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The desolated waste of ash waited for the Chosen Undead.
No sign of life stirred within the Kiln—only sticks resembling withered flags, whispering of glory long gone.

After a journey of struggle and sorrow, destiny now rested in their hands.
Dark or light? Even without knowing the answer, the warrior stepped through the fog.

There he stood—the false god of light.
Bringer of prosperity, now a hollow husk.
Still, the flame burned grossly incandescent, swinging with the rhythm of a mournful piano played by five Black Knights.

Steel clashed. The sword of cinders was parried again and again—until Gwyn, frustrated, reached out.
A grab, a flash—a small explosion hurled the Undead into the fog wall.

Silence.
The “plin plin plon” faded.
Then, from the heavens, an eagle screeched—its cry echoing through the serpents’ coils.
Gwyn’s eyes widened.

“Finally,” he whispered, staring at his hands, “I remember my lineage.”

The Black Knights cast the piano into the flame, and from its ashes, electric guitars were born.
Their chords screamed as Gwyn’s burned robes shifted into colors unknown—a cape of stars uncountable, stripes of red and white blazing down his back.
The flag-caped Lord strode forward, pulling from his belt the Dragon-Slayer, his ancient revolver of thunder.
“Even Frampt’s jaw dropped when he saw the flag,” whispered a Knight.

“You Lordran’s waste,” he growled, sparks dancing in his beard,
“dared to step into my Kiln of Ash.
I’ll use… my freedom.”
Fireworks shaped like bonfires ignited in the distance, dropping with the feathers belonging to the symbol of liberty.

The Chosen Undead staggered from the fog, bewildered, but there was only breath enough to dodge the sudden eruptions of fire that tore the arena. Between blasts and swinging embers, the warrior found an opening and, with a clean arc of steel, clipped Gwyn’s beard—a shaving more than a mercy.

Gwyn recovered with a backward flip, landing like a sun fallen from the heavens. His eyes were coals; even the Black Knights blinked at their lord’s agility. Gwyn threw a grin that smelled of gunpowder and barked, “Havel's Rings sons—they boost speed in response to physical trauma.”

He refocused on the Chosen Undead, the flaming sword leveled at the heart. “Uncle Sam needs you to die,” and the words detonated as another volley of fireworks bloomed across the Kiln.

The Dragon-Slayer gleamed like in the old wars as the crazed god emptied its charge.
“You think I’m exaggerating? I’m just agreeing with the Second Amendment of Flame. Just like the Founding Fathers intended.”

The sharp swords kept missing their mark, but Gwyn’s fury never did.
“I’M THE LORD OF FREEDOM, YOU PATHETIC NON-LAW-ABIDING CITIZEN!”
Each time he screamed “freedom,” the explosions doubled, and the Chosen Undead struggled to remember what the word even meant.

The battle raged until the Kiln itself became nothing but ash, flags, and ruin.
Amid the chaos, a Black Knight whispered, “That guy must’ve run kilometers from dodging alone.”
They froze as Gwyn’s head snapped toward them, the air crackling.

His arms spread wide in a show of dominance and patriotic confusion.
“What the fuck is a kilometer?” he thundered, aiming Dragon-Slayer at his own men.
The shot ricocheted off their star-spangled armor and struck the Undead in the chest.

The Estus could not save the wounded warrior as Gwyn kicked the flask away.
“Drinking on the job? My civilization is truly lost.”

While Gwyn mourned the pathetic state of Lordran, the Undead limped through the flames and saw a faint summon sign—one belonging to a knight faithful only to his beloved Sun.
Solaire emerged in the praise position, shouting, “I KNEW IT! The Sun was just capitalism all along!”

As the Undead… well, actually died, the two warriors of light faced one another in a staring contest worthy of gods.
“For years I’ve had to sustain that scaly pension-stealer, that scammer of flame, that edgy ghost with bad breath, and those four useless bureaucrats. FUCK ALL OF THEM!” Gwyn roared, charging.

Steel clashed amid fireworks and stellar detonations until Solaire’s shield shattered under holy flame.
Gwyn raised his sword for the final blow—but Solaire made the call.
The call of a true patriot.

The eagle descended, talons glowing, seizing Gwyn’s arm and tearing it away.
The god staggered as Solaire drove his sword through his heart.
“See how much your freedom protects you from the glorious Sun.”

Gwyn’s final gaze held only disgust for the incompetence surrounding him.
A scream of burning glory tore through the Kiln, followed by one last guitar string trembling in the smoke.

“LORDRAN, I CAN’T CHANGE!
WON’T YOU FLY HIGH, FREE FLAME, YEAH!”

And with that, the god’s lies were no more.
A star-shaped firework burst above the ruins, bathing everything in red, white, and ember.

As Solaire caught his breath, the twin serpents slithered from the ash.
“Let’s celebrate the new President of Firelink!” they hissed, as the sky filled with peaceful stars—each one representing an amendment.

Through the smoke, a bald eagle soared, clutching Gwyn’s patriotic crown and carrying it skyward to deliver to the new heir.
The Black Knights knelt, guitars still humming, in reverence of the freedom they would never understand.