Deus Necros

Ludwig drew Oathcarver. The weapon’s condition made Joana frown immediately. “What in god’s name did you do to this poor weapon?”

“Ah, this,” Ludwig said, letting out a rueful smile. He turned the blade in his hand so its battered profile caught the pale light. “For a sword to sustain five years of constant fighting against the Wrathful Death, it did pretty damn well… which brings me to ask, I hope you still have friendly relation with the blacksmith that adjusted Durandal…”

“I still do,” Joana answered aloud, though her thoughts curled inward. ’Since he knew of Durandal, and even remembered that she was the one who arranged its reforging, this had to be Ludwig.’ Yet doubt lingered. It could still be some creature that had taken his memories, wearing them like stolen clothes.

“However,” she added, her eyes narrowing on the mangled hilt and blunt edge, “you can’t fight me with that. It’s a handle with a chunk of metal on it. Not even worth being called a sword.”

“Nah, you’ll make my sword feel bad,” Ludwig replied lightly. Then, with no more than a shift of his grip, the weapon changed. A surge of pure wrathful aura roared out from the hilt, filling the air with a crackle that made frost jump from the ground. The crystalline energy manifested along the handle, lengthening and hardening into a jagged edge. Oathcarver’s cruel form was reborn, not in forged steel but in a slab of wrath crystal, a blade shaped more for breaking and rending than for any clean cut.

Joana’s breath caught. Aura turned into matter, an impossible act, something theorized in dusty halls but never witnessed. And here it stood before her, humming in the cold air as if daring her to refute its existence. For a heartbeat she forgot suspicion and felt only thrill. Theory was one thing, but a challenge made real was another.

A wide grin spread across her face. “Then show me your five years of progress!” she said, and drew her own weapon in a smooth, fluid motion.

They met in the space between in a crash of steel and crystal. The impact rang across the slopes, echoing down into the valley. Sparks flew where edges kissed. Kassandra pressed her palm against her forehead, exhaling in sharp exasperation.

“Fighting maniacs,” she muttered, her hand tightening around the purple orb as though holding back the urge to intervene.

High on the slope, several adventurers appeared, drawn by the noise. They settled along the ridge, watching intently. None raised weapons, none made hostile moves. They seemed merely curious, perhaps even respectful, as though the duel was spectacle enough to warrant stillness.

*** Googlᴇ search noᴠelfire.net

“C’mon professor,” Ludwig said as he pressed Joana back with a powerful shove, their blades sliding apart. The raw strength in his strike forced her boots into the snow, but he eased before she lost balance. His grin carried challenge and familiarity both. “You know well that I’m stronger than your average swordsman. Why not use your specialty?”

Joana’s hair clung damp to her brow, her breath visible in sharp bursts. She sighed, half weary, half astonished. “How did you grow this much…”

“You were a witness to my growth at the academy,” Ludwig said, his tone more humble than his strikes. “I’d say I’m far from perfect…”

“Yeah, I can see that.” She adjusted her grip and shifted her stance. “Your moves are aggressive, suicidal, even. It’s not fun fighting someone who isn’t scared of death. It’s easy to take them down…”

“Yes,” Ludwig said, smiling with a thin edge. “But you end up losing a limb for it.”

“This is far too savage of a fighting style…”

“It’s the Tyrant Blade Technique,” he reminded her, his eyes flickering. “I showed it to you before…”

“Even so,” Joana said firmly, “it’s far too self-harming. Let me show you why.”

She vanished from sight. One instant she stood before him, the next the snow where she had been was disturbed, her form gone. A heartbeat later she reappeared above him, sword already descending. She had angled it flat, unwilling to split him open, but the force of the blow still promised to drive him to the ground.

But Ludwig’s hand rose without hesitation, without even turning. He caught the blade mid-swing, the crystal edge of Oathcarver humming at his side. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his face upward. His smile was sharp, almost unsettling. “Professor,” he said softly, “your killing intent is too obvious.”

Joana pulled back at once, disengaging. She landed lightly on the snow several meters away, her sword steady in her hands, but her expression betrayed a flicker of disbelief.

“That’s not possible,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t have even been able to know where I’d strike from… let alone stop it.”

“When you’re stuck with a monster that doesn’t allow you rest, sleep, or even a comfortable death,” Ludwig said, his tone matter-of-fact, “you tend to expand your senses. I’m far too sensitive to murderous intent.”

“Are you saying I wanted to kill you there? I flipped my sword…”

“Only at that moment did your murderous intent disappear,” Ludwig replied evenly. “Because until then, you didn’t believe I was Ludwig.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If my intent disappeared, then how did you locate me?”

“Lingering intent was everywhere but the place you appeared,” Ludwig said. “Since there was no intent there, that’s where you’d be. How about another round?”

“No.” Joana shook her head, lowering her blade slightly. “I’d have to use something stronger to take you down, and I can’t guarantee your survival.”

Ludwig laughed, a sound that rolled easily despite the sharp cold. “You’re saying you’re more dangerous than the Wrathful Death?”

“More dangerous? No. More lethal, yes.” Joana stepped closer, her expression softening despite the words. “Remember, Ludwig, what you fought was a mindless destructive beast. If it’s someone intent on killing you, they can achieve it with far less power than the Wrathful Death.” She paused, then reached out, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. Her voice lowered. “Still… you did good. You did really good.”