Humanity.

They say that those who need it the most are those who have the most of it. Those who hoard it, seeking out others to try and rip it from them.

Does that make sense? No, I guess it doesn't.

But what is humanity? What distinguishes the wriggly black sprites from that which we hold within ourselves?

If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here today. On the blackened ashes that once heralded new life.

It has a kind of ancient feel to it, but the Kiln of the First Flame is essentially timeless. Nothing breathes. No birds sing. Just the sound of the canned wind blowing over the jet-black dunes.

Some say that the black sands are actually the skulls which Lord Gwyn crushed on his path to the First Flame. I know better, of course.

They are actually the ashes of the Black Knights of Lordran who were incinerated by the lighting of the Flame, some hundreds of years ago.

I should know. I was there. Compatriot to his Great Lord at the final battle against the Ancient Dragons. Scarramout. Oh, the souls who fell that day. I have a duty to them to avenge what they fought for.

What he now threatens to destroy once and for all.

I've tracked him here. I had the chance to kill him long ago. I should have taken it. But of course, I didn't know who he was then. Who he was destined to become.

The Dark Lord. The extinguisher of the Age of Fire. The bringer of night.

I followed the trail of corpses. Gwyn's spectral Black Knights, who were once mighty warriors. Now they lay still, husks in metal armour. Ran through by his blade.

I paid my respects a long time ago. These aren't the loyal men who pledged their life to the Lord. They are but shades, shadows of what they were, bound to walk the ruins of Lordran for all eternity.

So I just carried on past them, crossing the crumbling arch over the endless drop, and descending the stairs.

I know it's too late. Gywn is dead. I feel it. But I must try to avenge him. The Dark Lord is within my grasp. He has killed too many of my allies.

My friends.

He must be stopped. The Age of Fire MUST continue. And I'm the only one left to finish the job. The Last Knight of Gwyn. The only one he made the mistake of sparing.

He would now pay for his mistake.

For I may not be the strongest of our group, I may well be the cunningest. I may not swing a greatsword, but I make up for it in my agility. I may not conjure lightning, but I control the shadows. And I may not have the Eagle Eye of an archer, but my swings never miss.

I've trained my whole life for this moment. The Lord Blades, who I once led. The Knights of Gwyn, who I once travelled with as their equal.

The Dark Lord will fall this day.

And there he is, in the centre of the cavern, with Gwyn lying dead at his feet. The First Flame illuminates his figure, but it is clearly starting to dwindle. He has his back to me. This should be easy.

I begin to creep forward. I notice now how he wears the armour of his fallen foes, like a terrible Totem pole.

The Mask of the Father belonging to the necromancer Pinwheel of the Catacombs. The sword of the Albino Dragon Seath, who was the Duke of the Anor Londo Archives. A notorious traitor, and a dragon.

So I'm not too bothered to see him go.

But... No... He's also wearing Artorias' azure blue armour... That bastard... I'll split him open!

I'm really close now. He's sticking his greatsword into Gwyn's body, like a sadistic animal. It's sickening.

I feel the hilt of my Golden Tracer, and brandish it before my eyes. It glimmers in the dim light. What could I have ever done without it? My oldest and truest friend.

Said like a true assassin.

His back is inches away. I can't fail.

I raise my Tracer in the air, and bring it down towards his back.

But suddenly, he turns and his Balder Shield connects sharply with the Tracer, sending it flying away from my grip.

He turns to me in full now, no emotion visible beneath his wooden mask. He raises his greatsword to strike me down.

In a panic I roll away from him, narrowly missing the sharp swipe.

I reach to my right sheath, and pull out my Dark Silver Tracer, my other dagger.

The dark to the Gold Tracer's light.

I run at him without mercy or fear, making wild yet precise aims at his torso.

He expects it, and brings his shield up, rendering my blows useless. He sweeps his gigantic greatsword at me again. I only narrowly duck it.

I stab at his chest, and feel immense satisfaction at making the incision. Blood spews from the wound in Artorias' old armour. I silently apologise to his spirit, and strike again.

But the Dark Lord was one step ahead. Backstepping the second swipe, he suddenly runs forward, swinging the greatsword over his head in an arc motion.

I don't have time to get out of the way before the steel hulk crashes into my armour, crushing my skull, knocking me flat on my front, no feeling in my body. I drop the Silver Dark Tracer blindly.

I see his feet in my blood-soaked vision. I failed. I failed in my most important mission.

"My dear... Artorias... I'm... sorry..." I stutter, my own blood gurgling my words.

This is it... isn't it? It ends here. I can't think of any last good things to say. I've lived a very long time.

But have I lived well?

These thoughts weigh on me as I prepare for the final blow.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before your death. Well... mine did.

I never had a real beginning to my life. I never had parents. I was just... born. From the ashes of the flames. In the midst of the Great Battle of Scarramout.

So... I guess I'll just start there...

It all began 1145 years ago to this day...