Ancient Technique
The Duke's Archives wasn't hard at all, to clear the abominations of Seath and his wizard friends. His sword, finally put to rest after a day's work of fighting, lay beside him as he examined the many books of the archives. The Undead knew very little of the arcane knowledge, let alone casting sorcery, but it was interesting. He would feel the pages or even etch some message within it himself. Sometimes the interest wasn't even in the books but the globes that he spun around for hours, it had maps of the world on them which was strange to him. The world wasn't round, was it?
Suddenly, the bookshelves began to shake, and he felt a disturbance within himself, something terrible was happening. The Spooked Undead, clad in the armor of Ornstein, grabbed his sword and hid behind the book case. But he knew very well that this phantom would find him as there were no places to hide. He was out in the open, vulnerable, the invader would find him and take his humanity, he was sure of it. Unless he could win somehow, but our friend had little confidence in himself including his ability to fight. All those hours and days of fighting, practicing, and winning against the mindless hollowed. It was nothing compared to another undead with it's mind intact, he was woefully outmatched, there were covenants of men who practiced the killing of innocent and unmolested Undead like himself.
He peeked the corner, watching for the Phantom, waiting, in his armor he could feel the sweat roll downwards, to his shaky legs. Indeed, the phantom he witnessed did outclass our hero, for he wielded the sword of the fallen spider witch, Quaelag. Mightily did it burn in his hands, he wore a strange outlandish type of armor. Silly did it look, but perhaps some ancient power it held, but more important a detail was the pyromancer's flame in the invader's off-hand. A dangerous practice that was feared, rightfully so, amongst the hunters of the dead.
Our Spooked Undead only had one choice, his options limited, there was only one technique he could use. He would not call upon this ancient practice, this holy and sacred move, unless the situation was absolutely dire. Quickly the invader found him, it's keen eyes catching his image through the missing books in the bookshelves. A mighty blow was swung by the phantom and the Undead called upon his holy move to defend himself. Never before did the phantom feel such... fear, such helplessness, against this Undead's hidden tool. The Trump Card of Gods, the Hunter of hunters, Knight killer, the God-Slayer technique, our poor invader could not fathom that this sacred move was known to the Spooked one. So simple was this move and so great it's achievements, the techniques passed from generation to generation, born from the ocean of sweat and tempered in tears of agony.
The Parry.
He was right to call upon this Slayer of Gods, his trump of trump cards, the Spooked Undead could not help but smile upon his fortune. His luck that the enemy would make his first and would-be-last move. He smiled as he drove his Claymore through the phantom's form, causing it to fade, but it was not enough to banish him. His enemy got up, upon the floor he cast his spell and great chaotic flames blasted upwards from the floor, setting the archives aflame. His rage and fear channeled like the spells he threw, one after the other, just to keep his prey at a distance. Among the flames they danced, dodging, swearing, cursing and casting until finally a cry rang out through the archives.
The Invader was banished back to his realm.