Elden Ring: My Ending

Nepheli Loux wanted to see the newcomer. The Tarnished, previously unknown until recently, had captured her father's attention, and she understood why.

How could it be otherwise? The one who led the Roundtable Hold—a place where all Tarnished souls gathered—had to think this way. And so too did his adopted daughter, a warrior above all else.

This was the best chance they had in ages to breach the Castle. The pathetic demigod's servants had shifted all their focus to the thief of a relic from the fallen Castle Morne, entirely forgetting the existence of other powerful Tarnished. Even Margit, the Fell Omen, had stopped pursuing them, too busy trying to track down the audacious Tarnished.

Not that it was an easy task—mounted on his spectral steed, he could traverse the Lands Between at speeds few could match.

Could he have expected that a newcomer would march into the Castle alongside them? That he would brazenly, single-handedly storm the fortress, defying all opposition? Unthinkable. A true madman.

"A true warrior," Nepheli's eyes lit up.

Nepheli hailed from the Badlands, a place where Queen Marika the Eternal had once exiled the Tarnished alongside the first Elden Lord—the first Tarnished. 

Survivors of the inhospitable Badlands became true warriors, bound to a harsh code of principles. United with the storm, they were among the fiercest and most ruthless warriors the Lands Between had ever known.

Though born in the Badlands, Nepheli was raised in the Lands Between by Gideon Ofnir, the leader of the Roundtable Hold—a cunning, calculating man whom she deeply respected as just and noble. This upbringing made her a warrior capable of valuing strength above all but also aware of her limits. She didn't charge blindly into battle; she sought counsel from her father, tempering her innate fury with his calm wisdom.

She believed her father walked the path of both strength and cunning. His goals were noble—to claim the Elden Ring and restore order to the world.

Such was the mission of the Tarnished.

Nepheli strived to follow this path herself. Yet, her individual qualities often overpowered cold logic.

For a long time, she had dreamed of facing a demigod in battle. She knew she was strong enough for it. Godrick the Grafted was the weakest of the demigods, and even a Great Rune couldn't save him. He clung to life only because of his cowardice. All that remained was to reach him—to wait for the castle's defenses to weaken. And now, that chance had come.

This opportunity was laced with trickery, relying on the sorcery of a cunning mage who had cloaked them from unwanted attention before quickly leaving to pursue his own mysterious goals.

Though the Castle's exterior defenses were as strong as ever, the interior had grown vulnerable. All attention had shifted to one man.

Her father had given his blessing.

Nepheli admitted to herself that this sneaky attack on a demigod didn't sit well with her. The winds of the Castle had been defiled, and she wished to purify them with a noble victory, forcing the demigod's servants to bow their heads. Unfortunately, this was impossible. Nepheli truly believed that defeating a demigod on their own ground was something only her father's methods—deception and an axe—could achieve.

At least, that's what she thought.

Despite the Castle's vastness, Nepheli could still hear the frightened whispers of servants. About soldiers fleeing from the powerful madman. About how the strange Tarnished on a spectral steed was already at the gates. And about how Margit the Fell Omen himself had risen to confront him, clearly having lost control of the situation. A legendary warrior, who had once defended Leyndell and guarded the Erdtree itself. A renowned Tarnished-hunter, filled with hatred for their kind.

No one dared interfere in such a battle. It wasn't something they could involve themselves in. To them, it was akin to a mere mortal challenging a demigod, even if he was weaker by a hundred fold.

Nepheli couldn't miss this. Hidden among the shadows and winds, she made her way past the few soldiers who stood guard, reaching a vantage point with a perfect view of the unfolding events.

Unlike the servants or even soldiers, Nepheli wasn't afraid, though she refrained from stepping out of the shadows. Not just because she considered this fight personal for the strange Tarnished, but also because her father had taught her well.

'Half naked?' Nepheli stared at the man in surprise.

She couldn't judge him for it. She herself wore clothing that was far from conventional in the Lands Between, consisting of roughly stitched-together hides. She had no real top—her chest was covered only by a thin piece of fur. Her adoptive father had never managed to get her accustomed to the norms of the Lands Between. Nepheli believed that a warrior strong enough could dress however they pleased.

Even so, the strange Tarnished storming the castle still managed to… surprise her. Though the feeling quickly passed as her sharp eyes locked onto the madman.

Though not tall, especially compared to the massive Fell Omen standing before him, his physique was enviable—perfectly balanced, as if crafted by an artisan rather than nature.

Grace, guided into the Tarnished by the Finger Maidens, was not omnipotent. Certainly, it could grant the strength of a demigod, or even a god, but not even the Maidens could shape a Tarnished's body with such flawless balance. They didn't correct physical imperfections, focusing instead on enhancing strength.

Thanks to his near-nakedness, Nepheli's unnaturally sharp vision caught many peculiarities about the Tarnished's body. Not a single mole. Not a single scar, despite the marks that even Grace couldn't erase. His bare feet were only slightly dirtied by dust, which seemed to fall away on its own, unwilling to linger on him.

Who knows? Perhaps, if the dust didn't leave on its own, he'd simply roll it off…

No sign of the battles he must have endured—a fact that seemed impossible.

Her father had taught her well to notice such seemingly insignificant details.

Yet Nepheli didn't consider it worth dwelling on, just as most inhabitants of this world wouldn't. In the Lands Between, strength and the ability to wield it ruled, not unusual bodily traits.

There were too many unique beings in this mythical world to get caught up in such things. Physical oddities didn't determine the outcome.

What happened next was far more intriguing.

The demigod's projection, recovering from the audacious words of the Tarnished, slowly raised his staff. The enormous, grotesque form of the projection, covered in hideous draconic grafts, loomed over Konstantin, whose weapon, drenched in mystical blood, gleamed in his hands.

Wounding a being like the Fell Omen with an ordinary blade was nearly impossible.

"Someone must extinguish thy flame," Margit declared slowly, brandishing his long wooden staff. His voice carried not fury, but a weary anger. "Let it be Margit the Fell!"

Nepheli furrowed her brow, feeling the invisible weight of the demigod illusion's power bearing down on her.

The Tarnished spun his bloodstained sword effortlessly in his hand, not even scratching his head in worry.

"I'm sorry," the man suddenly apologized, once again stunning the illusion. This time, even Nepheli was caught off guard. "The only weapon I had on hand was this bleed sword (1), otherwise I wouldn't have used it. It's almost as cheesy as magic!"

The Tarnished madman seemed genuinely upset—and even a little embarrassed. It was as if he felt ashamed of his weapon.

Konstantin sighed deeply, pointing his sword at the illusion once more.

"We can have a fairer fight another time. I'm just a little worried about a lonely waifu."

'What?'

It seemed both Nepheli and the demigod illusion had the same thought. The man addressed the grotesque, terrifying Fell Omen like they were old friends, completely unbothered.

Margit, however, refused to endure such insolence. He launched into an attack, kicking up a cloud of dust as he charged. Nepheli could only imagine how it must feel to face such a monstrous creature bearing down on you.

"Throwing knives."

Roll.

"A dagger strike up close."

Roll.

SLASH!

Margit, the demigod illusion, recoiled as the bloodied blade sliced across his body. He leaped back, hurling a dagger made of Grace at the Tarnished in a surprise, dirty attack.

The man dodged it just as smoothly as before, as if he'd done so thousands of times.

At the gates of the Castle, a heavy silence fell.

Melina's lips curled into a slight smile.

She had long believed in him, but now, seeing a demigod's illusion retreat in fear from her chosen champion, her belief ascended to blind faith.

Though, there were still things to work on…

Nepheli couldn't believe her eyes. She had never seen such a fighting style—so fluid, so precise. Every move the newcomer made seemed like the pinnacle of… something.

She was beginning to grasp the kind of strength it took to single-handedly breach a fortified Castle.

Margit, clutching his side as Grace-tinged false blood dripped from the wound, quickly regained his composure. His perspective on the seemingly fragile man before him had shifted entirely.

He would not be careless again. He couldn't afford to be. The Tarnished soul had reminded him of this all too well.

Konstantin pointed his sword at the demigod again, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Do your delayed attacks apply here, too? (2) Jump attack!"

Roll.

SLASH!

Margit, offended by the Tarnished's almost omniscient commentary, leapt into the air, thrusting his massive staff like a spear. The Tarnished dodged it with ease, carving yet another cut into the illusion's body.

And this was only the beginning.

"Staff swing!"

Roll.

"Combo!"

Roll.

"Staff and dagger, jump, staff!"

Roll!

Nepheli couldn't believe what she was witnessing. No, she couldn't even say she was witnessing it. The Fell Omen's movements were impossibly fast—like a gust of wind, moving at speeds far beyond anything human. Yet the madman seemed to predict and even comment on the demigod illusion's every move, like a master instructing an overly predictable pupil.

The Tarnished wasn't as fast as the demigod illusion, but it didn't matter. He slipped past the enraged Fell Omen's every strike, compensating for the difference in power with a level of skill that defied reason.

Rolls. The pinnacle of combat art.

The demigod illusion felt a creeping sense of helplessness. No matter how he tried to reach the nimble little pest, it was all futile. It was as if the Tarnished toyed with him, perfectly predicting every move and leaving more and more real wounds on his illusory body with each mistake. The specially forged weapon could harm even something that wasn't fully material in the truest sense. Grace was steadily draining from the body woven from it, threatening to unravel him entirely.

In a way, this forced Morgott to respect the loathsome Tarnished soul. And with each mistake, that respect only grew.

But what surprised the demigod most wasn't that.

It was that the Tarnished, it seemed, bore him no ill will. He showed no fear, maintained an icy composure, and even allowed himself to smile, as if this were nothing more than a friendly sparring match. Yes, his body bled more and more false blood, edging closer to its end, but it was clear the mad Tarnished knew his secret. Someone so familiar with his combat style had to know.

By mentioning their next fight at the very beginning, he had almost said so outright.

At some point, the bloodied demigod realized he'd have to show everything his Grace-woven body was capable of. It would likely dissipate afterward, but...

Even if he didn't win, he had to show this loathsome Tarnished what a projection of a demigod could do—a fragment of true power.

Konstantin and Morgott faced each other again, taking a brief pause. The moment the demigod stopped attacking, the man ceased his own strikes immediately.

Mad he might have been, but the Tarnished was not devoid of honor, which stirred complicated feelings within the demigod illusion.

Through this battle, Morgott felt a friendliness from the Tarnished—something he hadn't felt from even his own Golden kin.

After all, he was a cursed abomination, his draconic features hated throughout the Lands Between despite his unwavering loyalty to the Golden Order.

"Well then," the demigod spoke slowly, his delayed projection extending even to his words. Konstantin barely suppressed a weary sigh. "I am impressed by thy skill. Truly, there must be a warrior's blood in thy veins, Tarnished soul."

"Konstantin," the man replied, switching his sword to his other hand and flexing his wrist.

The demigod illusion nodded, silently vowing to remember the name—even if this loathsome Tarnished were to fall.

"Konstantin of the Tarnished!" Morgott exclaimed, conjuring a massive golden hammer in his hand. "I shall remember thee."

Nepheli barely stifled a shiver. The hammer's golden power was so immense that the air itself seemed to tremble around it. It carried enough force to crush not only the Tarnished's body but his very soul.

Even she, a proud warrior, would have considered retreat. Her foster father had taught her as much, and her reason understood it was the right choice. But her warrior's heart demanded otherwise.

And Konstantin demonstrated what Nepheli herself could not.

Not a single muscle twitched on the man's face. He showed no fear, gazing at the Fell Omen with icy calm.

His look seemed to invite Morgott to attack.

And the demigod could not refuse. He swung the hammer.

In the next moment, the ground shook. A blinding flash of light erupted, forcing Nepheli to shut her eyes. For a moment, she was deafened.

When she opened her eyes and saw the duel's outcome, she nearly dropped her axe.

The Tarnished stood completely unharmed behind the giant, his bloodied sword piercing through Morgott's illusory body. Blood flowed from the wound, scattering into countless fragments of Grace.

Grace swirled upward in a vortex of runes, threading into the rightful victor's body.

The demigod illusion began to dissolve, fully realizing his crushing defeat—a shameful loss to this loathsome Tarnished soul.

And yet…

Morgott, for some reason, felt no bitterness.

"I shall remember thee... Expect no mercy from the servants of the Fell Omen..."

Konstantin smirked.

"Otherwise, it'd be too boring. Until we meet again."

The demigod illusion crumbled into countless particles. The Fell Omen's face remained frozen in surprise.

Satisfied, almost joyful after a true battle, Konstantin stashed the cheesy bleed weapon he'd scavenged somewhere in the Weeping Peninsula. Glancing around in surprise, he saw Nepheli doing the same.

She had been utterly captivated by the fight.

Behind them, a few of Godrick the Grafted's soldiers—who had pursued the man since the hills—stood frozen.

Konstantin, startled, prepared to draw his weapon again, but…

Swords and shields clattered to the ground. The soldiers surrendered, bowing their heads. They didn't dare think of attacking him.

What Nepheli had only dreamed of suddenly became reality.

Konstantin shrugged, and to Melina's horrified cry—her worst fears confirmed—he raised his arms, clad in nothing but a loincloth, and shouted:

"PRAISE THE SUN!!!"

The first Great Rune of a demigod was closer than ever.

(1) Bleed, or Hemorrhage, is a status effect that can be applied to weapons and enemies, dealing massive damage. A significant number of bosses in the game are vulnerable to it, making it one of the best effects to use. Some hardcore players compare it to magic due to its overpowered nature.

(2) Both Margit and Morgott have a peculiar attack delay, often catching players off-guard after three or four premature dodges.