Deus Necros

Ludwig glanced back at the group trudging behind him. Sweat poured down their faces, and their labored breathing echoed faintly through the forest. He had deliberately slowed his pace, yet the gap between him and the others continued to grow.

“I’m really trying my best to slow down, guys,” Ludwig said, exhaling sharply. Despite his best efforts, his natural stride and stamina carried him ahead effortlessly.

Hoyo, lagging at the rear, bent forward with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “How about…” he started, his words clipped by panting, “you go on ahead of us.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Kassandra interjected, her voice calm but firm. Her sharp eyes scanned the dense forest as they moved. “We’re better off staying together. Besides…” She trailed off, pointing toward the forest floor ahead. “Look over there. I think we’re close to the others.”

The group’s collective attention turned to the area she indicated. The ground was a tapestry of destruction—trees scorched and splintered, patches of earth torn apart, and a broken spear lying abandoned amidst claw marks in the dirt. The air here felt heavier, laced with a faint metallic tang that suggested blood had recently soaked the ground.

“They had a fight here,” muttered one of the students, a hint of fear creeping into their tone. “Looks like they fought that big guy we saw earlier.”

Ludwig crouched near the broken spear, examining its design and size. He shook his head. “I doubt it. The spear’s too short for that behemoth we saw before. And look at this footprint.” He gestured to a depression in the muddy ground. “It’s lizardman, but much smaller. Definitely not that guy.”

“That’s… decent news,” Kassandra said, her words carrying a cautious optimism.

Hoyo groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s decent about knowing we’ve got more enemies instead of just one?”

“The fact that it means not all lizardmen are like that,” Kassandra replied, emphasizing her point with a nod in the direction of the smaller footprint. “That ‘THING’ was an outlier, not the norm. If we were up against a horde of creatures that size, we’d already be dead.”

“Fair point,” Ludwig said, standing up and brushing dirt off his knees. “Not good news, but decent. Let’s keep moving east.” He adjusted his sword’s hilt, its familiar weight a reassuring presence at his side.

The group pressed onward, their footsteps quieter now as unease settled over them. The distant sounds of battle—metal clashing against scales, shouts cutting through the air—had ceased some time ago, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake. Ludwig’s unease grew with each passing moment. Silence could mean victory, but it could just as easily mean total annihilation.

His mind churned with possibilities. The Academy couldn’t possibly have sent them into a situation designed for failure, could they? It seemed unlikely—there had to be a way through this, a lesson to be learned. Still, the sudden hush nagged at his thoughts like a splinter lodged deep under his skin.

Suddenly, the underbrush to their right shuddered violently. Ludwig’s hand flew to his sword, the rest of the group freezing in place. Time seemed to stretch as a charred figure stumbled into view.

It was a lizardman, its body a testament to the battle it had barely survived. Scales blackened and cracked from fire, blood oozing from countless gashes. Its right arm hung useless at its side, while its left clutched a splintered spear, the wood dark with dried blood. Its reptilian eyes, milky and unfocused, scanned the area as it limped forward.

Ludwig raised his hand in a sharp motion, signaling the group to stay silent. His eyes locked on the creature as he calculated its next move. It hadn’t noticed them yet, its gait slow and uneven as it pushed through the foliage.

Then, predictably, someone in the group screamed.

The sound shattered the stillness like glass, and the lizardman’s head snapped toward the group. A guttural hiss tore from its throat as it hurled its spear toward the source of the noise.

“Shit!” Ludwig cursed under his breath, his body reacting faster than his mind. The short sword in his hand blurred as he swung it in an arc. The blade met the spear mid-flight with a metallic clang, splintering it into two harmless pieces that clattered to the ground.

The lizardman roared, its injured frame lurching forward with surprising speed. It charged toward the screaming student, oblivious to Ludwig, who had already shifted into its path.

Barely days of training flooded Ludwig’s mind. He tightened his grip on the short sword, assessing the situation with cold precision. The Imperial Style, with its heavy, sweeping strikes, was useless here—his current weapon lacked the weight and reach to execute its techniques effectively.

But Ludwig had learned adaptability. He adjusted his stance, drawing from the style’s foundation and modifying it to fit his circumstances. The second half of the Forceful Stomp flashed through his memory: a forward thrust, precise and devastating.

The lizardman closed the gap in a heartbeat, but Ludwig was faster. His blade plunged forward, piercing its chest with a sickening crunch.

[Critical!]

[You have slain a Lizardman!]

[You gained one Wayward Soul.]

Blood sprayed across Ludwig’s face, the warmth and metallic smell triggering a visceral reaction deep within him. He staggered slightly, his mind reeling even as his body moved on instinct. He wrenched the blade free, and the lizardman crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Ludwig turned to face the group, his expression hard. “This was a lucky kill,” he said, his voice sharp and biting. “Next time, keep quiet. If you can’t manage that, stay here. I won’t let your incompetence get us all killed.”

The student who had screamed looked away, shame painting their face crimson. No one else spoke; the tension in the air was suffocating.

Without waiting for a reply, Ludwig sheathed his blade and started walking again. The blood clinging to his skin was an annoyance, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Especially the notification that flashed before his eyes.

{Wayward Soul: A soul without sentience that has claimed many lives. Valued as 10 souls, it is the second-lowest Soul Rank.}

Ludwig’s gaze shifted to the Lantern. A small orb now orbited the ghostly figure, its faint glow a grim reminder of the life he had just taken. It had joined Thomas, making for a grim companion in a lonely place.

“So, souls have ranks,” Ludwig muttered, piecing the information together. “Figures. Not all lives are equal. The lizardman claimed more lives than Thomas ever did. Makes sense its soul would be worth more.”

A new notification appeared:

{+1 Wisdom.}

Ludwig raised an eyebrow, his pace slowing as he processed the message. The added stat confirmed his suspicions: this dungeon wasn’t just a trial of survival—it was a crucible for growth.