Deus Necros

“I shouldn’t assume that you are uninterested in my daughter then,” the house head said, his voice even, though the weight of his words carried unmistakable intent.

“As I mentioned earlier,” Ludwig replied, his tone measured and deliberate, “it’s far too early for such discussions. We’ve only just met, and jumping straight into talks of marriage seems premature. While I appreciate the goodwill you’ve shown, such decisions require time, understanding, and mutual agreement.”

The house head’s expression flickered with faint surprise at Ludwig’s response. He had likely expected either excitement or hesitation, not the poised dismissal of a boy who appeared far more collected than his years.

Before he could reply, one of the wives seized the moment, her tone honeyed but sharp enough to cut. “We simply wish to elevate your position within society, dear. While you certainly have a refined and rather… intriguing presence, the Heart family remains a mystery to us. Please don’t take offense; we only wish to better understand you.”

Ludwig’s expression didn’t change, but inwardly he noted the bait for what it was. A veiled insult wrapped in curiosity. They weren’t just testing his patience—they were probing his background, trying to gauge the depth of his roots and connections. A less experienced guest might have leaped to defend their family or retaliate in anger, playing right into their hands. But in this world the only Heart is Ludwig, who ironically has no heart.

He smiled politely. “If it’s social standing you’re concerned about, shouldn’t it be the other way around, my lady?” he countered smoothly. “After all, even if I hail from a humble background, did you perhaps forget whose disciple I am?”

if they wanted a dick-measuring contest, Ludwig wasn’t too afraid of swinging his massive shlong called Van Dijk.

The tension at the table shifted tangibly. Her lips parted slightly, her carefully rehearsed composure faltering. The reminder was potent, leaving no room for doubt about Ludwig’s place in the grander hierarchy. If these people thought they could question his worth, they had miscalculated.

The patriarch quickly interjected with a hearty laugh, sensing the need to diffuse the awkwardness. “Indeed, who are we to question the disciple of Bastos Van Dijk? It would be our honor to have any association with you. Let us move away from this topic, shall we?”

Ludwig inclined his head. “As you wish.”

The table settled momentarily, though the tension lingered in the air. The patriarch, likely eager to salvage the atmosphere, shifted to a different subject. “My daughter spoke highly of your swordsmanship. She mentioned you demonstrated remarkable skill in the battle yesterday. I must admit, this intrigues me. My eldest son Dross, unfortunately not present today, would relish the opportunity to spar with someone of your talent. Would you do us the honor of meeting him?”

‘Ah, so the eldest isn’t the arrogant fool sitting here,’ Ludwig mused, glancing briefly at the smug-faced second son who had done little more than taunt and sneer throughout the meal.

“I’ve heard impressive things about your eldest son,” Ludwig replied diplomatically. “An aura user at such a young age is certainly a rare achievement.”

One of the wives straightened in her seat, her chest puffing with pride. Her reaction confirmed her status as the eldest son’s mother. By contrast, the other wife’s expression remained composed, though her tightly clasped hands betrayed simmering emotions beneath the surface.

‘A house divided,’ Ludwig noted silently. The subtext in their interactions painted a clear picture. The eldest son, Dross, was their pride and joy, the epitome of noble expectations. Alva, meanwhile, was viewed as a secondary asset, valuable only insofar as she could be married off to strengthen alliances.

“Yes, Dross has always been exceptional,” the proud wife interjected. “He was even compared to Joana Munster in her youth.”

Ludwig’s brow arched subtly. ‘Joana? My sword teacher? That’s an interesting connection.’

“Although my sister here tried, she has yet to present us a male heir to compete. I’m afraid she’d be too old to even give birth anymore now, but her daughter is still pretty enough to topple a nation, it is a shame that this wedding wasn’t happening.”

Three stabs at her sister wife in the same sentence. ‘Man, nobles sure have it rough talking normally…’

The other wife remained silent, her face carefully neutral. But Ludwig could sense the tension radiating from her, an undercurrent of resentment likely born from years of unspoken rivalry.

Ludwig understood from this exchange a few things, the first wife was the mother of these four snobs. While the other wife only gave birth to Alva. Alva being the only daughter makes her a strong and precious bargaining chip, and at the same time will always be inferior to the others since she was born as female.

This isn’t modern age where one’s rights are better preserved and everyone has a better opportunity to express themselves. This is a medieval world. Women are only treated to the ability they present. Oppression and exclusion is paramount here, and for Alva to have a say in her life she needs to become something much more, the only issue is that her eldest brother had created a ceiling so high for her to breach through that it was no wonder Hoyo called her a tragic woman.

Without endless effort and a great deal of luck, her life will always be bound, she will be nothing more than a bargaining chip to be used by nobles. A shitty way to live.

“You’re giving Alva far too little credit,” Ludwig said suddenly, cutting through the unspoken animosity. His words drew the attention of everyone at the table. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

“She’s still recovering,” the first wife said dismissively, only for her response to be interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

“I apologize for my late arrival.”

All heads turned as Alva entered the room. Dressed in an elegant gown that complemented her noble heritage, her appearance was a stark contrast to the disheveled warrior Ludwig had fought alongside the previous day. Her hair, no longer tied back in a utilitarian ponytail, flowed freely down her back, framing her delicate features. She moved with measured grace, though Ludwig noticed the exhaustion in her eyes, barely concealed by makeup.

“Ah, you’re finally done prettying up,” her father remarked, his tone dismissive, as though her appearance was an obligation rather than a choice.

“Too bad your would-be husband refused,” the second son sneered, his words dripping with mockery.

Alva froze momentarily, her eyes narrowing in confusion. “Husband?”

“It was just a passing suggestion,” her father said quickly, gesturing for her to take a seat. “Come, join us.”

The only available seat was beside Ludwig. She hesitated briefly before taking it, her movements careful and reserved.

“Ludwig commended your abilities in battle,” the patriarch said, attempting to steer the conversation. “He seems to hold you in high regard.”

Alva’s head dipped slightly, her expression shadowed by embarrassment. She remembered the events of the previous day all too well—the moments of weakness, her eventual rally, and finally, her collapse. Ludwig had carried the burden of the battle alone, ensuring her survival while fending off overwhelming odds.

Ludwig noticed her discomfort and decided to intervene. “Alva is still young,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “As am I. Comparing us to those with decades of experience is neither fair nor productive. Growth takes time, and potential should never be underestimated.”

The patriarch nodded thoughtfully. “That is why Alva, like Dross, was given three years at the White Tower Academy to prove herself. If she fails to achieve notable success within that time, she will return home.”

Ludwig’s jaw tightened. The ultimatum was clear: succeed or be relegated to a life dictated by others. The weight of expectation hung heavily over Alva, her every step shadowed by the towering achievements of her eldest brother.

“Three years is more than enough time,” Ludwig said, his words carrying a quiet conviction. “From what I’ve seen, Alva has the potential to achieve greatness.”

Alva’s gaze flickered toward him, her expression a mixture of surprise and gratitude. She didn’t understand why Ludwig was defending her, but in that moment, his words felt like a lifeline.

The table fell silent, the weight of Ludwig’s declaration settling over them. For the first time, Alva felt a glimmer of hope—a reminder that her story was far from over.