Deus Necros

Ludwig’s mouth kept opening and closing, as though searching for the right words, while the headmaster continued working, quill scratching steadily across parchment. The air between them thickened, the weight of the unspoken demand pressing down on Ludwig’s chest. He could feel the headmaster’s expectation—waiting for his answer—but his mind raced, stumbling over itself.

There was no right answer, and Ludwig knew it. Deep down, his body trembled with the certainty that no matter what he said, the headmaster would see through him. Ludwig couldn’t lie. Not to someone of this power.

Van Dijk had warned him—a mere glance from anyone above the sixth rank would shatter his disguise. And this headmaster…he was leagues beyond that. The very room hummed with his presence, an invisible power that seemed to coil around Ludwig, tightening with each passing second. It was a terrifying reminder that any attempt at deception would only get him killed.

His body felt frozen, bound by fear. But against his will, Ludwig’s mouth moved.

[Necros’s Blessing has been activated.]

“I have not willingly sought to be what I am,” Ludwig’s voice came out, the words foreign and hollow, as though Necros himself had guided his tongue. “But I wish to reverse it. And what other place than the Dark Academy is there to study the dark arts?”

The quill stopped.

The headmaster raised an eyebrow, his fingers still on the parchment as he slowly turned his gaze toward Ludwig, locking eyes with him. “Dark Academy?” he echoed, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that term. This is the Black Tower Academy, young one.”

Ludwig’s gut twisted in embarrassment at the mistake, though not of his own But Necros’s words, but there was no time to dwell on it before the headmaster continued.

“You say you wish to reverse the curse of undeath.” His voice was soft, almost amused. “But do you truly understand what that means?”

Ludwig remained silent, knowing better than to speak too quickly.

“It means,” the headmaster continued, “to defy the God of Death. Necros does not take kindly to those who would dare reclaim what he has rightfully taken. Returning to life is not a matter of will—it is an affront to the natural order.” His gaze sharpened, boring into Ludwig. “Do you understand the cost of angering a god?”

Ludwig’s throat felt dry, but the words still slipped out, compelled by a mixture of fear and resignation. “It isn’t about will. It’s about necessity. I never wanted this. This curse was forced upon me.”

The headmaster leaned back, considering Ludwig’s words carefully. “So it was for many before you,” he said, his tone turning grave. “Do you think the millions of undead wandering the earth chose this fate? Do you think they wished to return as hollow shells, lost to the world of the living?” He sighed, the weight of centuries in his voice. “No one wants this.”

Ludwig’s eyes hardened, resolve setting in. “No one wants this,” he agreed, his voice low but steady. “But I refuse to accept it. I will struggle against it. If there’s even a chance to reverse this, I’ll take it.”

The headmaster’s expression softened, just slightly. There was something akin to respect in his eyes, though veiled by an air of caution. He stood, his dark robes flowing as he approached Ludwig. His hand came to rest on Ludwig’s shoulder, and the touch felt heavy, almost suffocating.

“You’re weak,” the headmaster said bluntly, “fragile, brittle. You don’t have the strength to undertake something as monumental as reversing undeath. If it’s even possible, you have a long way to go.”

“I know that,” Ludwig replied. His voice was firmer now, a small flicker of determination in the face of the overwhelming odds. “But what else am I supposed to do? An undead has time, and I’d rather spend mine fighting than idling away the centuries.”

The headmaster’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “That’s the spirit.” He gave Ludwig’s shoulder a final pat before stepping back. “I wanted to see where your end goal lies, and so far, you’ve spoken no lies. But make no mistake—you’re still very much a novice here.”

With a wave of his hand, the headmaster summoned a small black raven from the shadows. The bird materialized out of thin air, its eyes glowing faintly as it fluttered to perch on Ludwig’s shoulder.

“This is Bulgasal,” the headmaster said, “my assistant. He will take you to your classes. You have much to learn.”

The raven blinked, and in a voice that was unnervingly sharp, it cawed, “Follow me. I will lead the way.”

The headmaster raised his hand, and in it, he held a crystal—a communicator, much like the one Van Dijk had used before. The swirling mist within the crystal began to form an image, slowly solidifying into the shape of a figure. Van Dijk stood atop a pile of corpses—bloodied, fur-covered corpses. They looked like…humanoid wolves. Werewolves?

“Van Dijk,” the headmaster spoke, his voice laced with irritation. “Stop slaughtering lycanthropes. At this rate, you’ll exterminate the entire race.”

Van Dijk, whose face had been twisted into a grim mask of hatred, suddenly noticed the call and his expression shifted. The anger melted away in an instant, replaced by his usual playful, almost maddeningly smug smile. “Headmaster~” he purred. “Did you miss me?”

“Enough of your games,” the headmaster snapped. “You knew I would figure out that your ‘pupil’ is undead. What are you planning, Van Dijk?”

Van Dijk’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “An experiment, of course.”

The headmaster let out a long, frustrated sigh. “So, have you found him yet?”

Van Dijk’s expression flickered, momentarily darkening. “No,” he admitted, his voice low with barely contained rage. He kicked at one of the corpses and it caused the entire thing to shatter into an explosion of blood and sinew, “The lead was wrong. These were just third-rate lycanthropes. Nothing useful.”

The headmaster didn’t respond immediately, his eyes shifting briefly to Ludwig. “What do you intend to do with Ludwig?” he asked, his tone almost casual.

Van Dijk’s gaze snapped back to Ludwig, and his smile returned, though this time it felt sharper, more dangerous. “Oh, don’t bully him too much, Headmaster. He’s mine, after all.”

The headmaster chuckled softly. “I have no interest in taking what belongs to you. But I won’t agree to our original deal. He will not be returning to your tower every night.”

Van Dijk’s smile faltered. “What? Why not? If he stays with his peers for too long—”

“He’ll be fine,” the headmaster interrupted. “You can see it for yourself. He’s not like the others. He has a level of control, of intellect. If he’s discovered, we’ll deal with it then.”

Van Dijk’s expression darkened for a split second before he regained his composure. “Fine. But I still need to check on his progress. Once a month.”

“Agreed,” the headmaster said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Once a month. Now, Ludwig,” he added, turning his attention back to him, “Bulgasal will guide you to your first class. Follow its instructions. And remember—this academy is not kind to the weak.”

Ludwig nodded. After all, at the first step he took in this academy, he saw a student on the brink of death.

Ludwig felt the raven’s sharp talons grip his shoulder more tightly. “This way,” it croaked, giving Ludwig a sharp peck to get him moving.

The door to the headmaster’s office closed behind him with a soft click, but Ludwig couldn’t shake the lingering sensation that he had barely survived an encounter far more dangerous than it seemed.

“Hurry!” Bulgasal cawed, its voice as harsh as a whip. “Class has already started! Kaw!”

Ludwig quickened his pace, the hallways of the Black Tower Academy looming dark and vast around him. His first class was Magic Theory, and judging by Bulgasal’s impatience, he was already two hours late.

They passed a wall where Bulgasal suddenly stopped, pointing a sharp beak at a list posted there. “Your schedule! Memorize it!” the bird demanded.

Ludwig took a quick glance. His weekly schedule was filled with intimidating subjects: Magic Theory, Dark Art History, Black Magic Reversal, Alchemy and Magic Craftsmanship, and Practical Training. Each class lasted four hours a day, once a day, and today, he had already missed half of Magic Theory.

He memorized the schedule in a single glance, thanks to the blessing of undeath and the sharpness of his mind—both enhanced by the cold, still clarity that came with his new form. Bulgasal fluttered impatiently, pecking him again as it led him to a large wooden door.

Peck. Peck.

An old man opened the door, his hunched form almost bending under the weight of his years. He squinted at Ludwig, and then at Bulgasal. “New student? Headmaster recommendation?”

Bulgasal cawed in response. “Late!” it added with a sharp tone.

‘You didn’t need to remind him of that!’ Ludwig thought inwardly.

The old man sighed, shaking his head. “You really are unlucky. Exams are next week. How will you manage?”

Ludwig’s stomach sank. Exams? A week from now?

The old man gestured for him to enter. “No time to dwell on it now. Get in and take a seat. And good luck.”

As Ludwig stepped into the massive lecture hall, the eyes of hundreds of students turned toward him. Some stared with disinterest, while others—mostly the girls—whistled softly, their gazes lingering on his sharp. After all, Ludwig didn’t seem to realize that his former appearance as a human was what one would consider ‘Dashing and Handsome’.

and the current slime disguise he has on perfectly replicated his appearance before he died.

Additionally, wearing the black dress of the Black Tower academy gave him a villainous and devilish handsomeness that seemed to be the trope with females nowadays.

“Quite please,” the teacher said.

And immediately the entire class went to silence. This earned Ludwig’s respect, after all, he underestimated the old man from his appearance but the way he handled hundreds of students was nothing but perfect using two words.

“Go pick a seat,” the old man said and returned to the board.

He kept his head down, moving quickly to find a seat. “Sorry… sorry…” he mumbled as he squeezed into an empty spot between two students.

To his right was a girl who seemed far from interested in anything regarding makeup or looking good at all, and had more notes on her book than the words on it.

And to his other side was a young man who seemed more interested in dozing off than paying attention to the class.

Ludwig pulled out a small booklet, flipping it open to take notes, but as he glanced at the board, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head. The symbols scrawled across the board were incomprehensible—a mess of foreign glyphs and ancient runes that sent a splitting headache through his skull.

What kind of place was this?

He wasn’t even sure if he’d survive the week, let alone the exams.