Deus Necros

At the colosseum, once the pride of Tulmud, where cheers had roared and banners fluttered in golden light, there was now only ruin. Smoke coiled in lazy plumes toward the darkening sky, mingling with ash and the sickening tang of burnt flesh. Fire flickered from broken archways. Cries echoed, some wounded, others simply disoriented, dazed survivors crawling through rubble. But near the center of the destruction, where the noble stands had once overlooked spectacle, silence took root.

A massive mound of stone and shattered masonry loomed over what remained of the arena’s VIP section. And then it shifted. Slowly at first, a pebble rolling, a beam tipping, until a wall split down the middle and fell aside with a great groan. From beneath it emerged a figure, armored, tall, unyielding.

Titania stood, wreathed in settling dust. Her face, though unbloodied, was streaked with soot, and her hair clung to her brow with sweat and grime. Her armor was dulled by ash, tarnished in places by soot, but otherwise unbroken. Not a scratch marked her flesh. She exhaled, low and sharp, then placed one gauntleted hand on the slab beside her and pushed. The wall groaned again, resisting her strength for a breath, then tumbled backward with a shuddering crash.

“Damn cursed bastards…” she muttered, voice rough. Her other hand gripped a larger piece of rubble, twice her height, wider than her shoulder span. She threw it aside like it weighed nothing at all. It crashed into the remains of a pillar with a deafening clang.

Beneath her, spread out like some ghastly balm across the floor, was a thick, viscous substance, unnatural in every way. It was pink, shot through with iridescent violet veins, pulsing faintly like it was alive. It coated everything. It steamed slightly. And it smelled like rotting lilies and blood.

The source of the foul substance lay at its center: a boy standing perfectly still, arms hanging loosely by his sides, eyes half-lidded.

Mot.

His expression never shifted, not even as the slime clung to his robe, sliding in slow streaks down his sleeves. He closed his eyes. And as if at that silent command, the substance began to recede. It pulled away from Titania’s boots, from the shattered stone, from the air itself. It evaporated, as if ashamed to remain in his presence.

Hiro gagged. Beside him, half-kneeling among cracked marble and iron debris, he spat hard to the side, coughing violently. “Disgusting, what the fuck was that?” His voice trembled with revulsion.

“That,” Mot answered calmly, his voice soft but uncannily steady, “is Azathoth’s protection.”

The boy spoke with the finality of a physician stating a diagnosis. He did not explain further.

“Without it,” he added, eyes now opening slowly, “unless you were as strong as the Holy Maiden… you’d have been turned to dust.”

Titania said nothing for a moment, only wiped grime from her face with the back of her hand. Then she moved forward, her boots scraping against scorched stone as she stepped to the broken lip of what had once been their viewing platform. Her gaze drifted downward.

“Look,” she said. Her voice was low, sharp with tension.

Hiro staggered closer, arms still trembling from the blast. Together they gazed into the heart of the colosseum.

Below them, where the central arena floor had once hosted sparring matches and duels of honor, now yawned a cavernous hole. Its edges were cracked and blackened, and whatever lay within was lost to shadow and smoke. A crater. Deep. Unnatural.

“They planted something that powerful right beneath us,” Titania muttered. “Right beneath the hero.”

Her tone was not surprised. It was disgusted.

She turned slightly, not fully facing Hiro, but watching him from the edge of her vision.

“Someone really wants you dead.”

“I told you I should’ve stayed back at the Holy Order!” Hiro barked. His voice cracked, not with fear exactly, but panic edged its way in. “This is insane. I haven’t even finished training. I barely know how to use a sword properly, and now this?!”

Behind them, a low cough cut through the smoke. The Cardinal emerged, dragging one leg slightly behind him. His vestments were shredded in places, and blood seeped from beneath his armor where a rib might have cracked. He leaned against a broken pillar, breathing raggedly.

“It is the will of the Four,” the Cardinal rasped. “You must prove yourself. The Hero must… overcome.”

Hiro rounded on him. “Overcome what

, old man?! I’m not ready for this!” He ran a hand through his dust-caked hair.“Then,” Titania interrupted, “it is a good time to start.”

Her words carried no warmth. No cruelty either, only cold practicality. Her eyes stayed on the burning crater below. Smoke swirled in the pit like a serpent made of fire and shadow.

“Because,” she said, pointing with a slight nod, “your chance to train just appeared.”

At first, it seemed like nothing more than a blur. A shift in the haze, a trick of the heat waves rising from the arena floor. But then it moved with purpose.

A woman walked forward into view, slow, steady, like a predator who knew it would not be challenged. She dragged something behind her in one hand. A body. It slid limply across the cracked floor, its limbs trailing.

The woman’s hair was tangled and stiff with dried blood. Half her face was burnt, raw flesh glistening beneath flaking scabs. The other half, untouched, looked gentle, almost serene, the way saints were painted in chapel murals. Her smile split her face, soft and unnatural.

“Ahhh…” she sighed. Her voice rang out, unfiltered, too familiar.

It was her voice. The same voice that sounded after the issued city-wide warning through the magical transmission. She was the one who hijacked it. Cheerful. Feminine. Warm. Deceptively so.

“I see you’re here,” the woman said, her head tilting upward. Her gaze locked with Titania’s. “Still alive.”

Titania’s breath didn’t catch. Her hands didn’t tremble. But the way her shoulders stiffened, the narrowing of her eyes, the tightening of her jaw, all of it spoke louder than words.

She recognized her.

And she knew that was impossible.

That woman was dead. Dead and burnt to ashes, seventy years ago. By Titania’s own hand.

“What good fate,” the woman crooned, voice lilting, arms slowly spreading like a host welcoming guests. “What good fate. We meet again after so long, sweet, sweet Titania…”

The last syllable was sung, a lullaby turned sinister.

Titania didn’t wait. She moved. One leap, graceful, sudden, terrifying, carried her from the ruined veranda to the blood-slicked arena floor. She landed without sound, inches from the woman.

The air between them felt tight. Loaded. Ready to snap.

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” the woman whispered, her voice hushed now, as though awed. “So beautiful in fact… I’m very, very envious. Tell me. Please. Tell me, how can I be as beautiful as you?”

Her head tilted, trembling slightly, as though it could barely hold up her desire.

Titania’s reply was ice. “Start by dying first.”

Her blade moved faster than breath.

The woman’s head flew from her shoulders with a clean, whistling slice. It hit the ground, rolled once, then stilled eyes still open, mouth curved in that same beatific smile.

But the body… didn’t fall.

Titania stepped back, something tightening in her spine.

No blood spilled. The neck didn’t spurt, didn’t twitch. It simply… remained.

Then the stump bubbled, a grotesque flex of flesh and sinew. And in one horrifying, fluid moment, a new head rose from it. Identical. Untouched.

The woman smiled once more, wider this time. Her teeth glinted, far too white, far too even.

“Then that’s unfortunate, you see…” she said softly, almost sweetly. “I cannot die.”