite Slab, and in his haste to lessen the pain of his infected eye, he had left it buried in that cavern with Manus. What an utter waste, all because he couldn't deal with a bit of pain. How pathetic.

It wasn't like his attempts to relieve the pain had even done anything. Nothing he did ever accomplished anything. Sighing softly, Sibyl moved and rested his weapon of choice against his shoulder. Complaining hardly accomplished anything either; the only thing to come of it was it irritated him and brought his mood even closer to the ground.

Right. He needed to actually do something, like find the nearest town, or the remains of one, at least. Three steps forward were taken when he heard it: a growl, soft and from behind. A mere instant after that, the familiar pattering of something rushing at him registered to his ears. Without hesitation, he turned, swinging his weapon horizontally, connecting with the head of whatever had rushed at him on the side. It fell, skidding along the ground before scrambling back to its feet with a roar.

Given a good chance to take it in, he did so, with disgust filling him immediately afterwards. It was another creature of the Abyss, though not one he had personally come across. Its fur was tinged black, covering every inch of it. Atop the fur at certain spots was white bone, most obviously placed on its head like a mask. No beast of the Abyss was complete without the red eyes which marked them all. They stared at him, hungry and angry.

The beast itself was something like an overgrown wolf, hunched over on all fours. He would enjoy annihilating it utterly.

It rushed at him with a wild swing of its claws, one easily dodged with a simple step aside. He brought his axe upwards beneath the creature at the same time, cutting through its underside. He prepared for another strike when a claw ripped across his torso, sending him stumbling. Gritting his teeth and doing his best to reestablish his balance, he followed through on the swing, chopping through the spine of the beast.

Damn… he hadn't even seen the attack coming! No mere beast should be able to get a damn hit on him, but with his vision restricted to one eye, should didn't matter. He was half-blind, and just the thought caused him to flare up with anger.

Slamming into the Abyssal wolf once more in anger, it stopped its squirming and died as it should. Pausing, he stared at it and observed. It didn't seem to bleed, not with normal blood, anyways. If how it attacked and looked were any indication, he rather doubted this was the only one. Wolves traveled in packs, and that more than made up for how relatively meager one alone was. Any enemy, no matter how pathetic, could overwhelm in numbers.

It was quiet, and in his experience, that was never a good thing. Sibyl shifted, adjusting his axe back over his shoulder and scanning all around. Red eyes, previously unseen, seemed to pop out from the greenery all around, seven pairs or so by his quick count.

Nothing easy. Not now, not ever.

Three of the seven charged out, two from his left and one from behind. A horizontal swing managed to halt the charge of the two rushing him from his left; as his swing halted across his body, he pulled back into an overhead swing towards his rear. It connected perfectly, cracking the white mask of the Abyss-wolf who had sought to tear up his back.

The creature fell dead, but he hardly had time to appreciate the heart-warming sight. Rolling aside to avoid the claws aimed at his turned back, his outstretched hand exploded in a cast of Great Combustion, stopping a claw aimed at his exposed head in its motion. He followed up with a one-handed swing through the smokes and fumes of his Great Combustion, a more or less blind attack which connected.

He prepared to redirect an arm when something tackled him from his new blind-side, sending him to the ground. An ugly maw found its way snarling in front of his face, breath awful and teeth sharp. He was forced to let go of his weapon to stop before his face was torn apart. It was an unfortunate situation, doubly so as he felt another one of the beasts trying to claw through his shin guards. A fruitless endeavor, but he wasn't fond of them scratching up his armor, even if it was easily repaired.

Yet, a critical mistake had been made by the beasts. He still had one hand available. Slamming his open palm onto the ground while his other hand held back a beast's head, chaos flames sprouted from the ground everywhere all around him, sending the multitude of monsters which had converged on him up and in the air, bodies burned and broken, even the one which had him pinned, seeing as how it was only halfway atop him.

Gods, he loved that cast. It had saved him more times than he cared to count.

Small piles of chaos lava stayed on the ground, not spreading, but continuing to burn steadily wherever they had popped up. He pushed himself back up onto his feet, taking a look at the wasteland all around him. One, two, four… six corpses. Where was the seventh?

A sickening slash of steel caused him to turn, fireball in hand and axe ready. The sight wasn't quite what he expected.

"Not bad, Kid, but you missed one."

Hiding just out of sight, Qrow had been watching for a while now. When he initially arrived, he'd been expecting some sort of big-ass Grimm of legend, something simple he could either kill or just take some notes on before calling it a day. That was how it usually went. Instead, he found some kid at the center of it all, puking his guts out onto the ground.

He wasn't afraid to admit he'd been caught off guard; it even made him feel like a bit of a dick, approaching as if this kid was some big ass, deadly monster opposed to helping from the beginning.

Then the boy looked around, dazed. Qrow managed to get a good glimpse of his eyes then. One was normal – well, maybe not normal. A grey eye was hardly his idea of normal, but it wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever seen. Not much weirder than Ruby's silver ones, even, so he hardly paid it any mind. What did capture his concern was the other eye.

He hesitated to even call it an eye. The whole socket was just… black, the same sort of darkness that all Grimm seemed to be resemble. It opened up all sorts of questions in his mind, none of them good. It pissed him off to a whole new level the more he thought about it, mostly the idea Salem had gotten ahold of some kid and done unthinkable things to him.

The possibility of him being an extension of her was the only thing which stopped Qrow from going to help. He couldn't afford to expose himself until his hand was forced, or he knew it was safe.

If that eye was the result of some odd experiment by Salem, he'd be taking the kid back to Beacon to figure out the why and the how. If it wasn't, the kid would still be going back to Beacon to at least meet with Ozpin, because it was unnatural and suspicious regardless of what explanation the boy offered.

Hell, everything about him was suspicious. Qrow had watched with wonder when the kid removed some giant axe from a tree trunk, promptly using it to tear through one particular Beowolf. It started impressively, the kid not even flinching or panicking when it rushed at him. He almost seemed amused, and when he did a calm, smooth sidestep and slashed the underside of the beast, he looked like an experienced hunter.

It was brutal; it was efficient… It was deadly. No wasted movements like most hunters in training, constantly doing needlessly extravagant moves.

Glynda usually had that ironed out by the fourth year. If a hunter lived to his age, then they could start being needlessly extravagant again.

Yet, in the midst of Ol' Blackeye's brief beat down of the Beowolf, he got caught off guard. Somehow, someway, a simple and easy to dodge strike had cut across his torso. He gritted his teeth, taking the blow and finishing his attack before finishing the beast with a visibly frustrated strike. It didn't exactly give him any answers to his other questions except that whatever had caused his eye to be some sort of black Abyss happened recently. He was still adjusting to his lack of vision in one eye, not truly realizing just how much he'd have to reshape how he fought around it.

A shame, too, because the kid seemed pretty good. It was always rough having to adjust to major injuries like that; more than a few hunters had tried and failed.

Qrow rose an eyebrow as more Grimm showed themselves from the trees, three rushing in quick. A swing stopped two at the flank, and he shifted that swing into a backwards one which connected right on the face of a Beowolf.

He'd rightly consider himself impressed; then, there was an explosion of fire from his outstretched hand. An awakened Aura and Semblance, then. Did he have training as a hunter? Was he in anyway connected to her?

Well, it'd be hard as hell to find out if the kid died. A Grimm had attacked from his left side, an unseen attack which ended with him pinned to the ground, face about to be torn to shreds. Cursing, Qrow rushed out from his position in the trees, not being in the business of watching kids get their throats slashed out by some angry Grimm, only to stop when the boy slammed an open palm against the ground and his instincts screamed.

People in his field who didn't trust their instincts usually didn't last long.

He nearly whistled in appreciation when pillars of red fire launched up from everywhere around his downed body. If that wasn't mastery over a Semblance, he had no idea what the hell was… Holy shit. The pillars of fire left lava?! What the absolute hell... Ozpin was going to have a field day with this kid.

The boy rose to his feet, taking a glance around and counting the bodies, eventually realizing one was missing from the assorted corpses. Qrow figured it was as good a time as any to make his entrance; he rushed forward, slashing the final Beowolf's head off with a swing of his blade.

The pyromaniac turned around, fireball summoned in hand and axe held threateningly.

"Not bad, Kid, but you missed one."

There was a brief moment of silence as Sibyl stared at the newcomer, a tall man with a sword and stubble upon his face. Was he a danger? He had taken out the final Abyssal wolf, so Sibyl expected not. Better to be cautious than dead, however, so he would remain so. "Temporarily, perhaps. It would have died all the same."

The stranger nodded, trying to keep steady eye-contact with Sibyl's good one opposed to the much more alarming blind one. It was an awkward if appreciated gesture. "Based on what I saw? Definitely."

He lowered his fireball slowly, not entirely sure how to respond. How long had the fellow been watching? Presumably he at least saw his Chaos Storm cast; it was rather hard to miss.

"Name's Qrow," his strange helper introduced himself, offering a hand to shake. Sibyl took it with a nod. He'd be cautious, but not overly so. All of his former companions had been strangers at one point of time, the only thing connecting them being the strange land in which they resided.

"Sibyl of Lordran." Qrow had a firm handshake, not that he'd ever put much stock in the superstition it meant something about his personality. "I'm pleased someone else sane of mind is out here. As you might have guessed with a glimpse of my eye, things as of late have been precarious at best."

It was as great an understatement as one could ever make, and so Qrow chuckled lightly. "Precarious, huh." He took a glance around at all the nearby corpses. "Seem to have it handled pretty damn well."

Appearances were far too deceiving, but Sibyl didn't bother correcting him. "We all manage, I suppose."

He nodded, scratching at his chin."Soo…. what exactly are you doing out here?"

Sighing, the undead ran a hand through his hair. "It is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, Qrow. I would, however, very much like to find my way back to Lordran." Sibyl paused, letting the words sink in for a few moments. "I don't suppose you would be able to help with that venture?"

The man laughed, smirking smugly in a manner oddly reminiscent of Patches. "I know the Badlands like the back of my damn hand. C'mon, there's a tavern we can pass on the way back to Vale, about a seven-hour trip if we're quick."

Well… that decided it. He'd follow this Qrow fellow; there was safety to be had in numbers. Not to mention he was without a guide, and judging by how much the man in front of him stunk, he did spend a lot of his time out here in these so called Badlands.