Bear School Astartes

Chapter 933 - 915: Firekeeper and the Exile

"I was sent by Priestess Emma of Lothric to inspect the situation at the Fire Transmission Altar."

Lann once again pulled out the little pennant Emma had given him.

Even if the other party was a blind girl, as the Firekeeper who watched over the First Flame and the Fire Transmission Altar, who would believe she didn’t have some supernatural power?

Sure enough, once Lann produced the pennant, the Firekeeper seemed to confirm it, joining her hands over her abdomen and giving him a slight bow.

Setting aside this obviously ancient and worn environment, the Firekeeper’s face and figure alike could be called graceful and dignified.

Yet in this Fire Apocalypse, everything must be sacrificed for the sake of passing on the flame.

The Firekeeper had a slightly disheveled yet still elegant pale braid, twisted like a rope, hanging all the way to her lower back.

After straightening up, she brushed the braid, which had slipped down her back, back into place.

Lann also gave a slight bow in return.

"The situation is not optimistic." After the greeting, Lann spoke, his tone heavy, recounting what he had seen and heard along the way.

"King Ausloes has already gone mad. He spread experiments throughout the city that were never properly tested, hoping to turn his subjects into beings that can survive in an age without fire. Now there are hardly any living people left in all of Lothric. I killed him."

"And the hero Gudah, who was originally scheduled to come as a substitute Lord of Cinder—the escort team carrying him had an infiltrator from the Prince School. After Gudah broke free, they coordinated from inside and out to wipe out the escort, then blocked the road in front of the Fire Transmission Altar so no one could pass. I killed him too."

"Up to now, among the former Lords of Cinder roused by the bells, still not a single one has come?"

Under Lann’s account, the Firekeeper also understood how dire things had become.

Her expression, too, grew grave.

But her good breeding and training kept her from flailing in panic like an ordinary housewife.

Instead, what she showed was a quiet composure and strength.

She first gave a slight shake of the head, indicating that things truly had reached the worst.

But immediately after, her gaze passed over Lann’s shoulder, turning toward one of the five thrones of desire high above.

"One Lord of Cinder from days past arrived not long ago."

She said softly.

"But... only this one."

Lann frowned, then followed the direction of the Firekeeper’s gaze.

Only then, in the dim, wavering candlelight, did he see that on the second throne of desire from the left, there really was a human figure seated.

It was just that the figure was too inconspicuous—short, frail... and without the slightest breath of the living, like a piece of firewood that had already been burned dry.

That was why Lann hadn’t noticed his existence when he first came in.

It was a little old man, his whole body an ashen grey-white of Death, withered and dry.

Forget candidates for Lord of Cinder like the Heroic Gudah. Even the Demon King Ausloes, who had already abandoned most of his strength and twisted his own body, carried more presence than he did.

This is a Lord of Cinder?

Lann couldn’t help but feel puzzled.

Up to now, the only Lord of Cinder he had met was Elderidge the Profound Saint.

But that Lord of Cinder, who was not famed for combat prowess, had already left a deep impression on Lann with the horror and profundity of the nature of his power.

After all, the darkness now within Lann’s body was itself merely the product of glimpsing a corner of the essence of Elderidge’s power.

Strictly speaking, the other side had only let Lann slash him once, and Lann had ’contaminated’ himself.

The power and exalted rank of a Lord of Cinder were plain to see.

But this little old man before his eyes...?

"If three or more Lords of Cinder could sit upon the thrones of desire, then they could burn themselves in a less damaging way, prolonging the First Flame for a short time and buying the world precious time. But as things stand..."

The Firekeeper looked worriedly at that one throne of desire which alone was occupied.

"We have been waiting for the other two Lords of Cinder to arrive, but judging from the news you bring..."

Most likely, no other Lord of Cinder will be coming.

"What happens if there are no more Lords of Cinder to share the pain of burning?"

Lann asked with a furrowed brow.

One Lord of Cinder had already arrived; by rights, they could open the throne of desire and let him begin to burn slowly.

As for why the Fire Transmission Altar had not done so, Lann only needed to turn his thoughts a little to understand.

Lords of Cinder fit to sit upon the thrones of desire were all candidates to step up when the Fire Transmission Ceremony’s handoff period came. They were not meant to be consumed in one go, but to be repeatedly awakened and maintained.

And if only a single Lord of Cinder sat the throne...

"The Lord of Cinder will completely, step by step, burn himself out, even when seated upon the throne of desire that can control the rate of burning."

As expected, the Firekeeper spoke words that matched Lann’s conjecture.

For a moment, the two fell silent.

"But by now there is no other way left, is there?"

Suddenly, a gentle, aged voice drifted down from the throne.

It was the lone Lord of Cinder who had managed to reach the Fire Transmission Altar speaking.

Both the Firekeeper and Lann lifted their heads to look up.

His voice was even and mild, so mild it didn’t sound like that of a mighty being who had once been enough to support the workings of the world’s order, but rather like that of an ordinary old man telling stories to his juniors.

"This world is about to sink into darkness... that bottomless, terrifying darkness."

"And now, since no one will ever come again, there is only one thing left that we can do. O Firekeeper who watches over the First Flame..."

On the throne, that dim, stunted and emaciated silhouette spoke in a flat voice.

He had pronounced his own death sentence.

"Let us begin the rite, and let the world see daylight once more."

"...Let me burn."

Lann watched the figure on the throne and pressed his lips together.

To witness with one’s own eyes the moment a person resolves to sacrifice himself for some goal, or for someone... it is always profoundly shaking, no matter what.

Yet in this world that treats Death as something ordinary, the Firekeeper merely lowered her head, then bent at the waist in a bow toward that short, gaunt figure on the throne.

Showing that she would obey the will of the Lord of Cinder.

"I understand, Lord Rudus."

The Firekeeper spoke softly.

To initiate the rite of the Throne of Want was very simple. In the very center of the Fire Transmission Altar there was a great basin filled with some kind of ash.

A Spiral Sword was thrust slantwise into the basin.

The sword looked extremely rough and crude, as if two steel cables had been twisted together, pulled taut into the shape of a blade, then fitted with a grip and crossguard.

It had only one special trait: even now, as the world sank ever deeper into darkness, this sword still looked as though it had just been taken out of the forge, exuding that dim, glowing red of steel seared by flame.

The Firekeeper walked up to the Spiral Sword and gently touched the hilt of that Spiral Sword...

"Poof"*N

The instant the Firekeeper’s fingers brushed the hilt, a string of tiny explosive flares of flame erupted, chaining together into a broad sheet of fire!

The entire Fire Transmission Altar was suddenly filled with light.

The candles that had previously lit up only a small patch around each person—there were in fact many more of them scattered throughout the Fire Transmission Altar.

Yet the candlelight that brought illumination did not only drive away the dark; for it not to be drowned by the darkness, it too needed power to sustain it.

In this world where the concept of "Light and Dark" had become a real and tangible power, this was the law governing its workings.

The three people within the Fire Transmission Altar could only maintain a tiny halo of candlelight around themselves.

But in that moment, all the candles that had not yet been lit seemed to receive support from some fiery power and began to burn of their own accord!

The old crone sitting by the wall, unable to move, and the burly blacksmith who had been hammering away on his own—both halted what they were doing, and with solemn reverence turned their gaze toward that one Throne of Want that had a figure seated upon it.

All five thrones had been activated—those thrones that had once seemed plain and unremarkable, like ordinary rocks roughly carved into the shape of seats.

Now they emitted a dark red glow, like magma hovering between solidification and flow, and within the cracks of the stone material there seemed to be scorching scarlet heat seeping faintly out.

Yet though all five thrones were activated, only one of them had a Lord of Cinder upon it who could burn.

Lann pressed his lips together as he watched Rudus on the throne, his thin, undersized body suddenly going taut.

At the same time, on that dark bluish skin like a corpse’s, marks appeared like those left on dead branches after being scorched.

Lines of dried, burned-out fissures spread across his entire body, and from those cracks, sparks and red light shone through.

He was like a log whose surface had been charred, yet whose inside still burned hot.

To burn oneself... this process must be excruciating for a Lord of Cinder.

Lann walked down the steps toward the side of Rudus’s throne.

Each throne had its owner’s title carved upon it, and on Rudus’s throne were the words: [Exile of Courland].

He should be called "Rudus of Courland."

"Ah, ah, so hot, my bones are burning, it hurts so much... help me, kill me... no, no, it hurts too much like this... so hot, help me..."

This sudden onset of agony seemed to have tormented the short, emaciated old man into a daze, rambling unconscious nonsense.

"Look, all of you, I have become a king... even if the fire is faint, it can still prolong the world... so forgive me, forgive me... don’t keep blaming me... don’t..."

Even having erred and become an exile from his homeland, did he still, even now, beg forgiveness from those back home?

Perhaps among the four transitory Lords of Cinder, he had come not only out of his duty as a Lord of Cinder, but also out of guilt?

Rudus’s whole body was rigid and shaking; clearly, the pain inflicted by the Throne of Want was too sudden and too intense.

And just as the Firekeeper had said, the cost of having only a single Lord of Cinder sit upon the Throne of Want was far too great.

Rudus sat on the throne, his drooping feet not even reaching the floor. From the tips of his toes, threads of burnt-out white ash were flaking away.

He truly was being "burned clean."

Meanwhile, within Lann himself, the lurking darkness that had increasingly gnawed at his mind ever since the sky had darkened now seemed to be suppressed, growing faint.

The painful murmurs of the Lord of Cinder on the throne gradually fell silent, as though Rudus had at last begun to grow accustomed to that fierce pain.

No matter what he seemed like on the surface, in the end he was still a Lord of Cinder capable of sustaining the world. So long as his will was strong enough, to speak and act with composure amidst agony was nothing unusual.

The tremors running through his body were gradually forced down.

Yes, forced down—"suppressed," not vanished.

Because Lann was still watching with his own eyes as burnt-out white ash continued to fall from Rudus’s toes.

The pain had absolutely not ceased.

It would not cease until he was burned away.