"Someone's talking from inside the well?!"
Tusk's mind snapped immediately to the frightening bedtime stories his grandmother used to tell — about a creature called the Well Fairy that liked to hide inside wells, imitating human voices to lure people close. The moment someone leaned in to look, it would pull them under.
The story had terrified him as a child. Even now, hearing a voice drift up from a well put him on edge — part of why he had such deep admiration for Witch Hunters in the first place.
But —
"…Aren't Well Fairies supposed to sound female?"
A woman's voice made for a considerably creepier atmosphere.
This voice wasn't scary at all. Honest, plain, slightly deep — closer to an unlucky farmer who'd accidentally fallen down a well than any kind of monster. Whatever horror had been building evaporated instantly, replaced by something closer to the opening scene of a countryside comedy. He half expected villagers to burst into song and dance.
"Hello? Anyone there?… Maybe I imagined that."
Even the disappointment in the voice sounded genuine. It practically begged for a reply.
"Who's down there? And why are you inside a well?"
Tusk called out from a safe few steps back, motioning for the two companions with him to grab hold of his legs.
If something went wrong, they'd yank him back.
He added, seriously: "If you can't pull me out, let go. Don't all three of us go down together."
"Oh! Someone finally came!"
The voice brightened instantly.
"I'm Jack Baldo, a knight of Catarina. I got tricked and ended up down here. You haven't happened to see my armor anywhere, have you?"
Jack Baldo was this world's rendering of Siegward of Catarina — the beloved Onion Knight from Dark Souls III. Kind-hearted, loyal, one of Wade's personal favorite incarnations to include.
As for exactly how he'd ended up down a well, that story involved a certain other familiar name — one Tusk had no way of knowing yet.
"What does it look like?"
Armor?
Shouldn't the first request of someone stuck at the bottom of a well be please pull me out? Asking about missing armor first felt distinctly backward.
Then it clicked for Tusk. This man was another Remnant, same as Blacksmith Andre and Merchant Greirat.
"Oh — it's round. Every part of it, round. If you've seen it, you'd definitely remember."
"…That is the least helpful description I've ever received."
Tusk couldn't help picturing a man dressed head to toe in egg-shaped plating. The image was ridiculous enough that he laughed out loud.
"Would you like a hand out?"
Since the man was a Remnant, staying on his good side seemed like a reasonable investment. That was Tusk's reasoning, anyway.
"Kind of you to offer, but I'll decline — I can manage the climb myself. Without my armor, I'm rather embarrassed to be seen. I'd prefer not to meet anyone looking like this."
"…That's quite a lot of pride for a man in a well."
Tusk nodded to himself.
"Hungry? Thirsty? Want some rice porridge? I can pour it down."
Jack Baldo declined politely, several times over, until Tusk finally gave up offering. The only thing the knight actually cared about, apparently, was recovering his armor.
"Alright then. If I run into your gear, I'll bring it by."
"Thank you… friend."
That seemed to close things out. Tusk waved his companions off — and then his eyes landed on the glowing Estus Flask at his belt.
An idea formed.
He leaned back over the well's edge.
"Want an Estus Flask? We've got extras."
Adventurers had gotten smarter about resource sharing lately. Ever since the Pinwheels had been cleared and the Rite of Kindling offered at the Firelink Shrine bonfire, that bonfire had become the most reliable meeting point for everyone.
This time, Jack Baldo accepted without hesitation.
Tusk dropped the flask down.
A moment later, it came flying back up — with a glowing loot item attached.
"Says here it's a thank-you gift…"
He examined it.
[Lloyd's Talisman]
A tool once used to hunt the Undead.
Thrown at an Undead target, it prevents the target from recovering via Estus for a fixed duration.
A relic of the Lloyd Knights, who once led the hunt against the Undead.
Though the White Church's chief god, Lloyd, has long since faded from history, the hunt continues. Seal their recovery, then face them in honorable combat.
"…Undead? Aren't we technically the 'ancient race' the bonfires reference? Would this thing even work on adventurers?"
Tusk scratched his head. With only one talisman, he decided against testing it on himself. He pocketed it and hurried off with his companions to catch up with Fingri's group.
Thanks to their earlier passes through the cemetery, the confusing layout felt marginally less impossible to navigate this time. The maggot-infested Undead were still exactly as revolting as ever — but a wide enough detour kept anyone from ending up looking, once again, disturbingly like a bowl of porridge.
Unfortunately, all those detours cost them their bearings a second time. It took nearly half an hour before the three of them finally made it back onto the cathedral rooftop.
To their surprise, Fingri's group was simply sitting there. Resting. Not a step further along than before.
"Oh. You're back."
Fingri greeted them with a nod.
"Mr. Fingri! What happened to the Pursuer — did you take it down? Why haven't we pushed forward?"
Fingri shook his head.
"No. It ran."
"…Huh?"
Without further explanation, he tossed over a telescope.
"Look up there."
Tusk raised it. Far in the sky, the Pursuer still hung beneath its giant eagle, hovering patiently at a distance.
Almost as though it were waiting for them specifically.
"When something new shows up, everyone should experience it together. Figured you'd be back before long, so we held off."
Fingri stood, brushed his trousers off, and flashed his usual grin.
"Come on. Let's see what it's got planned. If there's something interesting ahead, nobody gets left out."
Which was to say — if the suffering was coming, it was coming for everybody at once.
There's a meaningful difference between suffering alone and suffering alongside people you trust. The former makes a person want to break furniture. The latter, somehow, tends to end in laughter.
The Pursuer continued hovering ahead beneath its eagle, apparently marking a direction rather than a destination. Wherever it drifted, the group followed.
Plenty of monsters blocked the route along the way. Grave Wardens, once notable enough to comment on, had become as common as produce at a market — dual-blade variants alongside a spellcasting type, wielding a dark violet-black sorcery nobody could name but whose behavior resembled Soul Arrow closely enough.
Beyond the Grave Wardens, Hollow Soldiers and Slaves had taken over as the region's baseline enemy. Any high vantage point guaranteed at least a few Hollow Soldiers stationed there with crossbows, ready to pincushion anyone approaching.
More often than not, they were invisible — combining themselves with the parasitic maggots harvested from the Undead to cling flush against pillars and walls, creating the illusion of nothing at all until it was too late. Layered with invisibility magic, the ambush setup was genuinely effective.
Everyone kept instinctively checking behind cover.
Nobody expected them hanging in plain sight.
And whenever the party wandered into a Hollow Soldier's firing lane, the small, scrawny Slaves rushed in without hesitation. Weak-looking, pitiful even — and in actual combat, more unhinged than the Undead by a wide margin. One climbing onto someone's head and clawing wildly while already caught in crossbow range was, functionally, a signal to prepare for a fresh bonfire respawn.
The Cathedral's rooftops bore no resemblance to ordinary architecture. Every corner, ledge, and overhang had clearly been designed with combat in mind. Looking ahead at any given set of eaves left everyone wondering how many Slaves were hanging just out of sight, upside down, waiting.
After a stretch of walking, Fingri's expression sharpened.
"Careful. Their equipment's been upgraded."
Only then did the group register it — the Hollow Soldiers' heavy crossbows had shifted to scatter crossbows.
The weapons were evolving.
At exactly that moment, the Pursuer dropped from the sky.
Round two began.
This time Fingri stopped playing around. All three Hasavi members engaged the Pursuer together, and gradually, the balance shifted in their favor.
At full commitment, the entire Hasavi Party sat right at the edge of Rank B — roughly comparable to Gapar's power level back when he'd challenged the Demihuman Swordmaster.
The current Gapar was a completely different matter entirely, of course.
For a handful of reasons, though, the Hasavi Party still couldn't unleash their genuine full strength. The fight against the C++-Rank Pursuer stayed evenly matched as a result.
A sharp eagle cry cut through the noise.
The Pursuer took to the air again. Matilda tried to intercept — the Pursuer hurled its ultra greatsword at her instead, forcing her back a step, then the weapon simply floated back into its owner's grip as though it had a will of its own.
With the Pursuer's retreat, Hollow Soldiers materialized from every conceivable hiding place, each one now carrying an upgraded scatter crossbow — even the standard Fire Grease coating their bolts had been swapped for something stronger.
Fortunately, with Matilda holding the front, panic never had a chance to set in. Her living armor reconfigured again — this time into enormous shields, several rising simultaneously to guard the party. Combined with water magic dousing incoming burning bolts, the barrage got fully absorbed.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Arrows rained endlessly against the shields.
Watching it unfold, a thought crossed Fingri's mind: If we keep pushing forward, do these scatter crossbows just keep escalating?
He was right.
Further along, the scatter crossbows became repeating crossbows, magically enabled to unload more than a dozen bolts in a single volley.
Magic made a lot of things possible, apparently including that.
Round three against the Pursuer played out similarly to the first two — except by now, accumulated damage from earlier fights had clearly pushed it near its limit. Just as Matilda squared up for the finishing blow, Fingri stopped her.
He simply watched as the Pursuer seized its eagle and flew off again.
Matilda didn't question the call. She just looked at him.
Complete trust. That was how the Hasavi Party operated among themselves.
"You've noticed something?"
Fingri nodded.
"It's fighting us — but it's also guiding us."
He surveyed the maze of rooftops stretching ahead.
"These roofs are a bigger labyrinth than anything else we've hit so far. Left to our own navigation, we'd get hopelessly lost, sooner or later. But as long as that thing stays airborne, even if we wander off into a dead end, we'll always know exactly where the final destination sits."
"So — we can't kill it."
"Not until we've actually found our way into the cathedral itself."
Pure intuition, on his part. And it lined up nearly perfectly with Wade's original design intent.
Fingri didn't spend much time dungeon-diving as a rule. He had a genuine gift for it regardless — the kind of instinct that suggested truly talented people adapt to almost anything they're dropped into.
Heavy crossbows. Scatter crossbows. Repeating crossbows.
What was next?
As far as Fingri knew, there wasn't a meaningfully stronger crossbow tier beyond that. Past crossbows, the only escalation left was pure magic.
Or — possibly — something entirely outside his frame of reference.
Moments later —
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"What in the world is that weapon?!"
"It's long, like a rod—"
"But the projectiles are like little metal balls?! And why does it sound like thunder every time it fires?!"
Fingri's uneasy premonition had made good on itself once again.
Firearms.
Bloodborne's weapons. Some short, some long, designs strange enough to defy easy classification — and yet somehow they didn't feel entirely alien within Sein's overall aesthetic.
A single shot easily punched through low-tier magic barriers. Even mid-tier barriers couldn't survive multiple consecutive hits.
Dodging, this time, wasn't optional.
"I'll handle him!"
Tusk circled behind a Hollow Soldier, roared, and closed the distance in one motion.
The soldier turned. Drew a second weapon — nothing like the Bloodborne guns. Closer to a handgun in shape, but strange enough that Tusk genuinely couldn't put a name to it.
Damn it — that's it for me.
He braced anyway.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Several rounds struck him.
"…Huh? Why doesn't that hurt as much as it should?"
He dug a bullet out of one shallow wound, confused. His body hadn't suddenly become sturdier than a mid-level magic barrier. There had to be another explanation.
Before he could work it out, the Hollow Soldier self-destructed on the spot — the explosion knocking Tusk off the platform entirely and destroying the strange handgun in the process.
Inside the Dungeon Lord's office, Wade was scribbling notes into a notebook, muttering to himself.
"Bloodborne's firearms are performing well. The unique gun-parry mechanic carried over too — functions basically like a combat art. Timed correctly, it forces a staggered, parry-vulnerable state on enemies. There's real potential here."
He paused.
"But why are CrossFire's automatic pistols so much weaker? Nowhere near Bloodborne's output. Different ammo type, maybe? Or something else entirely? Last time I tried C4 on Maru, it barely registered — she died from the fall damage instead."
He tapped the pen against the page.
"…Odd. Better shelve those for now."
Back in the field, when the Pursuer retreated for the third time, Fingri barely managed to stop Matilda from chasing after it directly.
She was, unmistakably, seeing red.
Small wonder. Fighting Yharnam-style quickdraw gunfire on top of everything else had genuinely disgusted her. Nobody could quite explain how they'd managed to keep going against the Pursuer while also dodging a firearm assault that felt lifted from an entirely different genre of nightmare.
At this point, the Pursuer itself barely registered as the main obstacle. The real problem had become the Hollow Soldiers' constantly escalating arsenal — and worse, none of them ever dropped the weapons on death.
Which raised an uncomfortable question. What came after guns?
Pushing onward, the rooftops finally opened into a much wider stretch. The suffocating, cramped sensation lifted for the first time.
Fingri glanced at a raised platform in the distance and couldn't help commenting.
"That's a genuinely excellent position."
Aleya tilted her head.
"How so?"
"Put a battle mage up there with fast enough casting speed, and they could lock this entire route down completely. Nobody would ever take that position by force."
"Learned that from a kingdom general's military strategy text, back in the day."
The moment he finished the sentence, everyone else's expression turned to something closer to dread.
He'd done it again. Planted another flag.
For some inexplicable reason, Fingri's train of thought kept synchronizing perfectly with Wade's.
Right on cue, a figure materialized on the exact platform he'd just pointed at.
His clothing matched the invading Hunter type they'd already seen in Farron Keep — the one who rewarded players with the Hunter's Handbook. One glance confirmed it: an Old Yharnam Hunter, someone who valued survival above heroics.
Resting in front of him was a weapon none of the adventurers could identify.
Wade could have named it instantly.
A Gatling Gun. Straight out of Bloodborne.
"…That thing—"
Fingri didn't recognize the specific weapon, but every instinct he had screamed danger.
The Gatling Gun began spinning up.
A continuous storm of bullets tore toward the party.
And in that exact instant, the Pursuer descended from the sky once more.
Even Fingri couldn't help swearing under his breath.
"Don't tell me—"
"After all of this — is the Avatar of Left Bow about to join the party too?!"
As someone genuinely fond of experimenting inside dungeons, he'd once — following the lead of adventurers before him — had a little fun messing with a bonfire and accidentally summoned the Three Avatar Masters, the quickdraw katana wielders, entirely by accident.
If Left Bow really showed up on top of the Gatling Gun, he wasn't going to find any of this funny anymore.
"…Sein."
"I really did underestimate you."