Deus Necros

The instructor waited in silence, his stance relaxed but unmistakably poised. The polished sheen of his rapier caught the lamplight overhead, glinting faintly like a serpent’s fang. One boot behind the other, his weight rested on the balls of his feet, composed and precise, as if the room itself answered to the rhythm of his breath.

“Oh, the classic giving the weaker opponent the first move? Right?” Ludwig asked, his voice light, but the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. There was no arrogance in the question, just the faintest sting of curiosity, perhaps amusement. His feet shuffled subtly into position, Oathcarver humming softly in his palm, as though the sword itself had a pulse.

“It is only natural to have a better assessment,” the instructor replied, not flinching. His tone was clipped and even, almost gentlemanly. He adjusted the fingers of his offhand behind his back with an absent sort of grace, eyes never leaving Ludwig’s.

“Then by all means, don’t die,” Ludwig said, and in the same breath launched forward, his motion a blur that displaced the air itself. The wooden boards beneath his feet creaked sharply from the pressure, more a warning than a cry while the loose ends of his cloak snapped behind him like banners in the wind.

The instructor’s brow lifted. There had been speed in that charge, unexpected, unnatural. He didn’t falter, though. He shifted seamlessly, one foot crossing behind the other as his frame turned inward, presenting his left shoulder and elbow slightly forward. His sword arm bent at an elegant angle, elbow low, wrist pointed with deliberate precision. He hunched forward slightly, narrowing his silhouette, letting his blade lead like a needle at the end of a loom.

Ludwig’s grip on Oathcarver shifted mid-stride, from a wide, sweeping side-grasp to an overhead clasp, his knuckles whitening around the hilt. It was fluid, practiced, controlled chaos. With an audible grunt, he brought the massive weapon down in a vertical arc. The very air beneath the steel cracked, a rush of pressure sweeping outward from the swing as if the blade had split the room itself in two.

The instructor’s first impulse had been to meet it. To raise his rapier and contest the strike. His right arm had even begun the motion, fingers twitching to bring the steel up, but a flicker of intuition stopped him. In that heartbeat, he veered, stepping to the right with the grace of a dancer, avoiding the downward crash by inches. The blade met the floor with a boom, splinters of polished wood erupting like shrapnel around their feet.

And even as he dodged, the instructor moved to punish, his rapier shooting out in a tight thrust aimed cleanly for Ludwig’s throat. His eyes were half-lidded, the shadow of a smirk dancing on his lips. He thought it was over.

But Ludwig didn’t freeze.

He let go of Oathcarver entirely, the blade still embedded in the floorboards. In one seamless pivot, his body folded backward, both hands planting flat behind him as he flipped out of the strike’s path. His boots lifted overhead, the world turning upside down, and with a twist of his hips, his heel came arcing toward the instructor’s jaw.

The instructor recoiled at once, not from fear but from raw instinct. His feet shifted again, boots gliding over the floor as he launched himself backward, evading the kick by a margin so slim it might have brushed his collar. As he slid, Ludwig completed the arc of his movement and landed in a crouch. One arm reached back. Oathcarver rose from the split floor as though summoned, torn from its resting place with a sharp, cracking sound that echoed like a falling guillotine.

“So far, you’re definitely higher than C,” the instructor said, brushing dust from the front of his vest. His voice had taken on a more serious timbre now, calm, but no longer dismissive.

“Quite the low scoring,” Ludwig replied, exhaling as he lifted the enormous blade in one hand, the edge tilted lazily toward his opponent.

“With how you’re able to hold that massive weapon, your muscular strength is impressive. A-Class power at least,” the instructor added, eyeing the sword. There was no mistaking the weight behind it. The thing wasn’t built to finesse. It was a tool of destruction.

“Right, I heard that before. Trying to fight you using speed is pretty much a losing deal on my end,” Ludwig replied, voice steady, but low.

“Indeed,” the instructor said. “I’m faster. More refined. Better trained. That doesn’t mean I’ll look down on you. Keep at what you know best, I’ll assess you fairly.”

Ludwig gave a faint smile, but his eyes were hard. Focused. “You know the reason people created technique?” he asked, his tone turning philosophical. There was no mockery in it.

The instructor didn’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s a basic answer. Technique was made to beat strength,” he said plainly.

“But what if strength also had technique?” Ludwig asked, his voice quieter now.

The instructor’s lips parted slightly at that. “Then that’s what one calls a Swordmaster. Are you saying you’re at that level?”

Ludwig didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted his footing again. Then he asked with eerie calm, “Can you use aura?”

“I do,” the instructor replied without hesitation.

“Good,” Ludwig muttered, more to himself than to the other man. He bent low, one hand dipping to the floor like a beast preparing to pounce, Oathcarver angled across his back like a great scythe. “Better buckle up.”

Ludwig flung himself forward.

It was not merely a charge, it was a force of momentum born from honed instinct and layered movement. His body twisted mid-air, rotating in a fierce spiral. Oathcarver followed, the blade cleaving through space like the orbit of a falling meteor. There was weight behind that movement, not just the steel, but the intent. No testing swing, no half-hearted blow. This was a strike meant to obliterate, not threaten.

The instructor’s eyes tracked it, the rapier flickering in his grip like a sliver of lightning. For the first time, the corners of his mouth tensed. A faint click of the tongue followed, more habit than irritation, as he weighed his options in a fraction of a heartbeat. Blocking was out of the question. That blade would snap his rapier like a brittle twig. And dodging to either side would only bring the flat of the weapon crashing against him on the rebound.

He was cornered.

In that moment, with no time to think, the instructor summoned his aura.

A shimmer of blue light burst across the blade of his rapier. It traced up from hilt to tip like frost blooming across glass, coating the metal in a translucent glow that hummed softly, restrained, but fierce. His knees bent, one heel pivoting sharply, and he brought the rapier forward to deflect rather than contest.

The clash rang out like a bell struck by a thunderclap. Sparks erupted, briefly lighting the entire chamber in stark white flashes. The sound was deafening, rebounding against the stone walls in uneven echoes. Ludwig grinned wildly, teeth bared like a beast testing its cage. The force behind his strike pushed the instructor back half a pace, the weight of Oathcarver undeniable.

But the instructor wasn’t beaten. Not yet.

He had tilted his blade just enough, angled it to deflect rather than meet. Ludwig’s sword skidded down the glowing rapier’s length, slicing past the guard and slamming into the floor again with a teeth-rattling thud.

And in that gap of motion, measured in heartbeats, the instructor stepped in, his rapier darting forward, stopping just short of Ludwig’s brow.

“You lose,” he said smoothly. “Should’ve used both hands.”

There was a pause.

Then Ludwig smiled.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked quietly.

The instructor’s eyes lowered instinctively. Ludwig’s free hand was extended, not in defense, but in warning. Flames swirled, twisting into a tight coil at the center of his palm, barely contained. The heat radiating from it shimmered in the air, warping the light between them.

“Magic too?” the instructor asked, brows raising.

He stepped back slowly, lowering his sword.

“You could’ve used that before I even retaliated,” he murmured.

“I could have,” Ludwig agreed.

The two stood in silence for a moment longer, the tension slowly dissipating into something else, curiosity, perhaps even mutual respect.

“Then it is my loss,” the instructor said at last, giving a small, tight nod.

“I wouldn’t have won so easily if you knew what I could do,” Ludwig replied, straightening up and drawing the fire back into his palm. The flame fizzled and vanished.

The instructor shook his head, gloves tightening once more around the hilt of his sword. “It would be foolish to show all your cards,” he said. “A swordsman must always reveal seventy percent of their strength to deter challengers. The remaining thirty is for killing those too arrogant to back away.”

He paused, his eyes scanning Ludwig more intently now.

“Although…”

Ludwig met the man’s gaze evenly. “Although?”

“I get the feeling it’s the other way with you,” the instructor said, his voice lower now. “That this… wasn’t even your seventy percent.”

A thin smile tugged at Ludwig’s lips. “Now, what purpose would it serve me to tell you that?”

The instructor smirked. “Good answer.”

He stepped back, slipping his rapier neatly into its sheathe.

“You’re clearly A-Class material. But I can’t just hand that rank to you.”

Ludwig’s brow lifted slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Protocol,” the man explained, rolling his shoulder with a soft exhale. “To rank up to A-Class, you must be affiliated with the guild for at least six months. On top of that, you need to complete at least one confirmed A-Class mission, and three B-Class clears. No exceptions.”