The air was thick with the scent of blood and earth, the kind that clung to the back of Bell Cranel's throat as he swung his Hestia Knife, carving through a goblin's hide in the Dungeon's fifth floor. His heart pounded, adrenaline singing in his veins. Ais Wallenstein fought beside him, her saber a silver blur, cutting down monsters with mechanical precision. The rest of Loki Familia flanked them, their formation tight, their banter drowned by the roars of a minotaur that had wandered too far from the lower floors.
"Bell, behind you!" Tiona's voice cut through the chaos.
He spun, dagger flashing, and drove it into the chest of a lunging kobold. The beast crumpled, and Bell exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Thanks, Tiona!"
Ais glanced at him, her golden eyes unreadable but soft, like the flicker of a candle. "Stay sharp," she said, her voice a quiet anchor amidst the storm.
Bell nodded, his chest swelling with pride. He was here, fighting alongside his idol, proving himself to the Loki Familia. For a moment, he felt invincible, the fire of his dreams—his *Liaris Freese*—burning brighter than ever.
Then the world shattered.
A pulse of energy, cold and wrong, erupted from the Dungeon's floor. The stone cracked, glowing with an eerie violet light that swallowed the screams of his companions. Bell reached for Ais, his fingers grazing her outstretched hand, but the light consumed him. His vision blurred, his body weightless, as if his soul had been torn from its moorings.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Orario.
---
The ground beneath Bell was cold, ash-strewn, and jagged. He lay sprawled on a stone slab, his body aching in ways he couldn't describe—like his bones were too heavy, his skin too tight. The air was stale, thick with the stench of decay and something metallic. Above, a sky of bruised gray stretched endlessly, broken only by the skeletal spires of a ruined castle in the distance.
"Where… am I?" Bell whispered, his voice hoarse. He pushed himself up, wincing as his hands brushed against the rough stone. His Hestia Knife was still at his hip, its familiar weight a small comfort, but his armor—his adventurer's gear—was gone, replaced by tattered rags that barely clung to his frame. His body felt wrong, sluggish, as if it wasn't entirely his own.
He staggered to his feet, heart racing. The last thing he remembered was the Dungeon, the light, Ais's hand slipping from his grasp. Was this a new floor? A hidden chamber? But the Dungeon never felt like *this*—so lifeless, so desolate. The air lacked the vibrant pulse of Orario's labyrinth, replaced by a suffocating stillness that pressed against his chest.
A faint glow caught his eye. Ahead, a pile of ash shimmered, embers dancing like fireflies. Bell approached cautiously, his adventurer's instincts kicking in. As he neared, the embers coalesced, forming a small, flickering flame—a bonfire. Its warmth was faint but real, and when he reached out, a wave of calm washed over him, soothing his aching limbs. The sensation was fleeting, but it left him feeling… restored, somehow.
"What is this place?" he murmured, kneeling by the bonfire. His fingers brushed the ash, and a vision flickered in his mind: a world of gods long dead, of fire and darkness, of a cycle that bound souls to eternal suffering. Words echoed in his head, unbidden: *Undead. Chosen. Fire.*
Bell's blood ran cold. He wasn't in the Dungeon anymore. This was something else—something far worse.
---
Hours passed, or perhaps days—time felt slippery here, like water through cupped hands. Bell wandered the ruins of what he later learned was the *Undead Asylum*, a crumbling prison for those cursed with undeath. His body, he discovered, was not his own. He was an Undead, his soul tethered to this frail, hollowed form. Every movement was a struggle, his mind sharp with memories of Orario but his limbs slow, untrained, as if he were a level 1 adventurer trapped in a stranger's skin.
Yet his skills remained. *Liaris Freese*, the ability that fueled his rapid growth, hummed faintly in his chest, a spark that refused to die. His Hestia Knife, too, was unchanged, its blade gleaming with divine power. But this world was not Orario, and its rules were alien. Death was not an end here but a cruel loop, each demise returning him to the bonfire, his body intact but his spirit heavier with despair.
He learned quickly. The asylum's hollowed inhabitants—mindless, shambling corpses—attacked without mercy, their rusted blades biting into his flesh. Each death taught him something new: how to dodge, how to parry, how to strike with precision. His adventurer's instincts, honed in the Dungeon, adapted to this unforgiving world. But the cost was high. Every death chipped away at his resolve, the pain as real as any he'd felt in Orario.
It was in the asylum's depths that he encountered the *Stray Demon*, a hulking beast of stone and flame that guarded his escape. The fight was brutal, the creature's club shattering the ground with each swing. Bell's body, weak and untrained, couldn't keep up with his mind's commands. He wanted to move like Ais, fluid and untouchable, but his limbs lagged, his dodges clumsy. Still, he fought, driven by the same fire that had carried him through the Dungeon.
The Hestia Knife glowed faintly, its edge cutting deeper than it should have, as if Hestia's blessing still lingered. Bell used every trick he knew—feints, quick steps, strikes to weak points—until the demon fell, its body crumbling into ash. From its remains, he claimed a strange orb, pulsing with warmth: a *Demon's Great Hammer*. It was too heavy for his current form, but he kept it, sensing its power.
As he stepped through the asylum's gates, a giant crow swooped down, its talons snatching him into the air. Bell screamed, clutching his knife, as the world spun below. When he landed, he found himself in a new place: *Firelink Shrine*, a crumbling sanctuary where the bonfire's warmth felt like a faint echo of Hestia's embrace.
---
At Firelink, Bell met the Crestfallen Warrior, a hollowed man whose bitterness cut deeper than any blade. "You're one of us now, Chosen Undead," the man sneered, his voice dripping with resignation. "Cursed to die, over and over, until you go hollow. Might as well give up."
Bell's ruby eyes flashed with defiance. "I'm not giving up. I have a Familia waiting for me. I'll find a way back."
The warrior laughed, a hollow sound. "Hope's a dangerous thing here, boy. But if you're set on it, seek the Bells of Awakening. Ring them, and your path'll open. Or so they say."
Bell nodded, his resolve unshaken. He didn't understand this world, but he knew one thing: he was Bell Cranel, adventurer of the Hestia Familia, and he would not break. Not here, not ever.
Firelink Shrine became his anchor, a place to rest and gather his strength. He explored its surroundings, battling hollows and scavenging what he could: a *Longsword*, a *Wooden Shield*, a *Pyromancy Flame* that sparked when he held it, as if his soul resonated with its power. The flame reminded him of his *Firebolt* spell, and with practice, he learned to wield it, casting bursts of flame that scorched his foes. Other miracles and sorceries came to him as he explored—*Heal*, *Lightning Spear*, *Soul Arrow*—each one a tool to survive this nightmare.
But survival was not enough. Bell's heart ached for Orario, for Hestia's smile, for Ais's quiet strength. Every bonfire he rested at, he prayed to his goddess, hoping she could hear him across worlds. "I'll come back," he whispered. "I promise."
---
The path to the Bells of Awakening was fraught with peril. In the *Undead Burg*, Bell faced hollowed soldiers and rabid dogs, their attacks relentless. His body, still weak, betrayed him often, but his mind adapted. He learned to read his enemies' movements, to exploit their weaknesses, just as he had in the Dungeon. His Hestia Knife became his lifeline, its divine edge cutting through armor like butter. But it was the *Pyromancy Flame* that surprised him most. Its fire felt alive, like an extension of his will, and with it, he burned through foes that would have overwhelmed him otherwise.
The *Taurus Demon* nearly broke him. The massive creature guarded a narrow bridge, its axe swings shattering stone. Bell died three times, each death a lesson in patience and timing. On his fourth attempt, he climbed a tower, plunging his knife into the demon's skull from above, a tactic born of desperation and instinct. The beast fell, and Bell claimed its soul, a pulsing orb that felt heavier than it should.
In the *Undead Parish*, he rang the first Bell of Awakening, its toll echoing across Lordran. The sound stirred something in him—a flicker of hope, a reminder of his goal. But the path grew darker. The *Lower Undead Burg* tested him with ambushes, and the *Capra Demon*'s twin hounds nearly drove him to despair. Yet Bell pressed on, his *Liaris Freese* burning brighter with each victory, as if his soul refused to yield to this world's curse.
---
By the time he reached *Sen's Fortress*, Bell was no longer the frail Undead he'd been. His body, though still weaker than his Orario self, had grown stronger, more attuned to his will. He wielded a mix of weapons now: the Hestia Knife for precision, a *Claymore* for heavier foes, and the *Pyromancy Flame* for crowd control. Miracles like *Heal* kept him alive, while *Lightning Spear* felled enemies from a distance. Each tool was a piece of Lordran's arsenal, but Bell used them with the heart of an Orario adventurer.
The fortress was a gauntlet of traps and serpentine warriors, but Bell's agility—honed from dodging minotaurs—carried him through. At its peak, he faced the *Iron Golem*, a towering construct that tested every ounce of his skill. He danced around its blows, striking at its legs, using *Soul Arrow* to chip away at its armor. When it fell, he claimed its core, another step closer to his goal.
Anor Londo awaited, a city of gods bathed in eternal sunlight. But Bell felt no awe—only determination. He was Bell Cranel, and he would ring the second bell. He would find a way back to Hestia. And if this world demanded he choose its fate—fire or dark—he would face that choice with the same courage that had carried him through Orario's depths.
---
As Bell stepped into Anor Londo's golden halls, the weight of Lordran pressed heavier on his soul. He didn't know what lay ahead—dragons, knights, or gods—but he knew one thing: his fire would not go out. Not until he was home.
**To be continued…**