Deus Necros

“Damn my ear’s been itching for a while now,” Ludwig mumbled as he walked into the lowest floor of the Black Tower.

The words came out under his breath, more irritation than complaint, as he rubbed at the side of his head with two fingers as if he could scrape the feeling off.

The stairs down were colder than the upper floors, the air growing still and heavy the deeper he went, carrying the faint scent of old stone and metal that never saw sunlight. Every step echoed too cleanly, like the tower itself insisted on counting his descent.

This was where he trained with his master. And where the more… darker parts of the Academy were held. This circular locked room was both for training and testing magic. Mainly Dark Magic as it was both separate from the outside world and highly confidential.

The last corridor opened into a door that did not look like much until one paid attention; the seams were too perfect, the hinges too hidden, the surface too plain for something so important. Ludwig’s presence alone seemed to make the air shift, the wards recognizing him with that faint pressure behind the eyes. When the door gave way, the room beyond swallowed sound strangely, as if it drank it. The circular walls were marked with old sigils etched into the stone, not decorative, but functional, layers of containment meant to keep what happened here from leaking into the world, in either direction.

Not many know of the existence of this place, but a few close acquaintances to Van Dijk.

Even the silence felt like part of the secrecy, a silence that wasn’t natural, but enforced.

Besides Kassandra, his assistant, Silv, who made the spatial lock, the Dean who oversees everything, and finally, Joanna, the only ’friend’ of Van Dijk. Not even the other professors knew of this place nor what it does, though maybe Professor Olim might have a few suspicions but he never pushed the subject.

Ludwig’s gaze slid over the walls as if expecting to find the familiar marks of his master’s work, the little touches that told you where Van Dijk’s patience ended and where his cruelty began.

The idea that even professors were kept out of this place made it feel less like a room and more like a confession booth for sins the Academy refused to acknowledge.

Olim’s name lingered in Ludwig’s mind like a smudge, the sort you noticed only when you tried to look away.

’Speaking of which…’ Ludwig thought, ’It’s been a while since I’ve seen that guy… I wonder what he’s up to…’

The thought came with a faint unease, because Olim’s absence did not feel like relief. It felt like a pause before something resumed. Ludwig had learned that men like Olim didn’t simply vanish, they either found new toys, or they were made to stop.

The man named Olim was… well a psychopath or as what his Master always called him. He was friendly, overly so. But at the same time, it would always push anyone to their absolute limits including the students. But, it’s been a long time since he saw him at the academy.

Ludwig’s mouth tightened as he remembered that bright smile of Olim’s, the kind that looked warm until you noticed it never reached the eyes. His master’s tone when he said “psychopath” had always been matter-of-fact, not judgmental, like calling a blade sharp.

The pushing, the constant testing, the way students stumbled out of lessons looking like they’d been through war, Olim had made it all sound like improvement. Ludwig hated that he couldn’t tell whether the man was a threat to be avoided or a tool to be used, and he hated even more that he’d started thinking in those terms at all.

“So, are you serious about bringing him back?” The words came from the Codex on Ludwig’s side.

The Codex spoke like a book that had learned to be displeased, its voice dry and too clear in the room’s quiet. Ludwig felt the presence of it at his hip, weightless and heavy at once, its awareness brushing against his thoughts like cold paper.

“Yes, you saw it yourself, he can’t go against us…”

Ludwig’s answer came without hesitation, but not without caution. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the room as if he was expecting something to jump out of the stone. His hand drifted toward the ring out of habit, fingers hovering over it, then stopping. This wasn’t the kind of place where nervousness helped.

“I have no plans to do so, master Ludwig.” The lich said.

The voice from the lantern had that same hollow dignity as before, yet in the stillness of this room it sounded more intimate, closer, like the walls made the words cling. The title “master” landed wrong, like a collar being fastened.

“That sounds a bit too…uncomfortable, Kaiser,” Ludwig said as he answered the lich inside the lantern.

He said the name with mild annoyance, as if trying it on like a glove that didn’t fit. Ludwig’s eyes narrowed at the lantern’s glow, the thought of being called “master” by anything making his skin itch nearly as much as his ear had.

“Then how should I call you?” Kaiser asked.

There was a pause between the words, not hesitation, but calculation, as if Kaiser was deciding how much humility to perform.

“Just call me Ludwig, like the Knight King… by the way, I never asked your name…”

Ludwig’s voice softened only slightly when he mentioned the Knight King, as if that undead presence carried an odd sort of reliability. He turned his head a fraction, letting his attention dip toward the book where the Death Knight’s existence was housed, then back again.

“Gale Aran Tibari…” the Knight King said.

The voice came out steady, deep, and somehow offended by the idea of being rushed. It carried the weight of old authority, the sort that didn’t care whether someone found it convenient.

“That’s… really long. How about Gale? Knight King Gale?”