I once thought the path through the Lands Between was paved with complex calculations, with meta builds and bleeding-edge strategies that shimmered like mirages in the Caelid wilds. I wrote apologies to phantoms I'd failed, a scribe of my own ineptitude. But now, in 2026, with the echoes of the past two years still whispering in the wind, I have learned a simpler truth. All it takes is a big stick and the stubborn dream to swing it. The journey has transformed from a desperate siege into a stroll through a park, albeit one where the flowerbeds might sprout poison and the squirrels have swords for tails.
My rebirth began with a single, deliberate choice. I forsook the elegant, crimson arcs of Rivers of Blood—a weapon that once felt like conducting a symphony of hemorrhage—and sought out the most primitive tool I could find: a Great Club. It was not a weapon; it was a statement. My first pilgrimage was to the Mimic Tear, that silver mirror of self. The goal was simple: create not one, but two avatars of bonk. Bonk the Bonkest was born, and with him, a clone that shared my singular, beautiful purpose. Where I once min-maxed stats with the precision of a watchmaker, I now embraced the philosophy of the caveman, finding it strangely liberating and devastatingly effective. My old dex/bleed build felt like trying to solve a cosmic equation with a quill, while this new approach was like using the mountain itself as an eraser.
This philosophy was put to the test against Commander O’Niall, a boss who had once been the quicksand of my early relationship. Months into dating, my partner knew him only through a barrage of frantic Snapchats, each a pixelated testament to my rage as he summoned spectral knights and struck with the unfair precision of a falling guillotine. He lived in our shared lexicon as The Frustration. Now, with my partner sharing my couch and my life, the reunion was cathartic. "THERE'S THE C**T," I declared, not with anger, but with the glee of a gardener spotting a particularly stubborn weed. My clone and I descended upon him. The dance was not one of parries and dodges, but of overwhelming, rhythmic force. In less than a minute, he was pulp beneath our clubs. The victory was shared, a silly ghost from our past laid to rest by the bluntest of instruments.
The dominoes of demigods began to fall with a satisfying thud.
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Mohg, Lord of Blood: He prepared his sanguine rituals, but our strategy was a metronome of pure impact. Jump attack. Jump attack. Jump attack. My Mimic swung with wild abandon, and the self-proclaimed Lord of Blood crumpled like a paper crown in a rainstorm.
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Starscourge Radahn: The festival became a farce. While the noble NPCs drew his celestial ire, we scurried between his legs like determined beetles, chipping away at the giant with joyful, ignorant persistence.
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The Golden Lineage: Godfrey's seismic slams met the unflinching wood of my club. Margit, the Fell Omen, was made to look like... well, a Margit. Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon, never even got the chance to retreat into her aquatic snow globe; we interrupted her reverie with a percussive argument she couldn't win.
Yet, one shadow remains on my horizon: Malenia, Blade of Miquella. The image of her is seared into the soul of every Tarnished. But my dread has melted into a quiet certainty. The player who once trembled at her waterfowl dance is gone. This time, it will be a solo performance. Not of a graceful duelist, but of a determined laborer with a tool, meeting artistry with sheer, unwavering force. She is the final, elegant lock, and I have forged myself into the simplest, heaviest key.
And my journey is not over. My arsenal is humble—one stick. But the world holds bigger sticks. The promise of power stancing beckons—the art of wielding two colossal weapons in a synchronized dance of destruction. Two Bonk the Bonkests. Four clubs. The very thought makes the ground tremble. As I look toward the looming Shadow of the Erdtree, I do not feel anxiety. I feel prepared. I will meet whatever new horrors await not with a spreadsheet, but with a splintering oak.
| Old Me | Bonk the Bonkest |
|---|---|
| Apologetic to summons | Independent, stick-wielding force |
| Reliant on meta (Rivers of Blood) | Champion of personal, simple style |
| Frustrated by O'Niall | Defeated him in <60 seconds with a clone |
| Dreaded Malenia | Approaches her with calm, blunt-force resolve |
| Sought optimal glitches | Finds power in straightforward, heavy attacks |
With thousands of hours etched into the worlds of FromSoftware and their many spiritual successors, I've run the gamut from try-hard to speedrunner. Yet, this simple, "dumb" idea has been my greatest teacher. Soulslike games, I've learned, are not cathedrals built only for the perfectly optimized. They are playgrounds. The community will always chase the meta, fine-tuning builds with the frantic energy of stock traders before a crash. But true mastery isn't about the weapon; it's about the weld between warrior and tool, about the comfort found in a routine, however absurd. It's why people triumph with a broken straight sword, or, as the legends go, on a pregnancy test.
The pressure to be perfect evaporates when you stop listening to the noise and start listening to the thunk of your club connecting. It's a lesson that transcends the game: find your big, honkin' stick—the thing that feels right in your hands, that makes the struggle fun—and the most poisoned swamps become breezy walks. The path is only impossible if you insist on climbing it with someone else's map. Mine is drawn in simple, bold lines, and it leads forward, one heavy swing at a time.