Tonight, Alice joins the hunt.

..............................

"Ariandel".

Ariandel is a painting, with a church perched on a cliff at its center.

A cold wind was blowing outside the church, while a warm fire was burning inside.

The faint sounds of whippings emanated from beneath the church, while the air above exuded the scent of ink from oil paintings.

In the very center of the church, there is a barefoot nun and a dilapidated stone statue.

The statue depicts a loving mother cradling her infant—the mother's face is disfigured, but her figure and clothing share similarities with those of a nun. Those who have never seen the statue in its original form would likely mistake it for a nun's image. However, the true nature of the image remains unknown.

—It doesn't matter.

“Ariandel.” The nun’s voice was cool, tinged with a slight hoarseness. She wore a hood adorned with dim gold thread and beads, and beneath her exquisite but worn robes emanated a mixture of heat and cold. She sat on a bench beneath the statue, her gaze sweeping over the paintings hanging in the hall.

“This place is Ariandel.” She gently pressed her chest, but didn’t feel much coldness when her feet touched the ground—her gaze gradually shifted from scattered to focused as she looked around the oil paintings, and her thoughts gradually became clearer as her memories were reshaped and organized.

"And my name is Alice Friede."

"Alice. Alice, Fried. My mission is to usurp the fire here as a missionary of the Black Church, and my wish is to abandon my priestly duties and maintain peace here."

Countless chaotic memories churned in the nun's mind, but once she established self-awareness, those churning memories subsided completely. Her thoughts became clear, and nothing external could interfere with her mind anymore.

She felt as if she had forgotten many things, but soon she realized that she had not forgotten anything. All her memories since birth were presented in her mind as neatly as a library with lists, and everything from her past appeared before her eyes without any omissions.

“Yes, that’s it,” the nun whispered, pulling from the dusty memories in her mind a document she cherished deeply—she remembered having two younger sisters. One was the composed Julia, and the other was the lively Liliane. The three sisters had jointly established the Black Church, a sanctuary for wandering souls, during those difficult times, but she herself had voluntarily betrayed it.

"They must be very disappointed."

She rose from her seat, her bare feet treading the cold, yet unyielding ground, walking from the base of the statue to the closed church doors—she remembered that when she abandoned everything of the Black Church and settled in Aryandel, a Black Church knight had chosen to follow her. And if her memory served her correctly, that knight should still be waiting outside the church.

The nun gently knocked on the church door.

"Viherer, are you there?"

She immediately received a response that was a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

“Your knight awaits your command, madam.” — Viherer’s voice was a slightly hoarse baritone.

"Guard this place well, I need to leave for a while." The nun's words were brief, and her tone naturally carried a hint of authority.

"Your will is my destiny," the knight replied firmly and resolutely.

The nun nodded through the door, but as she was about to turn and leave, a few fleeting thoughts surfaced in her mind, causing her to pause slightly. A strange impulse made her unconsciously open her mouth and utter something she would never have said before.

“Thank you for your hard work all this time.” The nun thought for a moment and then added, “My knight Viherer, if you feel cold outside, come inside the church to warm yourself by the fire. Although the campfire is very weak, I think it should still be enough to keep you warm.”

She received no response. But even through the door, she could feel the knight's joy, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of self-reproach for never having noticed her loyal knight's feelings. But this self-reproach was quickly suppressed by her strong and icy will, sinking deep into the depths of her heart.

There are more important things to do; there's no need to linger here any longer.

She returned to the stone statue, tilted her ear, and listened to the faint prayers and lashings coming from the church's underground—she knew who was down there, and she knew she had no need to go down now.

"When ashes meet, fire is kindled"—this proverb has been passed down through the ages in the world of Ariandel. It means that if two ashes approach the core of Ariandel simultaneously, they will shake the flames suppressed by blood. And once the flames are shaken, they are difficult to suppress again.

She flexed her fingers.

Her hands were those of a sword, but after settling in Aryandel, she chose to lay down her sword and take up a scythe. Although her skill with the scythe was not as great as her swordsmanship, she felt she still had ways to compensate—for example, silk threads and a cane, which she believed would allow her to unleash greater power in battle.

She shook her head, putting those distracting thoughts aside for the time being.

“I am ashes, but Vihler is not. Once I leave, even if another ashes arrives, they cannot shake the suppressed flames. Because weak ashes cannot cross Vihler, while powerful ashes…”

She blinked, and a thought, seemingly out of nowhere, surfaced in her mind.

'The powerful ashes cannot reach the Firelink Shrine; they cannot pass the trial of the Ashen Ones.'

The thought came quickly and went quickly. But when it appeared, the nun's mind readily accepted it.

That's right, no one can pass the trial of the Ashen Judge.

For in this world, even within the painted world of Ariandel, everyone knows that the previous hero who inherited the Flame, Jungudar, after turning into firewood, possessed a flame powerful enough to sustain the world for a thousand years—and after inheriting the Flame, he guarded the entrance to the Firelink Shrine as the Lord of Cinder. And until his flame burns out, no one in this world can defeat him.

Now, although more than nine hundred years have passed since the moment that great hero inherited the flame, his power remains immense. Even though the bells have rung, no ashes can pass his trial before his power fades. And since no powerful ashes can pass the trial, the world of painting will be free from any crisis.

So she glanced quietly at the statue.

"Father, I need to leave for a while."

The sounds of whipping and prayer abruptly ceased.

After a long while, an old voice came from underground.

“Oh… Fried, go do what you want to do. I can suppress the flames here, so don’t worry about anything going wrong after Ariandel leaves you.”

"Thank you, Father." The nun bowed slightly to the statue, then turned and opened a small door on the side of the church, leaving the hall, which was neither ornate nor grand. Soon after she left, the sounds of prayer and flogging resumed.

Transformation, Chapter 5: Ashes and the Ghost of Farron

The nun lit a torch, the flame providing light in the darkness—there were two paths out of the church: one through the main entrance connected to the drawbridge, and the other through a side door, passing through the church's underground passages to the hillside surrounding it. And from the cave entrance outside the hill, another path led to the library of the painting world.

She didn't go through the main entrance, because going through the main entrance would only allow her to leave the church on the mountaintop, but not the painted world called Ariandel—and when she entered the underground passage through the side door of the church, the dark environment required light for illumination.

"Perhaps I don't need the light."

The nun spoke softly to herself, her bare feet echoing slowly and deliberately in the empty passageway. She caught a faint whiff of decay and heard a slight buzzing incongruous with the echoing footsteps.

A strange feeling.

A feeling of unfamiliarity.

A feeling of déjà vu.

Ashes are not living things; their essence is actually the remnant of the primordial flame from ancient times. Although they retain a human form, their bodies have long since become containers for souls, with only consciousness remaining—they cannot hear normal sounds, taste food, smell fragrances, and can only see flames and the objects that contain them. Becoming ash is an extremely painful thing, and this emptiness can even make the ash forget what pain is.

The ashes were neither alive nor dead. They were not even comparable to the undead, tormented by the curse of the Dark Ring but still able to regain consciousness through sheer willpower—only by absorbing that special flame, the source of all life, could they briefly experience the feeling of being alive again. That is why the ashes chased after the fire.

Friede is ashes, ashes that were pushed into the First Flame Furnace by the White Cult monks of ancient times, incinerated of all flesh and senses. She shouldn't have been able to feel anything that the living take for granted; the only thing that sustained her and prevented her from becoming a living corpse was the belief that protected the peace of this painted world—a belief that even allowed her to resist the temptation of the flames within the painting. And all she should possess was this belief.

However, at this moment she heard new sounds and smelled new scents.

She raised her hand and gently pressed it against her chest. The usual silence and coldness within her chest should have reaffirmed her identity as a remnant. But…

"I shouldn't be able to feel cold."

The nun's feet still touched the ground, and the smooth stone slabs didn't make her feel much coldness—not very cold, but there was a 'cold' feeling. And when she finally realized this, she finally understood why she, who had sat in the church of the painted world for who knows how many years, suddenly felt sympathy for the knight she had locked out for who knows how many years, and missed the two sisters she had abandoned for who knows how many years.

"Have I... come back to life?"

She said uncertainly, and subconsciously took out a knife to cut open her arm, but what flowed out was still the blood and ash of a long-dead body.

“I haven’t come back to life.” Her voice then carried a hint of dejection—yet this dejection also brought her a more intense sense of life. Whether she was dead or alive now, the fact remained that she had regained the faint senses possessed by the living. This was a miracle never before recorded in the history of this world. And this miracle should absolutely not be wasted on this meaningless journey.

She subconsciously quickened her pace. The underground passage, which she had previously only known as a simple route and terrain feature, now seemed to her as 'long'. This concept irritated her, and the irritation intensified as the buzzing sound in her ears grew louder.

The nun raised her hand, and her scythe came to rest in her grasp. The joy brought by the long-forgotten feel of a weapon slightly calmed her agitation. However, the next moment, a living creature that had brought her somewhat soothed emotions quickly turned hostile before her!

“A fly.” The nun’s voice carried a chilling quality she never usually displayed. She stared at the living creature that had appeared before her, tightening her grip on the scythe slightly.

It was a... a red-headed fly as big as a person. It flapped its thin wings, had net-like compound eyes, mouthparts covered with sharp teeth, and segmented limbs—hundreds of pale, worm-like parasites wriggled on the fly's surface and inside its body cavity, and the moment it saw the nun, it opened its mouthparts, preparing the prelude to spitting out something!

"nausea."

The nun swung her scythe fiercely, cleaving the enormous fly in two before the final spit could be completed. A chilling aura emanated from the blade, freezing the fly and its numerous parasites into solid ice before the pieces even hit the ground.

With a loud 'clang,' the ice shattered into hundreds of broken pieces the moment it hit the ground. Accompanying this cracking sound was an even louder and more intense buzzing noise that approached the nun's location!

Those were... more flies.

This means that there is a fly nest in the basement of the church.

..............................

Half an hour later, when the nun emerged from the underground passage, nothing in the entire underground area of ​​the church was alive—she had killed every fly she could find, carefully avoiding trampling them while simultaneously setting fire to their nests and the tens of thousands of unhatched eggs that would trigger trypophobia in anyone. Even the damp, filthy seedbeds had been frozen solid with frost, and she had already planned to have someone come and clean up the decaying mess before she left to paint.

“This is no ordinary fly,” the nun concluded as she emerged from the underground cavern.

“It’s a curse, a deformed creation born from the corruption of the world,” she concluded, and she was convinced of her own deduction.

Because this is a world of painting.

The world of painting, Ariandel.

Since it is a painting, it must be made of paint. And as the de facto supreme ruler of this world, she knows that the paint used to depict this world contains the blood of dark souls.

And since it is blood, it is destined to decay at some point. And from decay, repulsive scavengers and parasites will naturally emerge—a phenomenon that will rapidly worsen as the initial flame is on the verge of dying out. Thus, the entire world of the painting becomes a festering sore covered with cysts and pus.

In the past, the nun certainly wouldn't have cared about such a 'trivial matter.' Because in the past, she was merely ashes, incapable of feeling disgust or stench, filth or pollution—whether the world she inhabited was corrupt or healthy made no difference to her. And all she cared about was whether this world could continue to exist.

Ashes are not human, not even the undead that feed on souls and humanity. They lack the joys, sorrows, and other desires that mortals should possess; they only care about the obsession they bear after awakening from the dead as ash. Everything else is meaningless—because once that obsession is fulfilled or collapses, they will completely lose even their identity as ash, transforming into a staggering living corpse.

Nuns were like that in the past. But now...

She might try to adjust her stance.

"First, I need to find an artist in Ariandel. Whether I want to leave this place or make changes, I need the artist's support. I remember I once placed her in the library... but how long ago was that?"

The nun emerged from the cave, finding herself atop a mountain ridge. From here, she could see a small portion of the world of Arianedale, the world depicted in the painting. She could see the drifting snowflakes, the towering ice crystal pillars, the crisscrossing, upright trees on the ridge, and the few remaining green leaves clinging to them. Further along, her gaze would reach the church and the bustling village below.

In the past, Frieda wouldn't have cared about such scenery, as it meant nothing to her. But now she has regained her aesthetic sense, which has slowed her pace slightly.

She then noticed a group of lightly armored warriors carrying torches moving through the valley.

“The ghosts of Farron,” the nun murmured. She remembered that in a distant past, she had allowed a support legion of the Farron Undead Legion to reside in the Painted World. They were the undead, the hands and eyes of Farron, and they came to ensure that no trace of the Abyss would appear in the Painted World—led by an ancient hero who had joined the Undead Legion as a living being. After the Undead Legion inherited the First Flame, this hero became an extremely rare Unpaid King, and after his death, he rested in the icy cemetery of the Painted World, guarded by several gravekeepers selected from the Ghost Legion and a giant wolf with Farron wolf blood.

Time has passed, and although the Farron Undead Legion, who suppressed the Abyss, has long since vanished into history, this ghostly army still remembers its duty. They guard the Painted World, vigilant against the Abyss's forces that may appear at any moment. Fried, after concealing and relinquishing her identity as a member of the Black Church, coexisted peacefully with them and signed the Watchful Covenant—they would protect the Painted World, and together with Fried and the other side of the covenant—the warriors of Millwood—would safeguard the peace of this fragile world. And until the traces of the Abyss are revealed, they will obey the nun's commands.

Of course, Friede never actually commanded them. Nor did she expect them to obey her commands—even after being purified by the First Flame, the remnants of the Black Church would still not be trusted by Farron's hands and eyes. Their ability to ignore her without her leaving the church was already the limit of their patience.

The nun's scythe lightly touched the ground—her form vanished instantly. Light magic, originating from the ancient, radiant kingdom of Ula'sil and modified by her own hand, completely erased her image. At the same moment, the leader of the ghosts cast an inquiring glance in her direction.

Clearly, it found nothing. But the veteran's skill lay in its meticulous attention to detail and its unwavering instincts—it abruptly raised its hand and made a series of hand gestures, causing the advancing ghostly guards to halt instantly. Several exceptionally agile Farran ghosts leaped from the ranks, each stride covering tens of meters as they rapidly advanced towards the mountain's summit. In a mere ten seconds, they would traverse the vast distance from the foot of the mountain to its ridge, reaching the nun's side!

The nun gently tightened her grip on the scythe, her breathing gradually fading from a steady pace to almost imperceptible. She wasn't sure if her light magic could fool the Farron Ghost scouts, but she was certain that it was best for her to remain out of sight of these undead legion's inheritors.

They weren't particularly strong; for the nun, killing them and turning them from undead into living corpses wouldn't be difficult. But if they were merely a part of the ghosts, their deaths would inevitably ignite a war between the Painted World and the Farron Ghosts. Even the tough, resilient Milwood warriors would be drawn into the conflict, creating even greater unpredictability—and regardless of the outcome, the peace of the Painted World would be gone forever.

and so……

[Do not use your hands]

[Cannot be detected]

Before the group of ghost warriors reached the ridge, the nun left the snowfield and hid in a secluded ravine, avoiding the swirling snowflakes and falling leaves. She was certain that no leaves would fall or snowflakes would scatter there, making it undoubtedly the safest hiding place.