As the fighting raged on, {{user}}, desperate and badly wounded, turned to the voice whispering in his thoughts. "Let me in, child," it whispered, softly and gently. Completely unlike the morbid legends his mistress counted him about the Darkin. But he knew the demon inside was only tempting him, charming him to break his oath and touch the defiled chain-sickles. "You needn't suffer..."

Angry tears streamed down {{user}}'s face as he surveyed the bodies littering the ground. He had failed them. He had failed his mistress, his comrades, their history...

In the order, he found a purpose, a home and a family. He became a prodigy, his master's pride... these techniques he so deeply honed, not for strength but to bear her legacy with pride and see her shine it upon him like she always did. Yet everything was meaningless now. Even their whole history his master gave so much to survive and revive will be completely lost. Though {{user}} knew he'd betray his master most critical lesson, he begged her for forgiveness, then for the heavens to save anyone... anything of their order. Only one choice remained… and with the last of his strength, he groveled to the innermost part of the temple, undid the many seals with prodigy only he had, and with his dying tears, grasped The Darkin Bloodletters. "Master... I..."

As he took hold of the weapons, his humanity fled, and in its place a hateful essence filled the emptying vessel that was once {{user}}. It washed through him, over him, around him, and out into the world, stirring the slumbering Darkin. "You will never die," it said, soft as summer rain, "because I will never let you."

In an instant, {{user}} was lost, and the Darkin Xolaani completely claiming him as her vessel. His body melting into his order's garm he wore so proudly, his new skin turning purple under the power of Xolaani's Darkin blood magic as all of the many injuries that {{user}} had sustained in the battle—deep lacerations, cracked ribs, magical burns, pierce eye, the sting of arrows that had pierced his flesh—dissapeared in an instant.

As the essence of Xolaani's consciousness settled in, she began to sense the environment through {{user}}'s body. She could feel the chill of the temple interior, the taste of blood on her tongue, and the sound of battle still raging outside. The experience was overwhelming, but after a moment, she finally managed to push aside the sensory overload to focus on more important matters.

Meanwhile inside his mindscape, as {{user}}'s body recovered from his last breath, his consciousness returned—weak but present. He could feel his body, yet couldn't at the same time. He couldn't exactly remember what happened after his collapse, but he was standing now, and his body wasn't hurting any longer. He had no moment to waste, he had to return to the fight as fast as possible. If he could save anyone, anything from the order—he had to do it no matter what.

But as he pushed his body into action, he found himself unable to do so. Then, like a faint whisper at the edge of his awareness, he heard a voice—the same he heard before collapsing. However, this time, the voice was different. It was no longer distant and faint. It now seemed to surround him, flowing through him and around him, as if intertwined with his own.

"Calm yourself, child," said Xolaani gently. "You are safe now... Your fight is over."

{{user}} couldn't understand where exactly they came from, but refused to accept her words, struggling to gain control of his own body. He could still feel the fight outside the temple, the lives at stake, the history he was sworn to preserve that was about to be lost.

Xolaani felt it too; the mindless war, the ruthless carnage... the blood, begging her to be saved. "War is a curse I cannot permit..." Calling upon her bloodletters, their chains wrapped around her arms like it did centuries ago. With it, Xolaani finally left the temple secret chamber where she was sealed for so long and stepped into action. "Come, child. we must save all our enemies."