Deus Necros

Many notifications kept bothering Ludwig, flashing insistently at the edge of his vision, stacking and overlapping in a way that would normally demand his full attention. They pulsed faintly, one after another, rewards, warnings, confirmations, all clamoring to be acknowledged.

Any other time, any other battlefield, he would have sifted through them immediately, dissected each line for advantage or threat. But right now, they were nothing more than noise. He let them linger, half transparent and ignored, because there were far more pressing things unfolding in front of him.

Things that could not be postponed or silenced with a thought. The aftermath of Envy still hung heavy in the air, and the people standing before him were very much alive, very much watching, and very much trying to decide what he was.

“So what excuse are you going to tell us now?” Tull asked.

The words landed hard, not shouted, but sharpened by suspicion and fatigue. Tull’s posture was rigid, the tension in his shoulders obvious even as he tried to mask it behind discipline. His grip on his sword had loosened compared to moments ago, but only slightly, like a man who had stepped away from the brink but still remembered exactly how close he had been to falling in.

There was accusation in his tone, but also something else buried beneath it. A need for justification. A need for something that would make all of this make sense without tearing apart everything he believed in. And perhaps even fear.

“You know,” Ludwig said as he stared Tull in the eyes, “I don’t mind loyalty, and I respect strength but you should also know when to keep quiet,” Ludwig replied.

He did not raise his voice. He did not posture or threaten. He simply looked at Tull, really looked at him, meeting his glare without flinching. There was no anger there, only a cold, measured patience, the kind that came from someone who had lived through enough death to stop wasting energy on needless escalation.

The implication was clear. Loyalty without restraint was not virtue. Strength without judgment was not protection. And Tull, for all his discipline, was walking dangerously close to both lines.

“Are you threatening me?” Tull asked.

The question came quickly, almost reflexively, as if Tull had trained himself to identify threats before anything else. His stance shifted a fraction, weight adjusting, instincts taking over before reason had fully caught up. He was not afraid. But he was no longer certain.

“I don’t think he needs to,” Redd replied, “He kinda has a point man, you’ve been on his ass since you’ve met. Just chill for a bit, let’s hear him out.”

Redd stepped in without ceremony, voice rough but steady, cutting through the rising tension before it could snap. His tone carried familiarity, not reverence, and that alone shifted the dynamic.

He wasn’t defending Ludwig out of loyalty or fear. He was calling out something he had seen plainly from the start. Tull’s scrutiny had never eased, not even once, and now it was turning into something unproductive. Redd’s eyes flicked briefly between them, gauging reactions, ready to intervene again if needed.

Ludwig nodded to Redd and grabbed his lantern by the bottom, “Do you know what this is?”

The motion was deliberate. He did not flourish it or raise it high. He simply lifted it enough for them to see, fingers wrapped firmly around its base. The lantern looked unassuming at first glance, its surface dulled by age and use, its glass darkened as though it absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Yet there was a weight to it that went beyond physical mass, a presence that pressed faintly against the senses of anyone standing too close.

Under normal circumstances, only those who have already seen or obtained this lantern can see through its glamour, unless the user specifically shows it.

The veil peeled back subtly, not with a flash or surge, but like a curtain being drawn aside. The air around the lantern seemed to thicken, its outline sharpening, details emerging that should not have been visible moments before. Etched sigils crawled faintly across its surface, not glowing, but existing with quiet certainty. The kind of artifact that did not need to announce itself to be dangerous.

Tull and Redd both frowned, “Not really?” Tull said.

Their reactions were instinctive. Brows furrowed, gazes narrowing as they tried to reconcile what they were seeing with what they thought they knew. There was no immediate recognition, only unease. The lantern did not radiate power in a way they were familiar with. It did not feel like a weapon. It felt like a boundary.

“That’s Necros’s Lantern. You’re an apostle?” The prince replied.

Alex’s voice cut in smoothly, carrying certainty that the others lacked. His eyes had widened, but not in fear. In recognition. In understanding. He had gone still, posture straightening, attention snapping fully into place as the implications hit him all at once. Of all of them, he was the only one who had seen enough forbidden texts, enough sealed doctrine, to connect the shape of the artifact to the name it carried.

Ludwig smiled, “Someone knows his shit at least.”

The smile was brief, almost tired, but genuine. It wasn’t mockery. It was acknowledgment. Recognition, even. In a moment thick with suspicion, it was the first response that wasn’t rooted in hostility.

“Wait an apostle of Necros, that’s even more dangerous than mere dark magic!” Tull said.

The words came out sharper than intended, edged with something close to alarm. Dark magic was one thing. Apostleship was another entirely. That was doctrine. That was heresy. That was something drilled into the Empire’s soldiers as an absolute line, not to be crossed, not to be negotiated with.

“No, you got things wrong, I’m the only apostle of Necros,” Ludwig said.

He corrected him calmly, almost casually, as if stating a simple fact rather than overturning an entire worldview.

“That’s rich coming from you, did you not recognize those bastards who attacked Tulmud five years ago, they too were apostles of Necros,” Tull replied clearely dissatisfied.

The memory was still raw. Tulmud had burned. People had died screaming under powers they did not understand. To Tull, the word apostle was inseparable from that image. He was not arguing semantics. He was defending the dead.

“Former.” Ludwig said.

One word. Flat. Final.