Deus Necros

The damp air clung to them like a second skin, thick with the iron-sweet stench of something far worse than blood. Ludwig stood motionless amidst the writhing vegetation, his stillness unnatural against the twitching leaves and shuddering branches. The so-called professionals around him now gripped their weapons with white-knuckled hands, their breath coming in shallow gasps that fogged in the unnatural chill.

Death meant nothing to Ludwig. A minor inconvenience at worst. He could rewind time and redo what was done, rectify what went wrong. But for them? Each ragged breath might be their last. The realization hung between them like the mist coiling around their ankles.

The falchion-wielder stepped forward, his blade trembling slightly despite his deathgrip on the hilt. Sweat carved clean trails through the grime on his face as he studied Ludwig with new wariness. “Do you even feel fear, Davon?” The question hung between them, heavier than the humid air.

Ludwig turned just enough to meet the man’s gaze, his own eyes clear of any signs of either mockery or pity. “Why do you ask?” His voice carried the same disinterest as a man discussing the weather.

The hunter’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Anyone else—especially nobles—would be pissing themselves right now.” His gaze flickered to the pulsating vines creeping along the ground, to the shadows that moved just beyond the mist. “But you? Blood, gore, this… this abomination around us?” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Doesn’t even make you blink. Like you’re not human. Or worse—” His fingers tightened on his weapon. “Like you’ve seen this before.”

The sai user edged closer, his twin weapons raised in shaking hands. The polished metal reflected the unnatural glow of the bioluminescent fungi clinging to the trees—fungi that pulsed in time with some almost unseen heartbeat. “Shit,” he breathed, eyes darting between Ludwig and his companion. “From how serious you are…” His throat clicked as he swallowed. “It didn’t end well last time, did it?”

Ludwig flicked his wrist, Durandal’s form shifting seamlessly from scythe to sword. The metal gleamed dully, its edge seeming to drink in the faint light rather than reflect it. “It never does,” he said, so calmly it might have been a comment about the weather.

A rustle in the mist. Then another. The sound of something dragging itself forward. The three men turned as one as the third hunter emerged from the gloom, his head bowed so low his face remained in shadow. The hood of his cloak hung limp, soaked through with something darker than rainwater.

“Damn it, Vick!” The sai user exhaled sharply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he lowered his weapons a fraction. “You had us—” His words died as he stepped closer, boots squelching in the damp earth. “Where’s the sailor? Did you—”

“Get back!” Ludwig’s command cut through the night like a blade.

Too late.

Vick’s arm shot forward with unnatural speed, the limb no longer flesh but a mass of bark and writhing roots. It punched through the sai user’s chest with a wet crunch, emerging between his shoulder blades in a shower of splintered bone and torn fabric.

The impaled hunter gasped, a sound more surprised than pained. His weapons slipped from nerveless fingers, embedding themselves point-first in the soft earth. Blood welled in his mouth, spilling over his lips in thick rivulets as his hands scrabbled weakly at Vick’s hood. The fabric tore away, revealing a face that was no longer human.

Where eyes should have been, rosebuds swelled from the sockets, their petals slick with some viscous fluid. Beneath the skin, things squirmed—roots or worms or something worse—stretching the flesh into grotesque, pulsating shapes. The skin itself had taken on the texture of old parchment, cracking at the corners of the mouth as what remained of Vick spoke.

“Mother is calling…” The voice was wrong, layered with something beneath the human tones—the whisper of leaves against bark, the creak of straining wood. “Don’t stop me.”

The last sailor didn’t hesitate. With a strangled cry, he turned and fled, his boots churning the damp earth as he crashed through the undergrowth toward the shore. The remaining hunter lurched forward a step, free hand outstretched. “Oi! Get back here, you cowardly—”

His shout was cut short by a scream—not of fear, but of pure, animal terror. It rose in pitch until it became something almost inhuman, then cut off abruptly with a wet, crunching thud. The silence that followed was worse than the scream had been.

“Shit.” The hunter’s voice had gone flat. He spun his falchion in a tight, nervous arc, the blade catching the faint light. “This goddamned legacy…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “It’s going to be the end of us.”

Ludwig didn’t respond. He simply raised one hand, fingers curled in a loose gesture that might have been casual were it not for the way the air itself seemed to warp around them. “Fire Ball,” he murmured, his tone as disinterested as a man ordering breakfast.

The spell left his fingertips with a soft whoosh, the flames an unnatural blue at their core. It struck the impaled sai user square in the back, the explosion of heat and light engulfing both him and the thing that had been Vick. The fire burned too hot, too fast—the stench of charring flesh giving way to something sweeter, almost floral, as the vines within them caught alight.

The forest recoiled.

Vines snapped back like whipped serpents, their severed ends dripping a sap-like substance that hissed where it struck the flames. The very ground seemed to shudder, the grass withering away from the heat in visible waves. Even the trees leaned back, their branches creaking in protest.

[You have Slain Vick Dumaz – Construct Corruption]

[You will not gain any souls for killing what has already lost its soul.]

Ludwig exhaled through his nose. Just like the Moon Reavers. Just like the Constructs. Once the corruption took hold, the soul was already gone. No wonder Necros despised the Usurpers and their works.