Deus Necros

The blue light around Ludwig’s sword hummed in the heavy air, a deep vibration that throbbed in time with the rhythm of his pulse. The weapon no longer seemed bound by weight or steel. It spun in his hands with impossible fluidity, the massive length of the blade cutting arcs of brilliance as if it were no more than a slender baton twirled by a performer. The edge trailed lines of sapphire across the dark battlefield, afterimages flickering like a comet’s tail burning across the void of the sky. Each sweep left the lingering impression of cold fire etched into the eyes of those who dared to look too long.

The Moon Flayed King reacted with a noise so foul it seemed to curdle the blood of those who heard it. Its screech clawed out through the tearing seams of its stitched mouth, flesh stretching grotesquely as the threads broke. The sound was half-shriek, half-wail, the echo of something never meant to exist in the first place. Its enormous hand, broad as the span of a courtyard, slammed down toward Ludwig with earth-shaking force, the sky itself seeming to lurch with the motion.

Call it focus. Call it adrenaline. To Ludwig it felt like something more profound, as if his body and soul had slipped into perfect alignment. The world bent around him, slowed into a distorted hush where the thunderous movements of giants and beasts became no faster than the lazy drop of rain. He could hear his own undead breath, shallow and tight in his throat, as his vision sharpened to a needle’s edge. For a heartbeat not his of course, he was no longer a man in battle. He was the center of it.

The King’s arm came down like a mountain collapsing, each finger the size of a tree trunk curling inward to crush him. Ludwig did not hesitate. His body shifted sideways, the greatsword in his hands turning into an extension of his will. He spun between two of the giant fingers, metal singing as the blade carved in a clean arc. Bone and sinew parted like wax beneath a flame. Two massive digits spun into the air, trailing arcs of black blood that fell like rain around him.

Momentum carried him upward. The instant his boots struck against the taut skin of the King’s palm, he pressed off again, using its massive form as a springboard. His hands lifted high, the sword raised overhead like a verdict from the heavens. Suspended before his lips in that slowed time drifted a small glinting vial, turning in the air as though caught in water. The Bastos Wine potion, shimmering red within its thin glass.

Ludwig did not stop to think. His jaw opened wide. He bit. Glass splintered beneath his teeth with a crunch that sent shards stabbing into tongue and gum. The acrid sting of wine mixed with undead blood flooded his throat, thick and choking. He swallowed shards along with liquid, the jagged edges tearing their way downward, yet still he drank. The burn of alcohol mingled with the sting of open cuts inside his mouth, a taste of iron and fire that made his eyes blur. His howl tore loose against the raw edge of his teeth, half-snarl, half-battle cry, the sound of a man willing himself forward through pain that would have unmanned another.

Behind him the air rippled. Reality warped at his call. A dozen explosive mines, spheres of condensed fire and concussive death, blinked into being one after another, spreading in an orbit at his back. They pulsed like red stars, each one promising ruin.

The mines hung in the air like waiting hearts, their glow painting Ludwig’s battered figure in the hues of fire. He launched himself forward, sword raised, the motion almost graceful despite its brutality. The skill surged through him.

[Surging Slam]. The strength behind the motion rattled through bone and sinew, forcing his body to arc like a hammer swung from the sky. The greatsword descended, trailing its comet-tail of light as it struck into the thick, rubbery flesh of the King’s arm. A concussive roar burst out, skin splitting, bone groaning. The impact alone would have been enough to crack stone towers, but Ludwig was not done.

In the same breath he twisted, momentum rolling through his shoulders, his waist, his legs. He vaulted into another strike, body flipping as though weight had abandoned him. [Summersault Slam]. The second blow crashed into the wounded arm like a thunderclap, bone splinters erupting as flesh burst apart in stringy tatters. Before he even landed, the mines detonated.

A dozen explosions ruptured in a staggered rhythm, so close they were like a single prolonged roar. Heat smothered the air, flame licking at his back, swallowing his coat and burning through the edges of his regalia. Shrapnel of blood, bone, and earth rained around him. The concussive waves pummeled his ribs, rattled his skull, but he gritted his teeth and took it, dragging every ounce of the pain inward.

This was what the fusion of his barbaric craft demanded. Take flesh, break bone. Harm the self to rend the foe. The mines were both punishment and propulsion. The force of the detonations hurled him forward with unnatural speed, a spinning blaze of flesh, steel, and willpower. The pressure drove him faster, faster still, until he felt his body blur, his arms numbing as the sword carved a path up the length of the giant’s arm.

To the onlookers, those unlucky adventurers who dared witness, the sight was a streak of blue fire threaded with tongues of orange flame, a storm of light corkscrewing up the arm of a titan. They could see nothing of the technique, only the result: a massive limb splitting open from wrist to shoulder, skin peeled back, muscle shredded, bones cracking apart beneath a torrent of relentless steel.

The King shrieked, the sound rupturing from its broken mouth with such intensity that the very ground quivered beneath their feet. Its pain rolled outward in a wave of despair that made weaker souls clutch at their ears and drop to their knees.

Ludwig pressed on, his entire body a torch of agony. His coat smoked, his undead skin blistered beneath the flames crawling across him, but none of it slowed his climb. His teeth clenched against the blood and glass still cutting in his gums, his eyes fixed only forward. The comet burned toward the King’s head.

When at last he broke from the shoulder, Ludwig drew in the briefest breath not out of need but for focus. The blue light around his blade flared. He lifted the weapon, the weight of vengeance itself coursing through his limbs. His muscles screamed, his veins seared, but he did not falter.

[Tyrant Mark has activated!]

[Vengeance is at Full Effect!]

[Your Health is at Critical Level!]

The notifications flared against his vision, but he forced them away. Warnings meant nothing here. What mattered was the face before him.

The King’s monstrous visage loomed close, stitched mouth tearing wider as it tried to roar, bone ridges cracking as its jaw strained. Ludwig struck. One clean, savage arc. The sword carved through the skull with such ferocity that the entire right side of the monster’s face, jawbone and all, split open, a spray of black blood and shattered teeth fountaining outward.

Ludwig’s boots struck the collarbone, and before the momentum could fade, he spun again. His body became an axis of violence. [Spinning Slash]. The blade carved sideways through half of the giant’s thick neck, tearing tendons like ropes, gouging flesh in a trail that sprayed the battlefield below with gore.

The creature lurched, gargled, tried to scream, but its voice was cut short. The other hand came sweeping toward Ludwig with crushing intent.

The remaining hand of the Moon Flayed King surged upward with murderous speed, its claws blurring through the smoke like the talons of a bird of prey descending. Ludwig saw it, the fingers wide enough to close over his entire body, each nail thick and jagged, capable of splitting stones with a single swipe.

But he did not try to meet brute force with brute force. His instincts snapped into place, honed through the many battles he had went through. He leapt backward, boots slipping from the King’s gore-slick collarbone.

The world tilted as he fell. Wind tore across his burned skin, carrying with it the stink of blood and sulfur. His arms snapped outward, chains flickering from his hands like steel serpents. One length coiled and locked around the base of one of the King’s tattered wings. The chain groaned as it took his weight, but Ludwig yanked it, swinging himself out of reach of the crushing hand that slammed into where he had stood only heartbeats before.

The momentum twisted his body around, and as he hung for a heartbeat in the open air, his sword angled downward. His eyes fixed on the torn wound at the back of the monster’s neck. That was the mark. The final cut to sever head from body. His muscles coiled, and he spun through the air, dragging the weight of his blade toward that single, gaping weakness.

The steel bit, carving deep, almost enough to cleave through. But the beast was not mindless. Its other arm, wounded though it was, lurched upward and wrapped its grotesque fingers around the back of its own neck. Flesh met steel, bone met iron. Ludwig’s blade hacked through several of the thick digits, spraying ichor, but the remaining strength was enough to catch the stroke. The cut stopped short. The decapitation failed.