Deus Necros

“The hell was that about?” Ludwig asked.

“You should have inspected the princess.” The Knight said.

“I can’t do that randomly; people feel it. Was she sick? I couldn’t even tell…” Ludwig sighed.

He hated the uncertainty. Celest had looked vibrant in the hall. Beautiful. Alive. If there was sickness, it was hidden well, or it was the kind that didn’t show until it was too late.

Ludwig’s mind reached instinctively for solutions and then hit the wall of reality: he wasn’t here to play healer. He was here to prepare for Pride. He didn’t even understand what the maid meant, and chasing it now would only drag him deeper into palace webs.

He couldn’t fully understand the meaning behind the maid’s words, and it won’t help him much if he were to start worrying about it now.

“Let’s go for now, I’ll find out eventually,” he muttered and left the area.

He crossed the garden, leaving for the second time today, and once he arrived at the exit of the massive mountain-carved palace, he found the same carriage that transported him earlier standing there.

The garden was quieter at night, lanterns set along paths like small grounded stars. The scent of flowers and trimmed hedges sat in the air, and the fountain’s sound tried to make the palace feel peaceful.

Ludwig didn’t let it. He moved through it like a man walking between checkpoints. The carriage waited exactly where it had before, gold catching lantern light, horses restless but steady.

“You’re a busy man,” the coachman said.

“Busy is good,” Ludwig replied as he rode in the carriage that had more gold than wood on it.

He sat inside without relaxing, posture set, hands steady.

“I already received notice where I should take you, take a small rest, we’ll be there in a bit.” The coachman said as he moved the carriage.

The daylight began disappearing, and the night in the capital was less noisy but not completely calm.

Ludwig watched the light fade through the carriage window, the capital’s glow shifting from sun to lantern.

The streets lost their daytime crowd and kept only the kind of movement that survived at night: guards on patrol, drunks leaning into doorframes, merchants closing shutters, and the occasional laughter from inns that pretended the world was safe.

The lanterns lighting the streets took the role of the sun, and the paved road emptied of most passersby; most shops had closed down, besides a few bars and inns.

The carriage traversed the city to a deeper and faraway portion. The buildings seemed to lose their noble vestige and were replaced with modern yet commoner buildings of wood and brick. The stone facades grew less ornate. Then the windows became smaller. Then the streets narrowed. The air smelled more like smoke and iron and less like perfume. Ludwig preferred this part of the city. People here were too tired to be polite. They simply lived.

And soon they reached a location where the sound of hammering could be heard from a block away.

It wasn’t just one hammer. It was a rhythm, layered impacts with different tones, metal on metal, metal on stone, the occasional hiss of quenched heat, the deep thump of something heavy being moved. The sound carried confidence. This was work that didn’t stop because the sun went down.

A lone building, massive in size, lit all over with lantern light and magic, and had smoke bellowing outside of a large chimney in the center.

This was Andre’s residence and workshop.

The place looked like a forge had been allowed to grow into a fortress. Lantern light spilled from multiple windows, and the heat radiating from the building made the street feel warmer despite the night. Smoke rolled from the chimney in thick pulses, and the air around it tasted faintly of coal and hot metal.

Several young men were moving heavy materials and drawing water from a nearby well. Some were pushing what looked like a carriage full of armor and weapons down the street.

Their arms were thick from labor, their faces smeared with soot, and their movements were practiced, coordinated without needing to speak much. The street here was alive in a way the noble districts never were. Not with music, but with effort.

“We’re here, Sir Ludwig,” the coachman said.

“I see, thanks,” Ludwig opened the carriage’s door and walked out.

The workers noticed Ludwig, and you could see many of them had a sour look on their faces.

It wasn’t immediate hatred. It was fatigue hardened into irritation, the look of people who had been ordered around by nobles one too many times. Ludwig understood it instantly. The smithy was busy. Andre’s apprentices and workers were the ones who absorbed the arrogance of every titled fool who thought a weapon was an entitlement.

The nearest one took a hard glance at Ludwig and said, “Master Andre isn’t here, also it’s way past the time for you to order anything come back… next month, you’ll probably have a spot.”

Another worker near him snorted.

Ludwig understood what this meant. After all, this was Andre, the royal smith. He probably had too many orders lined up. He worked for royalty. Any noble would want a weapon made by him. And with Andre as their master, they can say and do whatever they want.

He didn’t take offense. Offense was for men who could afford to lose time. He also didn’t correct them immediately with threats or force. They were the little people.

“Inform Andre that Ludwig is here to meet him.”

The worker near Ludwig came up close and tapped him twice on the chest with a dirty finger, “I told you, we’re not taking orders. Come back next month!”

The finger tap landed like a spark near dry powder. Ludwig felt the thought rise too easily, the simple, violent solution that would end the disrespect in half a second. Snapping the finger. Breaking the wrist. Teaching a lesson. The fact that the thought came so smoothly irritated him more than the tap itself. Wrath’s influence had made irritation feel louder lately, sharper, more immediate. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the irritation syndromes he was suffering from or simply if that was his honest-to-God feeling.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, lad; that guy is the Emperor’s Guest.” The coachman snorted as he guided the carriage away.

Only then did the worker seem to realize how fucked up he was.

The man’s face changed in a blink, color draining as his brain caught up with the consequences. His hand withdrew so fast it looked like it had been burned. The street suddenly felt quieter around him as the other workers paused, not from respect, but from the sudden awareness that this wasn’t another spoiled noble.

“Call…Andre.” Ludwig said.

“Y-yes, give me a moment.” The worker immediately ran inside, and soon the burly man came out, rushing even ahead of the worker.

Andre’s presence filled the doorway before he even spoke, thick arms, soot-stained clothes, beard like a war banner. He moved with the speed of a man who hated wasting time and understood what royal notice meant.

“SIR LUDWIG! You came!” he said.

“I told you I’d return.”

“Ah, I received news you’ll arrive, but I thought you’d spend more time in the palace, ball and all…” he said.

Andre’s eyes flicked over Ludwig, checking for damage the way craftsmen checked for cracks in steel. Ludwig didn’t bother explaining. Andre didn’t need the story.

“Too bothersome. Let’s get to work,” Ludwig said as he walked forward.

He didn’t want pleasantries, and he didn’t want to be dragged back into palace talk. He needed metallurgical understanding. He needed to make the system stop refusing him. He needed to be ready for Pride.