Deus Necros

A few days passed, slipping by with the slow inevitability of sand through glass. During that time Ludwig finished most of his prep work for the mission to come. Mainly securing some needed materials and polishing his swordsmanship and spells. He had went back to the academy, walking among the younger generation, who only heard of him by name and rare knew him by face. Until he reached the room where Silva presided over, after entering, it would appear as if the teleportation room of the academy almost froze.

The few people that were already there were all taken aback by the arrival of the only disciple of Master Van Dijk, and the few that knew more were even more enthralled by the appearance of the young man who became a hero, one of the few heroes of the Black Tower Academy in fact.

Ludwig stood before the gate with no entourage, no baggage to suggest he was preparing for war. His regalia caught the light in a faint shimmer, his cloak brushing lightly against his boots as he shifted his weight. Across his back hung Durandal, its presence sharp even when silent, and in one hand he leaned the black staff he had taken from the lich, its weight balanced against his shoulder.

Salem crouched at his feet, eyes gleaming gold in the shadow of the platform. The cat’s tail swayed lazily, though every flick betrayed awareness of the soldiers and guards pressing through the square.

Old man Silva arrived beside him, hands folded on top of the cane he didn’t really need but liked to carry. His robes fluttered slightly in the early wind that drew across the plaza, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and horse sweat from nearby stables.

“I heard the news…What unfortunate fate,” Silva said at length. His voice was weary but not unkind.

Ludwig turned his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening. “It’s fine, old man. Just a mission. I’ve been through worse.” His tone was calm, yet there was a steel edge underneath that admitted he knew how close the line between worse and final could be.

“Ah,” Silva sighed, the sound like air leaving an old bellows. His brows knitted and wrinkled with age but eyes sharp still, studied Ludwig with something between pity and respect. “How enviable it is, to be so young and brave. But truth be told, Ludwig, humans are far more dangerous than beasts. A war is not fair, nor is it just. Your enemy will not spare you because you are young.”

“Nor would monsters,” Ludwig replied. He let his gaze slip past Silva, past the tall arch of the gate and out toward the bustle of soldiers moving through the square. “Nor would half-divinities. Trust me, I’ve seen worse than this. I’ll be back in six months.”

Silva chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head faintly. “Confidence is a blade, sharp on both edges. Wield it carefully.”

The light of the gate shimmered, an oval of woven magic spreading open like glass turned liquid. Silva raised his hand, gesturing toward it. “The portal is open to Aspen, westward.”

Ludwig’s brows furrowed. “I thought I was headed for Lotostra.”

“They both border the Kingdom of the Sands.” Silva’s mouth pulled into a faint grimace. “But I was instructed to send you to Aspen. Titania is stationed in Lotostra, and with her, a vast host of the Holy Order. I doubt you want to find yourself there… not yet.”

“Oh, that’s good to know,” Ludwig said with a thin smile, tugging slightly at his collar. “Surrounded by priests and paladins? That would be nothing but trouble.”

As if in agreement, a faint window blinked across his vision. Its text burned stark against the air, translucent yet undeniable.

***

[Existence: Part 1]

During your deployment in the war, obtain recognition from both enemies and allies alike.

Achieve Level 200 during this war.

Soul Gain is increased significantly when fighting in advanced positions of the battle.

***

Ludwig’s eyes lingered on the letters for a breath before he exhaled, letting the window fade. His fingers flexed once around the staff.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go, then.”

Silva’s cane tapped once against the stone as he bowed his head in blessing. The swirl of magic grew stronger, pulling light into itself until the arch was filled with rolling color.

The portal’s breath washed over Ludwig’s face, cold and charged, like stepping into the heart of a storm. He stepped forward without pause, Salem flickering at his heels, and let the light swallow him whole.

Darkness took his sight for a moment, a blankness that stretched too long to be comfortable. Then the world bent, stretched, and opened again.

He emerged into air that carried the smell of trampled grass, horse dung, sweat, steel, and campfire smoke. His boots sank slightly into earth that had been trodden flat by hundreds of feet.

Before him lay the sprawl of an outpost grown into a village: tents pitched in tight rows, wooden barracks hammered together in haste, banners snapping from poles where soldiers moved in constant streams. The clang of hammer against iron rang sharp from the forges, voices shouted orders, and somewhere nearby a horse gave a shrill protest.

The horizon stretched wide, prairie grass rippling under the wind. Beyond it, a faint smear of darker green marked swamps, and far beyond that, forests like a jagged wall against the edge of the sky.

Ludwig lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the scale of it all. The war smelled real here, sweat, smoke, iron, mud, fear woven together.

A soldier approached at once, armor dented from long wear, his eyes sunken with sleeplessness. He looked Ludwig up and down, taking in the regalia, the sword, the staff. His tone was clipped. “Military rank and affiliation.”

“No rank yet,” Ludwig answered evenly. “Affiliated with the Black Tower.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Mage corps? You?”

“Why?” Ludwig’s voice sharpened, faint irritation threading through. “What’s wrong with that?”

The man didn’t answer. He gave a half-snort, half-grunt, then turned on his heel. “Follow me. Don’t ask questions.”

Ludwig frowned, the staff tightening in his grip, but he didn’t protest. He followed, cloak brushing behind him, Salem padding silent at his side. The path wound through ranks of tents and barracks, men and women staring as they passed.

At last they reached one of the larger tents, taller than the rest, its fabric pulled taut over a wooden frame. The soldier pushed the flap aside and called inside.

“Commander, I brought a new recruit.”

“Come in,” came the reply. The voice was clear, female, carrying authority without strain.

Ludwig stepped in, letting the flap fall behind him. His eyes swept the tent in an instant, maps spread across the table, lanterns burning low, the smell of parchment, ink, and steel polish heavy in the air.

What surprised him was not the command tent itself but the figure behind the table.

Not a grizzled veteran or a scarred general, but a woman, thin, poised, with a face too alluring for the battlefield, eyes sharp as cut glass. And not just human. Her ears, long and pointed absurdly so… Elvenly so.

Ludwig’s steps slowed. The faint curl of his lips betrayed something between surprise and interest.

After all, why is the enemy of humanity leading a human battalion to war?