Deus Necros

The drops on the ground were almost endless, most of them fangs and claws, some leather loot from the Werebat’s wings and mainly corrupted souls.

Ludwig’s bag held a great deal of souls now, so he was thinking of leveling up some more once he is outside of the Spire of Teeth.

***

[You have killed the majority of the Werebats that ruled over the Bastos March]

A strange, dark power finds more leeway penetrating through the land.

[The Bloody Waxing Moon changes.]

[The Bloody Gibbus Moon appears]

The beasts outside the Bastos Manor grew weary and more feral.

The Ecosystem of the Bastos March has been disturbed. New enemies will emerge during the Bloody Gibbus Moon.

***

“That’s strange, this didn’t happen when we killed the Rat lord,” Ludwig said.

“It seems that this is caused by the death of the majority of these winged creatures, unlike at the manor where you didn’t kill all the Gray Rats, here all the dwellers of the spire of teeth or at least most of them are dead.” The Knight King said.

“I see, then it’s not that much of an issue,” Ludwig said as he got up to the higher floor and then walked out to the spire’s exit “I mean, more monsters simply mean more enemies to kill,” he said as he walked out of the Spire.

However, what Ludwig saw was enough to make him wish he never uttered those words.

The sky was a nightmare.

The clouds churned in unnatural spirals, drawn toward the grotesque, half-shrouded moon like moths to a diseased flame. The Bloody Gibbus Moon hung like a weeping wound, its crimson glow seeping into the land below. The light it cast was wrong—thick and syrupy, staining the world in hues of rust and old blood.

The trees surrounding the spire had grown sickly. Their bark cracked and bled a dark resin, branches warping toward the sky as if begging for release. The once-still land frothed with fevered life, and from its shadows and from the depths, new horrors emerged.

The first creature crawled out of the brambles near the trail — a hunched quadruped wrapped in a thick hide that shimmered like oil on blood. It had no face, only a cluster of waxy nodules pulsating where a head should be, and two ragged wings drooped uselessly from its back, torn and twitching. It sniffed the air with invisible senses, then screeched — not a howl, but a sound like bones grinding together.

More of its kin began emerging all over the place, on top of broken houses and from within rotting old trees.

And these weren’t the only ones, another type of sordid looking creature seemed to walk with an awkward gait through the shadows cast by the moon.

Tall, distorted silhouettes that resembled wolves carved from obsidian and sinew. Their limbs were too long, jointed backwards, and eyes glowed faintly with lunar fire — not white, but a sick, rusted gold. Their mouths opened sideways, unhinging like broken gates, revealing rows of spiraled teeth, like drill-bits made of horn.

More of these wolf entities emerged out of the city, seemingly having realized that the Werebats were now gone, they were probably aiming to claim the now ’empty’ territory.

From afar however, along the path where Ludwig had first come to the Spire of Teeth was another type of creature that also seemed to band together, only this one was less… monstrous, and more occult looking.

It was a bipedal creature twice the size of a man, with a spine exposed and curling outward like a thorny tail. From its shoulders hung flayed banners of skin, and atop its neck was a head like a stag skull dipped in pitch, crowned with horns shaped like crescent moons. Around its throat, a necklace of torn wings — Werebat remains.

“Well…” The Knight King’s words sounded both cynical and also grim.

“I take that back…” Ludwig muttered, “This might be an issue…”

***

“What the hell is going on?!” Timur’s voice was raw with exertion, his lungs burning as he sprinted through the twisted undergrowth. His armor, once polished and regal, was now caked in mud and something darker—something that smelled like old blood and spoiled meat.

Robin hung limp in the barbarian’s arms, his chest a mess of torn flesh and exposed bone. The wound pulsed grotesquely with every heartbeat, as if something inside him was trying to claw its way out. The healer beside them was gasping, her magic flickering like a dying candle as she struggled to keep pace while mending his wounds. Sweat poured down her face, her robes sticking to her skin.

“I don’t know, man! Everyone’s dead!” The barbarian’s voice was edged with panic—unnatural for a man of his size. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by something primal. Barbarians and dark magic had never mixed well. Their strength came from rage, from heat—not this creeping, insidious cold that slithered into the mind.

“Calm down, for god’s sake!” the healer snapped, her face pale. She cast another glance at the bleeding moon, her hands trembling. “It’s that damned thing’s fault!”

The group couldn’t help but glance at the terrifying moon which seemed to bleed onto the land itself. A fake moon stood atop the Bastos March, a grim reminder for why these lands were forever ignored and banned from entry by the Holy Order itself.

Suddenly, a shadow lunged from the trees—one of the wolven horrors, its golden eyes burning with hunger, and its jaws opening sideways salivating for a meal to come.

“HELL HOUND!” Timur roared, his sword flashing as he severed its head mid-leap. The creature’s body collapsed, twitching, but the head kept snapping, its teeth gnashing at the air even in death.

The barbarian didn’t hesitate. His axe came down on a second beast, splitting its spine with a wet crack. But the creatures kept coming, their forms flickering at the edges of vision, their movements too fluid, too wrong.

And the group was being herded—straight into the heart of the march.