Deus Necros

The cold night air prickled with death’s breath as Ludwig approached the gate, his footsteps soft but deliberate on the cracked, weed-infested stones of the manor’s front corridor. The flickering remnants of moonlight filtered through the ruined ceiling, casting eerie shadows that danced over the dust-choked floor.

Before he could reach the threshold, a blur of ghostly light flickered into form directly in front of him—Thomas, spectral as ever, phasing into view with urgency written across his translucent features. He floated mere inches from Ludwig’s face, and though the undead didn’t feel breath, there was something about Thomas’s wide-eyed stare that suggested a man mid-exhale.

“Wait!” Thomas barked, his voice cracking through the silence like a whip.

Ludwig blinked slowly. “What is it?” he asked, not stopping, only tilting his head slightly with a brow raised.

“They didn’t see your face,” Thomas said quickly. “Not clearly, not with how you were hiding in the shadows earlier. But now you’re about to walk right out the front door, in the light, into a crowd of people who probably know exactly who you are.”

Ludwig frowned. “Yeah? And?”

Thomas crossed his arms, floating backward as he paced mid-air. “Trust me, if the Holy Order’s looking for you—and let’s be honest, they are—they’ll have your face painted across every damn wall in the Empire. They’re meticulous with bounties. Your image, your name, your damn teeth spacing… it’s all public knowledge by now.”

“So what do you suggest?” Ludwig asked, exhaling in annoyance. “Should I put on a mask? That’ll look even more suspicious. I need to get information out of them, not spook them into running off.”

Thomas shook his head, the glow of his essence flickering with agitation. “Not a mask. Alter your face a bit. Not much. Just enough to throw off recognition.”

Ludwig paused mid-step. “That…” He trailed off as he thought—and before the thought was fully formed, the slime clinging to his skin twitched. It responded not to words, but to intent.

Without effort, his appearance began to subtly shift. His jawline angled downward slightly, becoming leaner but more defined. His cheekbones rose just a touch. His eyebrows thickened by a few hairs’ width. His hair grew a bit longer, its waves falling just past his collarbone with a more deliberate, grown-out elegance. He still looked like himself—yet not.

Once, he had the look of a sharp-featured, youthful noble. Now, he wore the face of a man somewhere between youth and maturity, carrying the ghost of old battles in his brow. The changes were minor, yet combined, they blurred recognition just enough.

Thomas floated in a slow circle around him, inspecting. “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding with satisfaction. “You really look like a different person now. That was good. Real good.”

Ludwig didn’t reply, though a small smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. This slime really was a miracle.

Without wasting another moment, he stepped forward and approached the manor’s main gate. The great double doors loomed ahead, their once-glorious frames marred by decay. He pressed his hands against the inner barricades—ancient planks that had long since rotted to the point of crumbling at a touch.

The wood split apart with the sound of dry bones breaking. Bits of debris collapsed to the floor as Ludwig peeled away the remnants with his bare hands. Then, he placed one hand on each side of the massive gate and pushed. The pressure reverberated through the doors like a groan from the past itself, and with a shudder, the rest of the barricades on the far side snapped free and clattered to the ground.

The doors creaked open slowly, heavy and dramatic, revealing the moonlit garden beyond. Just past the threshold, a group of battered figures stood ready, weapons drawn and eyes sharp.

The shortest of the bunch—a wiry, scar-faced man with twin blades drawn—stepped forward first, his stance immediately defensive. Beside him, a hulking barbarian gripped a massive battle-axe, his muscles tense with readiness. Behind them stood a woman, her robes torn and singed, face streaked with soot. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she shakily held a healer’s staff forward, channeling what little divine energy she had left. On the ground behind them, half-buried in his own blood, lay their fourth—a young man unconscious, pale and clearly on the edge of death.

Ludwig stepped out into the ruined moonlight, his boots clicking softly on the cracked stone. His eyes flicked to the side, to the Moon Reavers still standing sentinel around the manor, unmoving. Their grotesque faces remained locked on him and only him, their interest in the adventuring party clearly nonexistent.

“Greetings,” Ludwig said smoothly, his voice calm and polite. “What brings you here… to this godforsaken place… on such an awful night?”

The short man stepped forward just enough to be heard clearly. “Should be our question, chap,” he said, his tone sharp. “You’re giving off a strange vibe.”

Ludwig gave a soft chuckle. “You all look worn down, ragged, and exhausted. I can’t imagine standing here in the garden under the eyes of these creatures is comforting. If you wish… you may come inside.”

The shorter man tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening on his blades. “Quite the heartfelt concern you’re offering,” he said. “I’d have to apologize… I make for a bad guest.”

“Suit yourselves,” Ludwig said, shrugging lightly. “But I don’t think your friend will make it if he keeps bleeding out.”

The barbarian’s knuckles whitened on the haft of his axe. “That’s our concern,” the short man snapped.

Ludwig exhaled softly. The woman in the back looked torn, her eyes flicking between her wounded comrade and the pristine, regal figure that had emerged from a nightmare of a manor looking like he’d just stepped out of a ballroom.

This looked like a trap. It was too much of a trap not to be a trap.

Ludwig reached to his side, and the effect was immediate. The party tensed.

“Oi! Stop right there!” the short man barked, his blades rising. “We may be tired, but don’t think we survived this far by luck!”

“I know,” Ludwig replied calmly.

He slowly pulled two small vials from his side. To them, it looked like he’d taken them from inner coat pockets. One shimmered blue—a mana potion. The other, a deep crimson—healing.

The moment the glass caught the moonlight, the adventurers recognized what they were.

“Kid!” the short man barked again, more desperate now. “Are you willing to sell those potions?”

“I was going to offer them,” Ludwig said. “But if you insist on buying, I won’t say no.”

The short man hesitated, then asked, “How much?”

“You look like decent people,” Ludwig said. “I don’t need gold. I need information. As you can see, I’ve been… stuck here for a while.”

“That’s a rather ominous thing to say…” the barbarian muttered. “You make it sound like you can’t leave.”

Ludwig tilted his head, amused. “I think the word you’re trying to tiptoe around is ‘sealed’. But no, I’m not trapped. I have a mission. These things,” he gestured toward the Moon Reavers, “are just making it difficult.”

“The Moon Constructs,” the short man said grimly. “They’re a pain, sure, but they don’t usually go after humans. If you don’t provoke them, they’ll leave you alone.”

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s… peculiar,” he murmured. His disguise should’ve worked. His lantern made him appear human to all living beings. But if the Moon Reavers weren’t technically living… that explained their persistence.

“I don’t have the luxury of ignoring them,” he said. “I need to fight my way through. I’m hunting down the Lord Beings that dwell in this region. And what about you lot? What brings you to this cursed place?”

Before they could answer, the wounded man on the ground groaned loudly. His body twitched. Pain was beginning to override unconsciousness.

“Please!” the healer gasped. “The potion, young master—please!”

Ludwig didn’t hesitate. He tossed the two vials toward her with precise, practiced ease. She caught them one after another, her tired eyes wide with gratitude.

She popped the blue vial open first, drinking it quickly. Then, without hesitation, she uncorked the crimson potion, poured half over the man’s wounds, and trickled the rest into his mouth.

Ludwig watched, arms folded. “You’re quite trusting.”

Only then did her expression shift. Realization dawned in her wide, tired eyes.

“That could have been poison,” he continued. “You didn’t even hesitate. As a healer, you should know better than anyone—trusting strange men who walk out of haunted ruins in pristine clothes is a bad habit.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“If I had truly meant you harm, you’d all be dead now. You’ve only one healer. Without her, your group falls apart. A single lie in a bottle could’ve ended your story.”

Silence fell again, thick and uncertain. The Reavers still didn’t move.

The group stared at Ludwig not as a savior… but as a man they couldn’t quite place. Too clean. Too composed. Too calm.

Something wasn’t right.

And that made him the most dangerous thing they’d seen all night.