Deus Necros

Ludwig’s group stood awkwardly at the grand entrance of the Urbaf mansion. The sprawling estate loomed before them, its imposing facade casting long shadows in the morning light. The man who greeted them, clearly the patriarch of the Urbaf family, had a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I heard that my knights rudely interrupted your breakfast this morning,” the man began, his tone warm but layered with subtle authority. “To make amends, I had the servants prepare something for you. Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

Ludwig inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the courtesy, though he remained wary. The invitation was wrapped in politeness, but the entire scenario felt off. Behind the patriarch stood the eldest of his three sons, his face adorned with a smile that was more smirk than sincerity.

“So, you’re the one who saved our little sister,” the eldest son said, his voice carrying a veneer of civility laced with barely concealed scorn. “It must’ve been quite the feat, taking on several Djinn while keeping her safe. I imagine it was no small challenge… considering how useless she can be.” He finalized.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed slightly at the remark, but he maintained a calm demeanor. “I’d disagree with that assessment,” he said, his voice steady and polite. “Your sister fought valiantly. She took down three Djinn herself. Frankly, I’d call that anything but useless.”

The eldest son’s smirk faltered, his confidence momentarily shaken. Before he could respond, Ludwig added, “Speaking of which, where is Alva?”

The patriarch interjected smoothly, gesturing for them to follow. “She’s inside. Come, we’ve prepared a meal.”

The group was led through the mansion’s grand halls, each step echoing against the marble floors. The walls were lined with large, imposing portraits of past family heads, their stern visages seeming to watch the newcomers with judgmental eyes. Suits of polished armor stood at intervals like silent sentinels, and the sheer opulence of the decor spoke of old wealth and even older traditions.

The dining room was no less impressive. A long, elaborately carved table stretched the length of the room, capable of seating dozens. Servants stood at attention behind each chair, their gazes lowered, their hands clasped. The table itself was laden with an array of dishes—roasted meats, baked fish, fresh bread, and even a whole roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. The spread was undeniably extravagant, but the weight of the unspoken tension in the room made it feel more like a test than a meal.

“Please,” the patriarch said, motioning to the table, “enjoy your meal. We’ll discuss matters afterward.”

Ludwig surveyed the feast, noting the richness of the dishes. It was a meal fit for a banquet, not breakfast. The sight of it would’ve made most mouths water, but Ludwig noticed Hoyo’s frown and Kassandra’s hesitation. Something wasn’t right.

Hoyo’s discomfort was subtle but telling. Though he said nothing, his expression conveyed unease. Kassandra, catching on, visibly pulled back from the food. Ludwig, however, took a moment to inspect the dishes discreetly. No poison. No visible tampering. Then what’s the problem?

The patriarch noticed their hesitation and smiled thinly. “Is the food not to your liking, Master Ludwig?”

Before Ludwig could respond, Hoyo shifted slightly, but something in his body language told Ludwig to take the lead. A ploy. A game of etiquette. Ludwig’s mind worked quickly.

“Ah, my apologies,” Ludwig said smoothly, his tone apologetic yet firm. “In my homeland, it is considered deeply disrespectful to eat before the head of the house has taken the first bite. Please, forgive us for our hesitation. We would be honored if you would begin the meal.”

The patriarch’s eyes flickered with surprise, but he recovered quickly, nodding. “A fine tradition. Let us feast, then.”

Only after the patriarch took the first bite did the rest of the Urbaf family follow suit. Hoyo gave Ludwig a subtle nod of approval, though his expression remained guarded.

As the meal progressed, Ludwig noticed another unspoken rule at play. Hoyo and the other nobles were careful to avoid the greasier, heavier dishes, sticking instead to fruits, salads, and lighter fare. Meanwhile, the servants avoided any indication of guidance, leaving it to the guests to navigate the complex layers of etiquette themselves. A test of refinement.

The eldest son, clearly displeased with Ludwig’s earlier retort, seized the opportunity to needle him again. “You seem confused by the utensils,” he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Perhaps our customs are unfamiliar to you?”

Ludwig didn’t miss the smirks exchanged between the other two brothers. He set down his fork deliberately, meeting the eldest son’s gaze with calm confidence.

“Not at all,” Ludwig replied. “In fact, I was just reflecting on a few differences. For instance, in my homeland, we don’t use a single plate for an entire course. Each dish is accompanied by its own plate, which is replaced by the servants between courses.”

After all, Ludwig comes from what could be called a Noble family form earth, where his father had mentors and tutors to teach him the way of the refined world since he was still in his diapers.

The eldest son’s smirk wavered slightly, but Ludwig wasn’t finished. He picked up a spoon, examining it as if scrutinizing a museum artifact. “This spoon, for example, is larger than a teaspoon but smaller than a soup spoon. In my homeland, we use it exclusively for desserts. And forks—ah, the number of tines varies by purpose. A three-tined fork is used for certain pastries, while a four-tined fork is standard for main courses.”

By now, the youngest brother was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, clearly unsure if Ludwig’s explanations were genuine or a masterclass in mockery.

Ludwig’s gaze turned to the eldest son, who was holding the very spoon Ludwig had identified as a dessert utensil. “Of course,” Ludwig continued, his tone light, “it’s perfectly acceptable to adapt traditions when traveling. After all, not everyone adheres to such distinctions.” Sharp, and bloody, the exchange of nobility and the stabs at weakness was their weapon of choice. They don’t fight with cold steel, but rather subtle jabs of words. And Ludwig was a master in that art.

The eldest son flushed, clearly aware that Ludwig had just pointed out his improper use of the spoon without explicitly insulting him.

The patriarch, seemingly amused by the exchange, gestured to one of the servants. “Cut the young man a piece of the pig,” he ordered.

The servant approached, reaching for the pig with bare hands, only for Ludwig to raise a hand sharply. “What are you doing?” Ludwig asked, his voice calm but firm.

The servant froze, his face paling. “I… I was going to tear off a piece, Master.”

Ludwig shook his head, his expression unreadable. “A proper carving should always honor the effort that went into the preparation.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Ludwig’s words hanging in the air. The servant scrambled to comply, and as the tension eased, the patriarch’s gaze lingered on Ludwig, a flicker of respect in his eyes, but wonder and curiosity lingered as he wanted to see what this boy was about to present them.