A/N: Hey everyone this a new story I thought of mostly due to me picking up Elden ring again and I couldn't get it out of my mind so here it is.
Don't worry I am still working on my other story, and I have a good number of chapters in reserve, so you don't have to worry about me burning out.... yet
anyway, this story is going to be a bit more emotional than my other, also there will be some AU for the Elden ring world, just to add some more flare and to make some of the lore in the game more epic also the MC will not have knowledge of Elden ring, mostly so the emotional impacts hit harder.
Also, if you all want after the MC is finished with Elden Ring do you want me to have him go to other worlds, and if so, do you want him to have knowledge of those worlds or not?
Anyway, let's start the story.
PS. I will be doing less author notes from now on so I can better post my chapters on time
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The lamp above his bench hummed faintly, casting its warm glow across a cluttered battlefield of tools and fragments. Files, tweezers, magnifying lenses, half-used polishing cloths—all orbiting the centerpiece before him like stars pulled into the gravity of one perfect creation.
A necklace.
Not just any necklace, though he told himself that every time. This one was special. The gold links caught the light in such a way that they seemed to breathe. The gem—gods, the gem—was a crystalline stone fractured inside like it contained its own constellation. It had fought him the entire way: too brittle to cut at first, too stubborn to polish, but he had coaxed it, layer by layer, until it gleamed like a shard of starlight frozen in time.
He leaned back, shoulders aching, a long exhale leaving him. His reflection caught in the gem's surface—tired eyes, soot-dark hair pulled back with a band, a smudge of polish on his cheek. His fingers trembled, not from exhaustion, but from awe.
"This," he whispered, though no one was there to hear it, "this is beautiful."
It was always like this, at the end. The exhaustion of hours bent over the bench would bleed away, replaced by the same thrill he had felt when he first learned to set stones as a teenager. The passion never dulled. He loved this work. The world could fall apart, customers could cheat him, rent could suffocate him, but here, with fire and metal and gemstones, he was king.
The bell above the door jingled faintly. Right. The client.
Still staring at the necklace, he rose, careful not to smudge the polish. The chain slid over his gloved fingers like liquid light, the gem catching fire with every step toward the front.
"I've worked with sapphires, with emeralds, even with shards of meteorite," he murmured, almost rehearsing. "But this… this was something else entirely. One of the most beautiful pieces I've ever had the honor to touch."
He pushed open the door leading to the shop's front. The familiar smell of old wood and varnish greeted him.
"You won't find a piece like this anywhere else. Not in Paris, not in Rome, not even in Dubai. This stone has a life to it, like it remembers where it came from. It wanted to fight me, but look—"
He raised his head.
And froze.
A man stood across the counter, tall, broad-shouldered, face shadowed beneath a cap. His arm was extended, steady, a handgun leveled between Thoryn's eyes.
The world refused to register. The necklace still gleamed in his palm. His lips still moved, but no words came.
The man's voice was flat.
"Nothing personal."
"Oh."
That was all he managed. No begging, no protest. Just a syllable, absurdly small against the gunmetal certainty pointed at him.
The gun flashed.
The sound was louder than any hammer strike. For an instant, the gem in his hand seemed to flare with light, mocking him—beauty at the moment of ruin.
Then darkness.
And silence.
Awakening
He expected nothingness. An endless void, maybe fire if the universe wanted to be ironic. But no—there was sound.
Cicadas.
Their sharp, buzzing chorus tugged him awake. The smell followed—earth, wet moss, a sweetness like crushed petals. His chest rose with a shuddering breath, and his body jerked upright on its own.
He sat in a field of flowers.
Everywhere, color. Blooms in violet, crimson, gold. Too vibrant. Too alive. The air shimmered with heat though no sun burned above. For a long moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His last memory kept playing—gun barrel, "nothing personal," the crack of the shot.
He clutched his chest. No hole. No blood. Just smooth skin.
His fingers twitched. They didn't look right. The skin was dark—darker than night, polished, gleaming faintly like volcanic glass. He stared, turned his hand over. Smooth. Wrong.
His stomach tightened. Slowly, he crawled toward a small pond at the meadow's edge, drawn by the shimmer of water. He leaned over and froze.
The reflection was not his own.
Skin black as obsidian. Hair braided and fiery red, falling heavy to his shoulders. Eyes molten, swirling faintly, as though lava had been poured into them. A stranger stared back.
"This isn't me," he whispered.
His voice cracked—higher, thinner. He blinked, leaned closer. His proportions were wrong. Smaller. Shorter arms, narrow shoulders.
"Oh, come on," he said, voice rising, edged with panic. "I'm a kid? Seriously? I have to go through puberty again?"
He staggered back, breath quick. His hand shot out to steady himself—landing in a patch of flowers. The petals hissed, blackened instantly, curling into ash. Smoke curled lazily into the air.
He froze. Looked at his hand. Perfectly fine. But the flowers were gone, reduced to brittle stalks.
"What… am I?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He sat there for a long time, chest heaving, the cicadas droning endlessly. His last moments of life still pressed behind his eyes: the necklace, the gun, that final stupid syllable. Death had been instant. Absolute. So how was he here? And why in this body?
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. His pulse finally slowed. He looked at his alien hand again, flexed the fingers.
"Okay," he muttered, sarcasm breaking through. "So. Shot in the face. Wake up in a flower field. Puberty: round two. Magic lava hands. Sure. Why not. Perfectly normal day."
Silence. Only the cicadas answered.
Finally, he sighed. "Well, sitting here waiting for another gun to show up isn't going to help."
He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly. The field stretched endlessly, a riot of color, too perfect to be real. A faint trail cut through the grass.
He stared at it for a moment, then shrugged.
"Pick a direction, genius. Worst case? I walk straight into hell. At least it'll be familiar."
And with that, he began walking—away from death, toward something new, though he had no idea what waited at the end of the path.
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