Deus Necros

“Sigurd!” One of the younger hunters screamed, his voice ragged from panic and strain, as he stumbled down the icy slope with the motionless body of his companion slung limply across his shoulders. His boots skidded and scraped against the frost, each hurried step a fight to keep balance as the slope tilted treacherously beneath him. Breath tore through his lungs in visible clouds, each exhalation spilling into the frigid night air like smoke from a dying fire. The weight on his back dragged him lower, bending his spine, but he did not stop. He could not. The sound behind them drove him forward, the thunder of claws gouging into ice, the guttural howls of creatures bred in nightmare.

“On it!” a sharp voice rang out above the din. Sigurd, the ranger, burst into the open, her leap sending up a spray of powdered snow that glittered faintly beneath the light of the cloud covered sun. Her body twisted in midair, muscles coiling with desperate precision. Even as she landed hard upon one knee, her arms had already drawn her bowstring taut. Her breath clouded before her lips, frozen and sharp, and for one suspended heartbeat time itself seemed to fracture. The world slowed, the shrieks of pursuit fading into a hollow silence, the tension in the string creaking louder than the wind.

And then the slope disgorged them.

Dozens, no, scores, of malformed beasts hurtled into view, their silhouettes warped against the white of the ice, their bodies a patchwork of twisted sinew and bone. Some loped on all fours, their limbs grotesquely long, others lumbered upright, faces stretched into snarls that betrayed nothing human. They spilled across the snow in an unstoppable tide, eyes burning with the hunger of the Dark Continent.

“Hail Storm!” Sigurd’s voice cracked like a whip as she loosed her arrow.

From her bow exploded not one shaft but a storm. Hundreds of arrows split the daylight, each streak a glimmering bolt that multiplied in the air, as though the heavens themselves had conspired to arm her. The sky darkened with their descent. They rained down in a cacophony of shrieks and thunderous impacts, tearing into the snow, ripping through flesh. Beasts were thrown aside, shredded into mist and fragments, their cursed blood spraying the air in crimson arcs that painted the snow a ghastly red. The storm ripped across the slope like a gale, and the frozen earth itself seemed to shudder beneath the onslaught.

Sigurd staggered back, her boots carving grooves in the ice as she tried to keep pace with her fleeing companions. She turned once more, sliding sideways down the slope with practiced control, but her eyes flicked with dread to the distance. The others sprinted ahead, arms pumping, their breath streaming behind them in ragged bursts. Yet even at full speed, their pace faltered against the relentless approach of the beasts. The gulf closed with every second.

“Don’t stop! The cave is nearby!” the older of the companions roared, his voice hoarse with desperation. “We’ll huddle up there!”

The words were meant to rally, but fear carved lines across every face. The cave was close, yes, but too far for bodies already battered and lungs already spent. The realization crept upon them all, heavy as iron. Even if they reached the cave, they would not find salvation, only a choke point. There they would stand, battered and weary, against an endless tide that knew neither fear nor fatigue. Hope was as thin as their breath. Still, their legs carried them on, driven by the ancient command to run when death howled at one’s heels.

The huntress risked another glance. Behind them, the worst of the beasts had veered away, retreating from the ominous red aura that had split the horizon earlier. Yet enough remained. More than enough. A dozen, two dozen, drawn by the scent of prey, by the sight of struggling flesh, by the promise of easy meat.

Then the air split with a whistle, and agony struck.

Bone projectiles, jagged and cruel, sliced through the frozen gale and buried themselves in Sigurd’s arm. She let out a guttural grunt, the sound half-choked, as fire erupted through her limb. Her bow slipped from her fingers, clattering into the snow, its string snapping faintly as it fell. Her body faltered, knees buckling beneath her, before a strong hand seized her by the shoulder and dragged her forward. She bit down on the cry that clawed at her throat, teeth grinding against the pain.

“Keep running!”

“Shit!” she hissed, frustration biting deeper than pain. “I lost my bow!”

“Better than losing your life, captain!” her companion barked, his breath ragged. “Hurry! They’re on us!”

The words stung, but there was truth in them. She clicked her tongue, anger and shame twisting inside her chest. She had led them here, fresh recruits barely out of the guild, lured by the promise of safety in a land once sheltered by the Guardian’s presence. What had been one of the Empire’s most secure hunting grounds was now transformed into a nightmare landscape. Her heart sank as she ran, every step heavy with the weight of guilt.

“The Holy ORDER must have noticed that ray,” the young man carrying their unconscious comrade said suddenly, his voice high and brittle, laughter forced past trembling lips. “At least… at least we’ll have proper funerals.”

But his eyes did not laugh. They were wide, pale, pools of dread.

And then he froze.

He halted mid-stride, his body locking as if seized by frost. His forehead glistened with sweat that immediately froze in the air, and his skin turned pale-blue under the moonlight. His eyes bulged with terror fixed ahead, unblinking.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MOVE…” the older adventurer shouted, his voice cracking in panic. He skidded to a halt as well, boots carving into the ice, his chest heaving as dread clawed through his veins. Even Sigurd faltered, her wounded arm throbbing as she whipped her gaze forward.

The horde pressed behind them, shrieking with wild hunger. And before them…

Something stood that froze their very marrow.

At first glance, it was a man. But no man bore such a form. Horns, sharp as blades, jutted from his skull, glimmering as though carved from crimson crystal. His sword hung at his side, impossibly long, forged of blood-red crystal that drank the light around it. His body was draped in noble regalia, velvet and precious leather trimmed in silver, garments too immaculate to belong on a battlefield. Yet it was the weight of his presence that crushed them most. The pressure that radiated from him pressed against their skin, seeped into their bones, and suffocated their breath. Updates are released by novlfire.net

Only one kind of being could look thus. Only one could radiate such terrible majesty.

A Demon of the highest rank.

“Well,” the young man whispered, his voice broken, hollow, “I guess we can strike the church giving us proper funerals now…”

The figure raised his head. His smile curved slow, his voice a low purr that cut through the icy wind.

“Hey there… friends. Need a hand?”

The words should have been casual, almost playful. But to the hunters, they rang like a death knell. Each syllable tolled like a bell in their ears, the solemn tolling of finality. Their strength bled from their limbs. Their hope withered.

This was no rescue, no salvation. This was the final affront, their last stand already stripped from them. Their names would never be remembered, their deaths never sung. No bard would speak of adventurers crushed by a high-ranking demon. No one would know, no one would care. Only futility awaited them now, clothed in a noble regalia and wearing the crown of The Devil himself.