Deus Necros

The moment Hoyo spoke the word master, a sound cut through the air, singular, deliberate, and sharp enough to feel as though it struck the inside of the skull.

It was the pluck of a harp string.

Not a gentle note, not something meant for music. This one thrummed with a low resonance that seemed to crawl under the skin, vibrating against the bones of the ear. The effect was immediate. Several of the older clerics faltered mid-step, their knees dipping before they caught themselves. A bishop clutched the side of a wall, his eyes squeezed shut as if the tone had reached directly into his thoughts.

All eyes lifted upward.

There, leaning casually against the fractured wall of a crumbling building, was a tall, thin figure. He seemed almost to balance on the edge of the structure, his body swaying faintly as though he were listening to some tune only he could hear. The harp in his hands was small, its polished frame gleaming faintly even beneath the pall of dust in the air. Yet the way his fingers rested on the strings gave the impression of a predator’s claws, relaxed now, but ready to strike again at the smallest whim.

What drew the gaze more than the harp was his mask.

Its painted expression was a study in contradiction: lips curved downward in a deep frown, while the eyes above them were drawn in an exaggerated smile. The longer one looked, the more unsettling it became, as though the two halves were locked in a private argument that the viewer could almost hear but never join.

“You seem to be in a hurry,” the figure said, his tone smooth and easy, carrying easily over the space between them. “Shall I keep you company… with a few notes?”

“Curses,” Sutros muttered, his teeth clicking together in frustration. “It’s Crucendo…”

“You mean Crescendo?” Hiro asked, tilting his head upward, his face twisted in the faintly puzzled look of someone who had missed the point entirely.

“No…” Sutros’ voice was heavy now, the sound of a man weighing every word. “You wouldn’t understand. And I’m not speaking of the man himself, but his mask.” His gaze stayed locked on the figure, shoulders squaring slightly. “Looks like it’s going to be a very long day.”

Above them, Crucendo straightened slightly, the mask’s eyes seeming to widen though it had not changed. “Ah, what fascination! To be recognized by the Cardinal himself. I’m positively giddy.” His voice rose on the last word, a theatrical flourish. “Shall I play you a song?”

“Close your ears, NOW!” Sutros barked, the order as sharp as a blade’s edge.

But the command had barely left his mouth before the air in front of them shifted. A blur of silver and shadow crossed the gap in a heartbeat. A clawed hand, fingers spread wide and tipped with talons that caught the dim light, slammed into Crucendo’s chest with a sound like stone striking stone. The impact hurled him backward.

He crashed through one wall, then another, the sound of breaking masonry rolling down the street like a slow drumbeat. Dust burst from each impact, filling the air with choking clouds that dimmed the already muted daylight under the dome above.

A woman stood where Crucendo had been.

Her silver hair flowed down her back in smooth, silken strands, the color so pure it seemed to glow faintly against the muted surroundings. Her eyes, one a deep red that held the heat of an ember, the other a pale green like winter glass, swept the space ahead of her, their focus unshakable. There was a nobility in her bearing that no battlefield could erode, an elegance made sharper by the blood that still clung to her claws and dripped slowly onto the street. The contrast made her seem almost unreal, like a painting brought to motion.

“What a beauty,” Hiro breathed, puffing out his chest in a misguided attempt at charm. His clothes strained against the motion. “I’d say she’s even hotter than Titania… you, uh, you wanna join my hero party?” He sucked in his stomach as he spoke, which only served to make his frame look oddly barrel-like.

Celine’s gaze flicked toward him once, a brief look that carried no warmth nor acknowledgement. Then she dismissed him entirely, returning her full attention to the direction Crucendo had flown. She already knew from the feel of her strike, from the absence of the certain give of bone under her claws, that he was not dead.

From the heap of rubble in the distance, a voice floated back to them, light and faintly amused. “Wha, wha… a bit rough, wasn’t it?”

A moment later, the far wall of a building shuddered violently, then tore free altogether. It sailed across the skyline before vanishing into the purple-hazed distance. Crucendo stepped out from the shadow of the wreckage, brushing a few fragments of stone from his shoulder. The deep marks of Celine’s claws carved across his chest were the only visible damage; the rest of him was untouched.

“I’m impressed,” he said, as though they were discussing a friendly match rather than an assassination attempt. “Not many can throw me that far, or match my strength. You’ve done both.” He plucked one string of the harp, not for magic but seemingly to punctuate the moment, the note sliding through the air with an almost perfect balance of tone.

“I suppose I should get a bit serious here…”

The sentence broke off as his head turned sharply toward the city’s second district.

The mask began to warp, the painted surface bending as though under heat. Just beneath the left eye, the paint blackened and bubbled into the shape of a single teardrop, dark as pitch.

“Hmm,” Crucendo murmured, voice carrying a faint note of amusement. “Seems Pipe has died. Maybe I should really get serious.”

He raked his fingernails across the harp strings in a motion far faster than before.

The sound that followed was not music. It struck like a force, bending the air itself, pressing against every surface. The buildings around them seemed to groan under the weight of it, the street trembling in response. For a single breath, it felt as though the city might collapse into itself.