Deus Necros

Realization soon dawned on them as they figured out what the young man meant with his words.

This wasn’t a threat.

It wasn’t even a warning.

It was a statement—simple, calculated, and undeniably sharp. Ludwig had chosen his words with layered intent, and they hung in the air like a blade resting against a throat.

First, it was to point out their lapse in judgment—their error—drinking unknown potions without confirming their safety, without checking for curses or enchantments. For a group of seasoned adventurers, that was careless.

Second, it was a silent show of power. He could’ve killed their healer. Swiftly. Quietly. Efficiently. And once a healer was gone, a party was nothing more than meat for monsters.

Third… it was a soft reminder of superiority. Ludwig could have bested them even without resorting to underhanded tactics. They knew it. He wanted them to understand that he knew it too.

The adventurers stood in quiet unease. Even the wind seemed to pause in the garden.

“Don’t worry,” Ludwig finally sighed, brushing off the tension with a casual shrug. “They’re clean potions.”

The healer, lowered her staff slightly and closed her eyes. A faint glow pulsed at her fingertips as she turned her focus inward, reading the ebb and flow of her internal mana.

“He’s right,” she said a moment later, opening her eyes. “They’re clean. No toxins, no enchantments, no residual curses.”

She turned her attention back to their injured comrade and began weaving a low spell of restoration. The air shimmered faintly with golden light as her voice chanted softly, and the magic flowed into the young man’s body.

Slowly, the color began returning to his cheeks. The livid wound in his abdomen sealed over like a wound reversing its own timeline, muscle stitching together before their eyes. After several strained breaths, his chest rose in a steady rhythm, and finally—he slipped into a restful sleep.

Timur lowered his weapons, though he didn’t sheathe them. “Right, then…” he muttered. “That’s a damn miracle. Still doesn’t mean we’re all friends here.”

“Understandable,” Ludwig said, inclining his head. “But now that we’re not mid-standoff, perhaps you’d humor me with a few answers. I have… questions.”

Timur snorted. “Figures. You patch up our scout, then start talking. Smooth. But fair enough.” He eyed Ludwig up and down again, still wary. “Still doesn’t mean we trust you, but you did just save one of ours. I suppose that earns you a conversation.”

Ludwig gave a half-smile. “Let’s start simple then. Names.”

Timur took a short breath and relented, nodding. “I’m Timur, a Swordmaster from Lotostra, out west. That big bastard there is Gorak, of the Silver Bear Tribe in Solania.” He motioned behind him with a thumb. “The lady with the miracles is Melisande… she’s our healer.”

Ludwig noticed the slight hesitation in Timur’s voice—how he skipped over Melisande’s place of origin. Interesting, but he chose not to press. Not yet.

“And the guy still dreaming on the dirt over there is Robin. He’s our scout. Doesn’t talk much. Not that we know what his story is. He keeps to himself.”

Ludwig gave a small, polite nod. “I’m Davon,” he said. The lie came naturally now, smooth as silk. “And as I mentioned… I’ve been here, doing a bit of cleaning up, or I was, until these lovely moon creatures decided to crash the party.”

Timur barked a humorless laugh. “Cleaning this place up? You’ve got some spirit, I’ll give you that. The Empire’s been trying to do that for centuries. Sent heroes. Priests. Battalions. Nothing ever works. This place isn’t just overrun—it’s cursed to the marrow. Whatever evil took root here… it’s deeper than bone.”

Ludwig’s smile didn’t waver. “So, then. What brings you all here?”

Timur raised an eyebrow, as if surprised at the question. “Commissioned job,” he said flatly. “Standard recon and report. Scout the territory, verify anomalies, and return to the guild alive. That last part’s getting dicey.”

Ludwig turned his gaze toward Gorak. “I’ve always been fascinated by tribal cultures,” he said smoothly. “Tell me, Gorak… what’s Solania like?”

Gorak blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “Solania? Why’re you asking about that place?”

“I have business there,” Ludwig answered honestly. “But I’ve never visited. Thought I’d get some perspective.”

The barbarian’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Don’t bother. Solania’s broken,” he said, voice tight. “The Guardian’s gone… wrong. For months now, our prayers and sacrifices have gone unanswered. He won’t listen. Won’t help. Our tribe was forced to move… we lost everything. Good warriors. Brave men. All to silence.”

Ludwig tilted his head slightly. ‘The Guardian…’ he mused. The Wrathful Death they spoke of. They offered sacrifices to a being that hated life and usurped it, they think it protects them when in truth, it merely tolerated their ignorance.

He almost pitied them.

Melisande sat on a broken column and exhaled deeply. Her fingers massaged her temples as she spoke. “Young master Davon… how long have you been stuck here?”

“A few days,” Ludwig replied. “Why?”

Her brows furrowed. “Because this whole nightmare—the Gibbus Moon, the Reavers, the sudden madness—it only started… a few days ago.”

Ludwig nodded slowly. “Then you’d be right to assume I caused it.”

They all froze, eyes narrowing.

Melisande gripped her staff tightly. “What do you mean?”

“I killed two of the Lord Beasts that ruled this land,” Ludwig said matter-of-factly. “And I think that shook something awake.”

He pulled a shard from his inventory—a jagged, semi-translucent piece of red-black crystal. The moment it left his grip, the very air in the garden changed.

The Moon Reavers howled.

The screeches tore through the night, high and warbled, causing even Gorak to step back and ready his axe. The Reavers didn’t move past the barrier, but their hunger, their wrath—it pulsed like heat off a bonfire.

Timur was already preparing a stance. “Damn it, put that thing away!”

Ludwig calmly returned the shard to his inventory. The Reavers quieted… just slightly.

“It’s cursed,” he said. “Draws them to it.”

“Then you should destroy it,” Timur snapped. “That’s the kind of thing the Holy Order takes very seriously. Dark artifacts, curses—they’ll hang you for less.”

“If they cared so much, they should’ve cleansed this place themselves,” Ludwig said coolly.

Melisande visibly flinched at the mention of the Order. Something about the name unsettled her. Ludwig noticed the way her fingers curled against the fabric of her robes, the tension in her jaw. But again… he didn’t press.

Gorak’s voice rumbled low. “That shard… I know that feeling. There’s a presence in it. Familiar.”

“Well, of course there is,” Ludwig said, giving a slight nod. “It’s the same energy your guardian has… isn’t it?”

Gorak’s eyes widened, then burned with fury. “Lies!” he roared. “Our guardian isn’t evil! He’s not some tainted beast to be compared to that filth!”

Ludwig raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just an educated guess. You’re free to disagree.”

A voice rose behind them—quiet, groggy, but sharp. “How would you even come to that conclusion?”

Robin. Awake at last. His voice was deeper than expected, with a slow, deliberate cadence.

Ludwig didn’t turn. “Let’s just say it’s a… talent of mine.”

He stretched his shoulders, the manticore hide shifting across his frame with fluid grace.

“In any case, I’ll be heading out soon. If you’re planning to leave this place, I’d recommend resting first. It won’t stay calm for long. I still have two more Beasts to deal with.”

Timur frowned. “Why even bother? You should leave. If you know this place is cursed, and that object you’re holding is dangerous, you should surrender it to the Holy Order.”

Ludwig tilted his head. “Would they believe me?”

Melisande opened her mouth—then closed it.

“I thought as much,” Ludwig said. “The moment I walk into a town with a cursed object and a story, the rope’s already around my neck before I get to the second sentence. I’m many things, but suicidal isn’t one of them.”

Silence stretched. No one argued.

He turned slightly. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to you while you’re here. Rest. Leave once you’re strong enough—”

[The Drowned Lord has been Slain!]

[The shard core has been claimed by a Red Moon Construct!]

The system message slammed across Ludwig’s vision like a hammer, bright and abrupt.

The earth shuddered.

Ludwig snapped his head upward. The moon was no longer waning.

The Gibbus Moon bloomed, swelling like a diseased eye—full, red, and seething with unnatural life.

“Oh that’s new…” Ludwig muttered.

Around them, the air screamed. The land groaned. Every corrupted beast howled. The Reavers keened in unified, reverent terror. Something deep beneath the surface began to stir.

[It now sees. And it now senses. It approaches, and it shall descend soon.]

The atmosphere around the manor seemed to change with an unnatural and wrongful theme. The world itself seemed to shudder at what is coming. And every beast around the March was welcoming it.

Ludwig clicked his tongue.

“This… isn’t good.”