Deus Necros

Inside a well-lit chamber of the Black Tower, Van Dijk stood laughing like a maniac. His voice echoed off the high, sterile walls, blending with the scrape of surgical tools and the faint hum of magical enchantments surrounding the room. This was no ordinary operation—it was the first of its kind in this world.

The space was a bizarre amalgamation of science and sorcery. Shelves were lined with jars containing odd, preserved specimens, glimmering potions, and grotesque organs that seemed to pulsate faintly, as though still alive. In the center of it all was a marble table, its surface scattered with bone dust, where the skeletal form of Ludwig lay motionless.

Several of Ludwig’s bones bore freshly carved grooves, intricate channels that seemed to snake their way across his frame, connecting and branching in complex patterns. Each cut was deliberate, every groove a piece of some grand, meticulous design. Tools lay discarded nearby—saws dulled by the relentless work Van Dijk had performed. The marble beneath Ludwig was streaked with fine lines of dust, the byproduct of hours of carving.

Van Dijk inspected his work, tilting his head as if appraising a masterpiece. “Good, good!” he muttered with manic glee, reaching for another saw, and dipping it into a nearby vial filled with holy water. His grin widened. “You’re faring nicely.”

[You’re suffering critical damage to the integrity of your skeleton body!]

[You are being afflicted with Holy Damage!]

[-1 Strength]

[-1 Strength]

Every stroke of the saw sent a wave of searing agony through Ludwig. The holy water soaked into the blades, ensuring that each cut burned not just his body but his very essence. The strength that once coursed through his skeletal frame dwindled rapidly, his stats plummeting toward zero.

For an undead, pain should have been a foreign concept—but this was different. The holy-infused tools attacked the core of his being, bypassing the numbness that typically shielded him from such torment. Each motion of the saw was a battle against madness.

Van Dijk worked with eerie calm, his focus was unwavering though sweat constantly poured down his forehead as he switched to a fresh saw. “It is fortunate we’re doing this before your bone density matures,” he remarked. His voice was calm, clinical, as though he were lecturing a class. “Once it hardens further, carving these channels would’ve been far more troublesome.”

To Ludwig, the comment was surreal, almost insulting. Troublesome? If this was his version of easy, Ludwig didn’t want to imagine what “harder” would have been like.

After four grueling hours, Ludwig lay still, his body barely holding itself together. His skeletal frame, once sturdy and resilient, now resembled cracked porcelain. Any movement risked shattering the brittle remains of his form. The channels carved into his bones connected seamlessly, an intricate network that converged at a small, thumb-sized hole in his forehead—a focal point for the magic yet to come.

“How are you feeling?” Van Dijk asked, wiping bone dust from his hands as if he’d just finished a routine task.

Ludwig could see that this operation wasn’t taxing on only him, but the incredible focus that Van Dijk was on and stayed on for hours was something to be respected. Though he was suffering the pain, Van Dijk felt like the one feeling it.

“Like a corpse…” Ludwig managed weakly, his voice dry and humorless.

Van Dijk barked a laugh. “Hah! You still have your sanity. Good. That means the easier part is done.”

Ludwig’s nonexistent stomach dropped. If this was the easy part, he dreaded to think what lay ahead. He briefly entertained thoughts of escape—anything to avoid the hell that surely awaited him.

Van Dijk, noticing his expression, smirked. “Relax, I’m joking,” he said, though his grin suggested otherwise. “Honestly, you did better than I expected. I figured the holy water alone might kill you. But you see why it was necessary, don’t you?”

“Holy water stops the undead from healing,” Ludwig muttered, still reeling from the experience.

“Exactly,” Van Dijk replied, his tone suddenly earnest. “These channels need to stay precisely as they are, at least for the next few hours. Without the holy water, your body’s natural restorative properties would seal them up before we’re done. And all of this—” he gestured broadly to the carved grooves “—would be for nothing.”

From a nearby shelf, Van Dijk retrieved a vial of bubbling silver liquid. “Now comes the real artistry,” he said with a tone of reverence.

“Most peope believe mithril to be the ultimate mana conductor,” Van Dijk continued, pacing as he spoke. “And it’s true—mithril is versatile. It’s rare, durable, and can be forged into practically anything. Some make mighty shields and armor from it, some make treasured weapons that are incredible at conducting mana, and some can even forge it to be as thin as a fabric that one can wear. This very robe of mine is such an example,” Van Dijk flexed his wealth.

“But another conductor with much greater in performance. And it is simply silver. Silver is far superior at conducting raw mana. The only problem is its rigidity, which makes it unsuitable for most practical uses.” He held the vial closer to Ludwig’s face.

“This is something that is of a higher grade than mithril, and better than silver. the best of both worlds.”

Van Dijk held the vial up to the light, the liquid within shimmering unnaturally. Its surface seemed alive, writhing as if aware of its surroundings. “This, Ludwig, is Nephilium—or as some call it, God’s Blood. It’s harvested from angels, and it is the rarest material you’ll ever encounter. A single drop could buy an entire city.”

Ludwig’s blue flames for eyes narrowed as he studied the vial. The liquid looked deceptively simple, yet its aura sent shivers down his spine.

Ludwig’s voice came out hoarse. “If it’s divine… won’t it kill me?”

Van Dijk’s grin widened. “Normally, yes. But not everything that is related to gods and angels is divine, after all. Fallen angels for example are a different story. Their blood is no longer holy in the traditional sense. It’s… tainted. That makes it dangerous, yes, but not outright fatal, to you that is, if a human were to touch this thing they’d turn to mush, for an undead… well… it’s quite painful, ,” he added, almost cheerfully, as he uncorked the vial.

Without hesitation, Van Dijk poured the liquid onto Ludwig’s exposed bones.

Ludwig’s body convulsed violently as the Nephilium seeped into the grooves carved into his skeleton. His bones vibrated unnaturally, softening and twisting as the liquid spread. The pain was beyond comprehension, unlike anything he’d endured during the carving. He wanted to scream, but the agony stole his voice, leaving only soundless gasps.

“Ah, magnificent,” Van Dijk said, watching the reaction with fascination. “Do you feel it, Ludwig? The power seeping into you? Of course, you can’t appreciate it now, not through all that pain. But you’re alive—well, as alive as you can be. That’s what makes you special.”