Deus Necros

More than hundreds of years ago…

In the southwest of the Lufondal Empire lay the March of Bastos, a land ruled by one of the most prominent noble families of the Kingdom of Lamar. The Bastos family was old—so ancient, in fact, that legends spoke of their existence long before the Lufondal Empire itself rose to power. Renowned not for their military might but for their staggering wealth, the Bastos family wielded influence that could rival the seven kingdoms of the empire combined.

Yet, despite their strength, the Bastos family showed no interest in power struggles or the throne. They neither bowed to the emperor nor rebelled against him outright. Instead, they stood apart, a looming dragon too proud to kneel but too dormant to provoke. Even the emperor himself, after years of failed attempts to undermine them by empowering rival nobles, had resigned himself to their coexistence.

Their territory flourished, unbothered by the turbulence of imperial politics. But beneath the surface of their pristine image was a problem, one that simmered within the walls of the family’s opulent mansion.

“WHERE IS VAN DIJK?!”

The furious roar of Dante Bastos, patriarch of the Bastos family, reverberated through the marble corridors of the grand estate. He stood in his study, a man as imposing as the castle itself. Towering at two meters tall with a frame like a bear, Dante’s presence alone could cow the boldest of warriors.

Before him stood a trembling maid, her head bowed low. Though she appeared to be a simple servant, she was anything but. A fourth-tier Swordmaster trained in assassination techniques, her mere presence was enough to unnerve even seasoned warriors. Yet here, in the presence of her enraged master, she dared not lift her gaze.

“My lord,” she said, her voice laced with fear, “Lord Van Dijk is not in the palace. We’ve searched every room.”

Dante’s fist slammed down onto the mahogany desk, splintering it into fragments. He held a crumpled piece of parchment in his other hand, his knuckles white with tension. “That idiot son of mine! Bring Celine to me, now!”

“Yes, my lord.” The maid melted into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly and silently as she had come.

Moments later, a tall woman in full military regalia entered the room. Her gray hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her icy blue eyes bore a sharpness that rivaled steel. This was Celine, Dante’s daughter, a commander whose presence exuded authority.

“You called, My Lord?” she said, her tone as calm as the sea before a storm.

The old man sighed, “I told you many times, when we’re together, call me father,” he said, he then waved the parchment at her, his face red with frustration. “That brother of yours! Do you have any idea what he’s done this time?”

Celine’s lips quirked in a small, knowing smirk. “Which incident are you referring to, Father? Was it the time he sold your prized River and Sea painting for wine? Or the time he set the Duke of Montana’s wig on fire in front of his entire court? Or perhaps the night he drank more than an entire viscount’s yearly income?”

Dante groaned, collapsing into his chair. “That boy is going to be the death of me. my old heart can’t take this.” Exaggerating his antics to get some sympathy of his daughter.

Celine moved behind him, her hands deftly massaging his tense shoulders. “Father, you can’t have heart problems, you’re a True Vampire, let alone a heart attack. Now, stop the whinging and tell me what he’s done this time.”

Dante sighed, his frustration bleeding into melancholy. “It’s not just his antics, Celine. He’s changed since your mother died. Unlike you, he doesn’t share my… condition. He’ll age. He’ll grow old. And one day, he’ll be gone.”

“It is the fate of all mortals, I can see why you dote on him a lot, Francesca was a gentle and kind woman, what happened to her was out of any of our control…”

“I should have been there if only she kept my keepsake with her…” the old man said.

“She gave it to him, that’s what parental Love does, father,” Celine replied as she rubbed on her father’s shoulders.

Dante’s gaze fell to the parchment in his hand. “Still… this time, he’s crossed a line.” He handed it to her, and Celine’s eyes scanned the contents.

Her lips twitched. “Even for him, this is bold.”

***

Meanwhile, in a lively inn on the outskirts of the Bastos territory, the air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and the faint tang of spilled beer. The dimly lit interior glowed with the warm orange hues of lanterns and a crackling hearth. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, their surfaces scarred from years of rowdy brawls and the occasional drunken axe throw.

Laughter and shouts filled the room, mingling with the cheerful tunes of a bard strumming a lute in the corner. Adventurers, merchants, and laborers crowded around tables, their mugs sloshing with frothy ale as they toasted to victories both real and exaggerated.

At the center of the chaos stood a young man, shirtless and wiry but brimming with reckless energy. In his hands, he held a massive keg of beer, his grin wide and challenging.

“Old man, I’m taking that beard of yours tonight!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the din.

Across from him stood a burly dwarf, his chest puffed out with the pride of his race. He cradled a keg of his own, his expression one of equal parts amusement and determination.

“For a twig of a human, you’ve got guts!” the dwarf bellowed. “But tonight, lad, you’ll be the one running naked through the streets!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and chants of “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!” as the two competitors raised their kegs and began to drink.

The young man tilted his head back, gulping the frothy liquid with abandon. The keg was almost half his size, but he didn’t falter, his determination fueled by both pride and the sheer joy of the moment. Around him, the tavern roared with excitement, the patrons slamming their mugs against the tables in rhythm with the chants.

The dwarf matched him gulp for gulp, his beard dripping with beer as he grinned through the challenge. “You’re good, lad,” he said between swigs. “But you’ve met your match tonight!”

The young man wobbled slightly, the weight of the keg and the sheer volume of alcohol beginning to take their toll. But he didn’t stop, his grin never faltering even as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.

Finally, with a dramatic flourish, he drained the last of his keg and slammed it onto the table. “HA! Take that, you stubby bastard!”

But before he could revel in his victory, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor in a fit of drunken laughter.

The dwarf roared with laughter, pounding his chest. “You’ve got spirit, boy! I’ll give you that. But you’re no match for a dwarf’s liver!”

The tavern exploded into cheers and laughter, the patrons raising their mugs in salute to the two competitors. The bard struck up a lively tune, and the room seemed to come alive with renewed energy.