Deus Necros

The rooftops beneath their feet groaned with every stride, ancient tiles crackling under the hurried weight of Ludwig’s party as they dashed across the uneven slates. From their elevated vantage point, the city of Tulmud lay sprawled in chaos a festering wound split open. Cries pierced the air like arrows loosed in panic, and thick, acrid smoke coiled upward from alleys and burning roofs, forming a choking veil that blurred the lower city into smudges of flame and shadow.

The smog was dense at first, muffling what was truly taking place in the streets below. But as the wind shifted and a sudden draft swept upward from the lower quarter, the nightmare revealed itself in full. Hordes of people surged through the avenues like water spilling from a broken dam, a tide of bodies in every direction, some fleeing, some fighting, but most, killing. Slashing, biting, rending with hands and teeth like beasts turned loose. It was a bloodbath. A madness. And it moved like a plague.

Celine narrowed her crimson eyes as she paused mid-step, the wind lifting her pale hair behind her. Her lips drew tight with a hiss, voice low but unmistakably grim. “Necromancy,” she said, her gaze locked on something only she could fully perceive.

Ludwig glanced at her sharply. “What?”

“There’s a necromancer down there,” she murmured, nostrils flaring subtly as she inhaled the tainted air. “Hundreds of undead flooding the city. I can smell the rot… see the aura staining the streets. The one I thought was the city base is already here…”

“How are they moving this fast?” Redd asked, but no one had an answer for him.

Below them, shrieks multiplied, higher now, sharper, the frenzied wailing of slaughter. Screams of mothers clutching children. Of soldiers begging gods that would not answer. The Bearowl wasn’t alone. Among the crumbling chaos surged other shapes. Hunched, malformed. Creatures Ludwig recognized… and some he didn’t.

Lizardmen, eyes pale and soulless, mouths foaming as they jabbed at the fleeing with jagged spears. Thick-limbed orcish beasts howling and frothing, ripping apart barricades and men with equal ease. Demonic foxes, eyes like molten gold, darted through flames in packs, their tails flickering with embers. Grey wolves foamed at the jaws, trailing entrails from their prey like leashes. And worse still, slithering through the shadows were beings Ludwig couldn’t name, skeletal humanoids with skin stretched taut like parchment, covered in scales that gleamed like oil in the firelight, fangs long as carving knives protruding from lipless maws.

They attacked without strategy. Without purpose. They simply killed.

Redd’s face had drained of color. His mouth was slightly ajar, but no words came. He looked down upon the slaughter with wide, flickering eyes that tried to deny what they saw. A hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger but didn’t grip it. His shoulders trembled faintly.

Ludwig saw it all. And felt… numb.

There was disgust. Certainly. But no fear. No revulsion. Just a gnawing sense of recognition.

A part of him hated that. Hated how easily he accepted the carnage now, how dulled he had become to the sound of tearing flesh and the scent of fresh blood on cobblestone. Once, he would have frozen. Now, he merely clenched his jaw and moved forward.

And that… that truth made him furious.

“We keep going,” Celine called over her shoulder, voice firm and unwavering. Her silhouette blurred as she bounded from one rooftop to the next with practiced grace. “Don’t fixate on the dying.”

Ludwig nodded, more to himself than her, and tore his eyes away from the chaos below. His boots scraped the roof’s edge as he launched forward again, Oathcarver slung behind him, gleaming in the pulsing orange glow of distant fires.

They were nearing the upper city, where the stone roads widened and the buildings grew more ornate. Thankfully, no dividing wall barred their path, just a short rise that led to a gardened incline and the marble columns of the old civic promenade. But between them and that haven was an open expanse, a wide field that had once been used for public gatherings and patrol drills.

Now, it was a killing ground.

Dozens of monsters prowled the tall grass, their movements sinuous and low. Patches of blood stained the green like spilled wine. Soldiers lay in pieces, their polished armor already dulled with drying gore. A few civilians ran in frantic zigzags across the open stretch, one dragging a limping child, another screaming for someone who no longer answered.

Ludwig didn’t hesitate. The instant his boots hit the ground, he surged forward, sprinting through the blood-slicked grass with terrifying speed. The nearest threat, a Lizardman with pallid eyes and jagged obsidian spear, whirled at the sound of his approach.

It barely had time to snarl.

With a crushing roar, Ludwig’s blade cleaved downward, the sheer weight of Oathcarver snapping bone and scale alike. The Lizardman’s torso folded in on itself like wet cloth, the corpse slammed down against the ground with enough force to leave a crater.

One swing. One death.

The Tyrant Blade, in perfect execution.

The impact of the strike was still echoing across the square when Ludwig’s voice broke through the smoke, guttural and resonant.

“Galvanize!”

His shout was more than a command, it was a spell cast, a channeling of mana that surged through every limb. His veins throbbed with a deep sapphire pulse as the spell took hold. In an instant, the air around him thickened with pressure, and his form seemed to vibrate with restrained force, the very earth beneath his feet trembling with anticipation.

Then he moved.

Oathcarver howled through the air as Ludwig spun full-circle, carving a crescent path through the mists of ash. His strike found its mark in the ribs of a massive, snarling wolf that had been feasting on the half-eaten corpse of a city watchman. The creature’s whimper was brief, almost confused, before it was cleaved in two, the halves flying apart with wet thuds.

“Vengeance!” he called again, and his magic aura darkened, the blue of Galvanize shifting into crimson, then deepening into a purple laced with rage. It was not just elemental mana now, it was emotion, fury made manifest, and it stained the very air as if the sky itself had bruised around him.

With a leap that bent the grass beneath him backward, Ludwig surged forward in a spinning arc, his body flipping once before he slammed downward in a controlled somersault. The technique, [Summersault Slam], was a perfect union of speed and power. Oathcarver landed directly atop the skull of a charging black Bearowl, shattering its head like a fruit under a hammer. Bone, blood, and brain matter sprayed outward in a ring around them, the body collapsing limp at Ludwig’s feet.

A small child stumbled back, her eyes wide and mouth open but too frozen by terror to scream. She had been a breath away from death. Ludwig didn’t pause to comfort her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Another roar shook the area.

He turned, spotting a towering brown Bearowl locked in combat with a contingent of soldiers bearing the golden standards of Tulmud’s royal guard, alongside a handful of Holy Order paladins. Their weapons shone with divine sigils, but they were already faltering. One was flung through the air like a ragdoll, another pinned beneath a claw the size of a wagon wheel.

Ludwig’s boots slammed into the blood-slick grass again as he whispered the words of his final buff: “[Limit Breaker].”

The effect was immediate. His muscles bulged, not grotesquely, but with an eerie unnatural perfection. His form grew denser, heavier, his movements slower but laden with devastating promise. The color of his aura deepened again, now an abyssal violet that shimmered at the edges with hints of black, like a wound in the fabric of the world.

He sprinted.

The distance vanished beneath him in three wide steps. The Bearowl never turned in time.

Ludwig’s sword pierced between the plates of spine and shoulder. It struck clean, cutting through the hardened flesh and notching into bone with the screech of metal on marrow. As he jumped, he twisted, not just his body, but the entire weight of the blow, leveraging the blade like a giant lever. With a sickening pop and tear, the Bearowl’s head came loose from its body in one sharp, revolting motion. Blood fountained upward, spraying in long arcs over the grass and soldiers alike.

The paladins staggered back, staring.

“Get the civilians!” Ludwig barked, voice hoarse with exertion.

But instead of moving, one of the royal guards pointed his sword toward Ludwig, his voice cracking in panic.

“Who are you!? Identify yourself!” panic was clear in his eyes after all, the mix of magic aura around Ludwig made him look like a terrifying villain.

For a heartbeat, Ludwig just stared at him, the still-warm blood dripping from Oathcarver onto the street with slow, deliberate splats. His expression barely changed, save for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He had just saved their lives.

He didn’t even get the chance to speak.

A sound like a thunderclap cracked through the nearby wall of the arena, stone shattered, bricks exploding outward as a human-shaped figure was launched through the air, trailing dust and broken mortar like a comet. She landed hard, rolling in a half-dozen bounces across the ground before skidding to a halt in a plume of powdered earth and shattered flagstone.

The figure lay sprawled on her back, hair spread in all directions, a look of pure annoyance creasing her brow.

“Titania?” Ludwig asked aloud, tilting his head with the smallest flicker of amusement.

The woman blinked up at the sky once, then let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Davon. You’re already here? Good.” She slapped the ground with both palms and sprang upright, barely dusting herself off. “Help me out here, will you? I can’t use my full power right now.”

The soldier who had challenged Ludwig’s identity blinked in confusion. “L-Lady Titania, you know this man?”

“Yeah, what of it?” she snapped, brushing dirt from her shoulder and peering back toward the jagged hole in the arena wall. “Instead of gawking, go do something useful. Help the civilians. We’re busy.”

The soldiers, visibly shaken but now obedient, nodded and broke off, moving toward the panicked survivors strewn across the streets.

“What’s the situation?” Ludwig asked, drawing up beside her. His gaze followed hers toward the arena’s yawning breach, still spewing smoke and flickering light.

Titania’s lip curled. “The damned Shrike. She’s persistent. I’ve carved her into pieces three times now, and she just keeps laughing and coming back.”

From the ruined wall, a sound emerged. A laugh. Not loud, but drawn out, vibrating with something wet and giddy. It began as a chuckle and grew into a moan of euphoric delight.

A woman appeared there, limping casually into view with blood trailing down one cheek and a jagged grin pulling across her ruined face. One side of her visage was burned raw, the flesh blackened and peeling. The other side, however, was smooth, pristine, even beautiful, in a saintly way that felt eerily out of place. Her eyes were wide, and her pupils shimmered like broken glass.

“You’re soooo tough!” she called out, her voice high and giddy. “And don’t break that easy! Aaah, must be nice, must be nice not to break that easy! It should be fun, it will be fun, to slowly tear that face of yours away, bit by pretty bit.”

Her laughter broke again, echoing down the streets like the crackling of bone under pressure.

“Who’s the psychopath?” Ludwig asked, lowering Oathcarver a fraction as his eyes narrowed.

“That’s the bitch that started all this, The Shrike…” Titania muttered, spitting to the side.

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s alone… still What about the Hero? Isn’t this a good place to be heroic and stuff…” Ludwig asked, his posture settling into readiness.

“Mot took him,” she said. “Along with a few bishops and a cardinal. They needed to regroup. I’m the only one left holding this line.”

“I guess no heroism will be found today,” Ludwig replied as Celine and Redd walked up next to them.

Just as Titania was about to comment, the Shrike raised both arms, twin sickles dangling from her hands like ceremonial blades. Their curved edges were caked in blood, dripping slowly into the dirt. Her tongue flicked out to lick one of them, even as the blade tore a line across it.

She didn’t flinch.

“Let me have a taste,” she whispered, eyes locked on Titania with rabid hunger. “Please… ah must be good, must taste good, and you have companions, I wonder how they’ll taste?”

Ludwig blinked once, then muttered, “What kind of fucked up psychopath is this now…”

Titania didn’t move. Her shoulders rolled once, neck cracking to one side.

“Psychopath?” she said. “She’s a former Apostle of Necros.”

Her jaw tensed.

“They’re all like this.”

Ludwig couldn’t help but feel a shiver, after all, he wasn’t a former Necros Apostle like the shrike, he was a current one. Surely he won’t become like this psycho? Right?