Deus Necros

The catacombs of the Sacrosanctum were quiet, yet not with the peace of rest. They carried that stifling silence particular to dungeons steeped in centuries of cruelty, where the air itself remembered screams and refused to let them go. Torches burned low in sconces along the rough-hewn walls, their flames guttering with each draft that slipped through ancient cracks. The smell was a mix of mildew, iron, and something acrid, the residue of too many lives extinguished in too small a space.

In one of the torture rooms deep below, Hiro stood with Hoyo and two bishops of the Order. Once, five years ago, his very presence would have inspired laughter or disdain. Fat, trembling, wheezing with each step, that was the summoned Hero the world had been given. But that man was gone.

The Hiro of today looked like another person entirely. His body was a sculpted monument of flesh, muscle drawn taut over bone, lean lines sharpened by unnatural growth. His skin gleamed faintly even in torchlight, an artificial sheen that came from the absurd number of points he had funneled into his charm stat. It left his features unnervingly symmetrical, lips too perfect, jaw cut to unnatural precision. Handsome, yes, but in a way that was more uncanny than divine. The bishops with him, devout men who had seen much, still couldn’t hide their unease at standing so near him.

On the table in front of Hiro lay a man. Or what was left of one. His body was strapped down with chains and iron cuffs, every joint bound so he could only twitch and writhe in place. A muzzle locked across his mouth, a blindfold over his eyes. His chest rose and fell with ragged, hopeless breaths. The smell of sweat and blood clung to him, the scent of prey before the final blow.

“Level two hundred and two,” Hiro said, his voice now steady, cool, but tinged with an eager cruelty. He held his sword casually as if it were not a weapon but an extension of his hunger. “That’s some good EXP.”

The bishops glanced at each other. Their lips tightened in disgust, not because they hadn’t seen this before, they had, many times, but because repetition only made the horror sharper, not duller. Each life extinguished like this was another reminder of what the Hero had become, and how far the Sacrosanctum had fallen to condone it.

“This one has a good ability, Hoyo.” Hiro tilted his head slightly, studying the prone man as though he were merely inspecting a cut of meat. “His eyes. Archer’s eyes. You want them?”

Hoyo’s gaze lingered on the prisoner, but only faintly. The light of the torch caught the unnatural hues of his own eyes: one a watery blue that rippled like the ocean, the other red as molten iron with a serpentine slit down the middle. A mismatched graft of races and powers, stitched into him by his own hand.

“No,” Hoyo said at last, his tone calm, detached. “I have better ones.”

That was all. A man’s life weighed against the value of organs, dismissed as though it were nothing.

Without pause, Hiro plunged his sword into the prisoner’s chest. The muffled cry that tried to burst free from behind the muzzle was more pitiful for its strangled silence. The body arched against the chains, then slackened. The smell of blood flooded the room anew, coppery and hot.

“Nice,” Hiro murmured, exhaling as though from satisfaction. “I leveled up.” He didn’t even glance at the corpse again. Turning, he held the bloodied sword out to one of the bishops. “Clean it up for me.”

The bishop accepted it with a grimace and no words, stepping back to wipe the blade clean. The simple act made him look less a priest and more a servant to some darker power.

“Any new skills unlocked?” Hoyo asked. His voice carried a flicker of curiosity this time, though his expression stayed calm.

Hiro’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his perfect face. “You’re awfully interested in what I gained from them.”

“Just asking,” Hoyo replied, shrugging. His gaze remained steady. “It is… fascinating. That you can gain skills simply from killing. It defies rules everyone else is bound to.”

“Well,” Hiro said, smirking, “aren’t we both the same in that regard? Only difference is mine doesn’t make me butcher myself like you. I don’t have to graft chunks of strangers onto my body. I hate self-mutilation, you know.”

Hoyo’s lips curved in the barest shadow of a smile. “It’s part of who I am.”

The exchange ended there, sharp and quiet. The bishops stayed silent, their disgust sealed behind discipline.

The bishop finished wiping the blade, the faint rasp of cloth over steel the only sound left in the chamber. He handed it back, eyes lowered, not daring to meet Hiro’s gaze. Hiro slid the weapon into its sheath as though nothing significant had just occurred.

Without another word, the group filed out into the corridor beyond. The air here was no fresher, the torchlight no brighter. Narrow stone halls stretched in both directions, their damp walls sweating moisture. The sound of dripping water echoed distantly, mingling with faint, muffled cries from deeper cells.

Waiting for them just beyond the threshold were two figures. The first, a young woman of noble bearing, stood straight with one hand resting on the hilt of her rapier. Her golden hair, pulled back neatly, caught the torchlight and gleamed faintly. She carried herself with the poise of someone raised in courts, yet hardened by the weight of duty. Her expression was cool, her eyes sharp, as though she were judging not just Hiro, but everything about the corridor itself.

“Any news?” she asked, her voice even, though there was a tightness behind it.

Hiro’s smile returned, easy and practiced. “No. He died. His wounds were too grievous, not even the priests could help in time.” He spread his hands slightly, as though presenting himself as both messenger and comfort. “But don’t worry. We’ll find whoever committed those murders in no time. That I promise.” Googlᴇ search novel✶fire.net

As he stepped closer, his hand rose, casually, almost tenderly, toward her shoulder. A gesture of reassurance, or perhaps something more. But Alva turned away before he could touch her, the motion sharp, deliberate. She strode past him, the sweep of her cloak brushing the air between them.

The smile faltered on Hiro’s lips. Just for a second. His jaw tensed, eyes narrowing with irritation. But he smothered the reaction almost instantly, masking it behind another grin that looked too white, too perfect.

The second figure was a young man in robes of deep red, his garb ostentatious by design, as though screaming for attention. A pointed hat sat atop his head, its wide brim shadowing a face marked with confidence bordering on arrogance. A mage, clearly, and one unbothered by propriety.

He smirked as he watched Alva retreat. “What’s that all about? Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise yet,” Hiro replied, shaking his head with exaggerated patience. His smirk shifted back into something more playful. “Well, for now, at least.”

The mage laughed under his breath. “Fair enough.”

“Let’s go,” Hiro said, his tone dismissing the subject. “We’ve got to head out to the frontlines soon. That damn old hag is going to rip my ears off if I’m late another day.”