Deus Necros

But the aftermath came quickly. The fallen angel’s body, once held in place by that strange, sacred ichor, began to collapse. It started at the hand, the fingers disjointing, crumbling like sandstone beaten by centuries of wind. The wrist gave next, falling with a soft clatter to the ground before breaking apart in a cloud of silvery-grey dust. The rest followed in sequence, the torso cracked, the head bowed one final time, and the remnants of the angel’s porcelain flesh fell away into powder then upon contact blew out all around the cave.

Celine shielded her face with one arm as the dust swept past her, but it wasn’t the wind that made her pause. A sound rose in the air, slow at first, like a distant weeping, and then louder. Sharper. A multitude of voices shrieking in one terrible chorus. A mix of cries from men, women, and children echoed from every corner of the dungeon. The walls themselves seemed to recoil, the shadows trembling with invisible pressure. The Umbrites were screaming.

Ludwig’s grip tightened around Durandal. He instinctively took a half-step forward, blade rising to guard, prepared for an onrush of teeth and black limbs. But nothing came. The cries rang out… and slowly faded.

He waited a few seconds longer before lowering the blade. “That… might’ve pissed them off,” he said quietly.

From behind him, Celine’s voice carried lightly. “We should head back.”

Ludwig turned, half-shrugging. “No need,” he replied, adjusting his stance. She was already pointing at something behind the ashen remains.

A magic circle, etched into the stone floor where the angel had lain. The grooves pulsed faintly with dull, fading light, identical to the ones they had encountered when first sent into the depths. It was partially covered in dust, but unmistakable. A doorway, or at least a transition.

“That one there… it’s the same type,” she said. “Same design, same magic signature. It might take us out. Or… somewhere else.”

Ludwig’s shoulders slumped a little in relief. “Good catch,” he said. “Didn’t really fancy climbing all the way back up. Honestly, I’m not even sure which path leads out anymore.”

He approached the circle, brushing a finger across one of its glowing edges. The magic was warm to the touch, oddly gentle. He glanced back toward Celine. “Grab my hand. Last thing I want is another timeline detour.”

Without hesitation, she stepped beside him and clasped his offered hand, her fingers cold and firm in his grip.

Salem, who had remained strangely silent, suddenly shifted. Without a sound, his body melted into Ludwig’s shadow like ink spilled into water. For a moment, Ludwig shivered, the strange sensation of being watched from inside one’s own silhouette was disconcerting at best. Two sleepy golden eyes blinked up at him from the flat plane beneath his boots, then slowly closed, vanishing completely.

“Good enough,” Ludwig murmured, then added with a glance at his undead companion, “Bob, go back in the book.”

The skeletal form dissolved into smoke, drifting in ribbons toward the Codex Necros that hovered faintly next to Ludwig’s hip. The pages fluttered once as it accepted the return, then sealed.

He turned to the circle. “Alright. Let’s get out of this hole. With any luck, it’ll drop us someplace we actually recognize.”

The moment their feet touched the edge of the circle, the light beneath them flared, not blinding, but sharp enough to cast every remaining shadow into clarity for the span of a heartbeat. Then it all vanished. The world dissolved around them in silence. No lurch, no wind, just a subtle sense of displacement like stepping between one breath and the next.

And suddenly, they were elsewhere.

Ludwig blinked once, twice, before narrowing his eyes against the sunlight that now poured across his vision in wide, uninterrupted shafts. The oppressive darkness and damp rot of the dungeon were gone. In their place was the cool, highland air of open mountain ranges, tinged with pine resin and stone dust. It hit his lungs like a draught of tonic. The sunlight burned gently against his skin, though his undead nature dulled the sensation to something more nostalgic than real.

Birdsong echoed distantly. The wind stirred his coat and fluttered through Celine’s hair. A small cluster of clouds drifted lazily in the sky, too perfect to be trusted. It was quiet, too quiet.

They had emerged at the original exit to the dungeon. However it looked far different than how it was a day ago for Ludwig and a week ago for celine.

Several makeshift supply tents were spread out around the dungeon two dozen soldiers emerged like termites disturbed from a nest. They wore the silver-blue plate and thick red crests of Lufondal’s Imperial Guard. Each bore the same insignia upon their pauldrons, an Phoenix Devouring a flame, and each was armed. Some had been at leisure when Ludwig and Celine arrived: two men crouched over a game of cards, one holding a bottle halfway to his lips. Another had been napping, his helmet lolling to one side on his head. But all were armed. All had blades and spears now raised.

Every helmet turned toward them.

“The hell is this now?”

From the front of the cluster, a large man stepped forward. He was massive, built more like an orc than a man, with a neck as thick as a war drum and arms corded with muscle beneath armor etched with higher-ranking sigils. His presence alone made the soldiers behind him straighten further.

The man’s sword was already drawn. It was broad and cruel in design, the sort that cared more for crushing than finesse. His eyes fixed on Ludwig and Celine with a glint that spoke of long weeks waiting for something to hit. Or maybe he was just that ugly.

“You are to immediately surrender any and all items on your person,” he barked, voice deep enough to shake dust from the nearby rocks. “And follow us for inspection. This is an order from the imperial family.”

A pause.

Then he added, lips curling in an expression too eager for law enforcement, “Please resist.”

Ludwig blinked, tilting his head slightly. “Shouldn’t that be ’do not resist’?” he asked, the words slipping out as naturally as breath, his tone caught somewhere between bemusement and exasperation.

The man bared his teeth in something that might have once been a smile, though it had long since forgotten how to pretend. “Then it wouldn’t be fun killing you then now, would it?”

“With that tiny sword of yours?” Ludwig said, the corners of his mouth curling upward in a slow, taunting smile that never quite reached his eyes. “Can you even take me on?”

He moved with deliberate ease, his right hand drifting down to his side as his fingers curled around the invisible grip. Then, with a flicker of summoned force, Oathcarver came into view. The weapon did not so much appear as it did assert itself into the world, its dark blade glinting with the weight of old magic and worse memories. It hit the air with a soft hum, and the sound alone was heavy, like the prelude to thunder.

True as it may be that the imperial captain’s sword was long impressively forged and twice-tempered by the look of it, it suddenly looked like a child’s toy in comparison. Ludwig didn’t even flinch as he raised his own weapon, a blade nearly as tall as himself, effortlessly gripped in a single hand. It swung lightly, as if it weighed no more than a branch, though everyone watching could tell that it most certainly didn’t.

Only Celine cracked the faintest smile, her lips tugging up just a fraction. And that, too, felt recent, something newer in her. A change not even she may have noticed yet.

But on the other side of the clearing, not a single man laughed. Not because Ludwig’s words lacked bite or humor, but because the truth of what they were seeing eclipsed anything he said. The moment Oathcarver appeared, the mood soured like milk in sun. Their eyes widened in quiet recognition of something they couldn’t quite name, but their instincts screamed anyway. A man should not be able to carry such a blade with one hand. Not like that. Not without trembling under its weight.

One of the soldiers muttered under his breath, voice sharp with doubt. “We were told he’s a B-Class adventurer…”

Another, older and more grizzled, leaned in slightly, his tone hushed but hard with disbelief. “You think B-Class adventurers can even clear this dungeon? Let alone come out with their minds intact?”

Ludwig rolled his shoulders back, the movement loose and almost casual, but his voice held an edge now. “Y’all seem to be confused about something.”

The murmurs died as he spoke. His tone was not loud, but it cut through the gathering like a cold wind. “The B-Class tag?” he went on, tapping the flat of Oathcarver against his shoulder. “That’s just paperwork. Formalities. Red tape. This dungeon was meant to be my re-appraisal.”

He paused then, blade lowering as he gestured with it, pointing its glimmering tip directly at the assembled soldiers. “And more importantly… the Empire should not be interfering with the Adventurer’s Guild. So I’ll ask plainly, why are you here, ordering us to hand over our gear like common thieves? You not worried the guild might find out what you’re up to?”

The large man in front, a towering brute of a captain with the build of an ogre and the complexion of a man who drank more than he slept, stepped forward. His voice was a bellow, brash and unfazed, at least outwardly.

“HAH!” he barked, the laugh short and joyless. “Find out? How? You’ll be corpses before the hour’s done. Worthless ones. Not even Necros would take you. And trust me, the guild doesn’t care. No one comes out of that dungeon unscathed. And if they do, they’re S-Class. And you…” he stabbed a finger forward, “…are not.”

He sneered. “I’ve read your profile. You’re a fluke.”

“Funny thing, that,” Ludwig murmured, slipping his free hand into his coat pocket. His fingers brushed velvet and metal, and he withdrew something small, yet commanding. A glint of gold, shaped like an insignia. He let it catch the light for just a moment before presenting it clearly.

Lady Titania’s emblem.

The man’s words caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. His eyes locked on the insignia, and a fine tremor ran through his fingers as he lowered his sword by an inch.

“Seems like you recognize it,” Ludwig said, voice soft now, almost conversational. “Good. Saves me time.”

And Ludwig could see it then, clear as day. The way something in the man’s mind sparked, overloaded, and burned out. A fuse, metaphorically and perhaps spiritually, was blown. The logic short-circuited. Because attacking a bearer of that emblem, an emblem of the Holy Order, was not merely criminal. It was sacrilege. A sin. A curse.

Attacking Ludwig now meant exile from the Four’s mercy. It meant no absolution. No last rites. No spiritual clemency. Not even death would cleanse it. Only correction. And the church do their corrections severely.

“Cat got your tongue?” Ludwig asked lightly.

The man’s lip curled, and for a long second he stood frozen in place, indecision seething in the lines of his face. But then something cracked behind his eyes, rage, pride, or maybe just blind fear masked as defiance.

“Still the same!” he roared. “If no one lives to report it, then it’s all the same! Boys! Make sure they learn to fear the Empire!”

The moment shattered. Steel sang from sheaths, and the mountain air filled with the stench of sweat and armor oil.

Ludwig inhaled, long and deep through his nose, then exhaled slowly, as though steeling himself against something wearisome. “Should’ve really paid attention,” he said under his breath. “Intelligence was chasing you, but you’ve always been faster, huh?”

The captain’s boots thundered forward, sword high overhead, fury writ large on his scarred face.

Ludwig tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Hold on, I’ve got a better one.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You’re proof that rock bottom has a basement. Yeah… I like that.”

The man snarled, a bestial noise, and broke into a charge.

“One more, for the road,” Ludwig added, casually stepping aside. “Couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel. Classic.”

Steel came down.

But before it could land, the captain stopped.

Not by choice, by instinct.

Something was wrong.

There it was. A prickling at the base of his neck. The faint tingle of dread crawling like spiders along his spine. His fingers twitched, uncertain, and his grip faltered.

He looked around.

Too late.

“Took you long enough to realize, didn’t it?” Ludwig said softly, not even bothering to lift his sword. “That the report you got was only about me. Not about my companion.”

A moment later, the air changed.

There was no sound. No warning. Just blood.

It erupted in a single violent burst, thick, red, and fast, spraying over the captain in a wave so complete that it drenched his armor, his face, even the inside of his mouth. He staggered under the weight of it, sputtering, blinking furiously.

And when he turned, slowly, hesitantly, he saw only the husks of his men.

They lay collapsed in a ring behind him, their bodies desiccated, hollowed. Their skin clung to bone, shriveled like old parchment. Mouths agape. Eyes glassy. They had not screamed. Had not moved. They had simply… died.

And at the center of that quiet devastation stood Celine.

A smear of blood ran lazily down her forearm from her wrist, curling toward her elbow like an inky serpent. She didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she did, and didn’t care. Her tongue flicked out, slow and casual, to taste the drop as it reached the bend of her arm.

She said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

The silence was enough.