Deus Necros

[Inspect]

[“Oathcarver”]

Tier: Mythic

Type: Ultra Great Sword

Category: Weapon

Condition of Use:

Contract with the Knight King

150 Strength

150 Dexterity

300 Stamina

Base Damage: 6666–9999 (Physical)

Current Weight: ~107 kg

Skills:

[Crush the Oathbound] – Passive / Cleave-Enhancer

Any strike delivered to enemies currently using a shield, guard, or warding magic deals bonus rupture damage.

The blade targets commitment—it hits harder the more effort is put into resisting it.

“A stance is only noble until it breaks!”

[Collapsing Heavens] – Active / Brutal Strike

Charges a single swing that temporarily converts all base damage into structure-breaking force. Ignores terrain, barrier, or magical armor. Walls shatter. Wards buckle. Enemies struck are forcibly grounded, regardless of size.

Cooldown: 60s

“This is not a swordfight. It’s a sentence.”

[Devourer’s Edge] – Passive

The blade has been corrupted by prolonged exposure to the Gluttonous Death. Upon dealing damage, it shreds magical energy in the target’s body, reducing mana regeneration and disrupting casting focus.

Stacks up to 3x.

“Steel remembers the taste of mages.”

[Weight of Kings] – Passive / Scaling Aura

This weapon exerts a pressure field when unsheathed. The longer it remains drawn in combat, the heavier its presence becomes, slowing enemies, tiring them, and degrading dodge effectiveness over time.

The Weapon is Heavy, it increases the exhaustion rate of the user over time. Reducing their stamina regeneration by an increment of 10% per minute. [Ineffective]

“To stand before royalty is to kneel beneath history.”

Lore:

“He ruled not through words or gold, but through stillness—so still that no one dared move against him.”

Oathcarver was not forged to lead armies, inspire men, or parry blades—it was forged to end sentences.

Once wielded by the last and only King of Tibari in his final days, it became a symbol not of justice—but of inevitability. A blade not meant to defend the people, but to end those who endangered them, no matter the cost. It was the blade that broke oaths and split gods, not by virtue—but by force.

Now, rusted and chained in memory, it still carries that intent. Brutal. Unrelenting. Merciless.

***

The massive blade still hummed from the impact, its vibrations crawling through the floor like a low, guttural growl. The rotting planks beneath it groaned beneath the strain, as if protesting the weight of what had just arrived. Dust, long undisturbed, curled through the air in sluggish spirals, lit red by the ambient hue of the moonlight leaking through the shattered windows. The scent in the air wasn’t blood—but something deeper. Like rusted iron soaked in memory. Old. Bitter. Heavy with things unsaid.

Ludwig stood over the sword, staring at it in silence. The blade jutted from the floor like a tombstone buried halfway into the earth. It didn’t look like it belonged in the room. Or the manor. Or this world. It looked like it had been pulled from another life. Another kingdom. Another death.

He stepped forward and gripped the hilt with both hands.

It didn’t give.

Not because it rejected him, but because it challenged him. Not like a weapon waiting to be lifted. More like a burden, resting, until someone foolish or worthy tried to carry it again. A judgment, not an invitation.

Ludwig’s fingers tightened. His jaw clenched. And then, with a hiss of exertion, he pulled.

The blade rose.

It didn’t slip from the floor—it tore from it, dragging splinters and dust with it like a carcass pulled from the earth. It groaned with age, not just in steel, but in the memories carved into every ruined inch. It felt like the air recoiled as it lifted. As if the room itself remembered it.

“Gods above,” Thomas breathed. His form flared, spectral and twitching, like a candle flickering beneath an unseen breath. “That thing… it doesn’t look like it was made to fight. It looks like it was made to punish.”

Ludwig held it upright. His arms strained—but not with pain. With awe. The blade had no balance. No elegance. It didn’t harmonize with the air—it oppressed it. It made everything heavier by existing.

Its chipped edge caught the light of the Full Moon like a jagged mirror, reflecting something that looked less like steel and more like judgment. Faint, weathered runes curled along its base, barely visible beneath centuries of wear and curse.

“‘Oathcarver,’” Ludwig murmured. The name tasted cold on his tongue. As if speaking it summoned the echo of iron boots, bloodstained floors, and cries that had long been forgotten.

Thomas hovered beside him, lips twisting in unease. “Lovely name,” he muttered. “Sounds like something a priest would use on a heretic.”

Ludwig didn’t respond. His gloved fingers traced the fuller of the blade, dragging slowly down its frigid length. The metal wasn’t just cold—it devoured warmth. The kind of chill that had nothing to do with temperature. A chill that sank into the soul.

“Do you feel it?” Ludwig asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas blinked. “Feel what?”

“This blade…” Ludwig whispered, “It doesn’t want to kill. It wants to destroy.”

Thomas floated back a few inches, uncertain. “That’s not a weapon. That’s a message.”

“No,” came another voice.

The Knight King stepped forward—not with footsteps, but with presence. His form, ever regal and still half-wreathed in fading shadow, loomed behind Ludwig like a monument no longer buried.

“It’s a sentence,” the Knight King finished.

Ludwig slowly rested the blade against the stone wall beside him. It leaned into the manor like a judge settling into a throne. Then Ludwig sat down beside it, his frame hunched slightly forward, his gaze lost in the pale light.

“This is the oath between us,” the Knight King said solemnly. “You must honor the pact. Do you believe yourself capable of such, young undead?”

Ludwig tilted his head toward the blade again. He took in the way it warped the shadows around it, how it looked wrong among dust and cobwebs and rotted furniture. It belonged in a mausoleum of kings, not in this crumbling ruin.

“Seeing its abilities…” Ludwig said slowly, “I believe I can. This is practically what I needed. Still, something’s bothering me.”

“What is it?” the Knight King asked.

“I’m sure I saw this weapon broken in the vision,” Ludwig said, eyes narrowing. “The Gluttonous Death snapped it in half when you fought.”

“He did,” the Knight King confirmed. “But because of that blow, I was bound to this world. Usurped of Death. My form was no longer allowed to rest—and neither was my blade. Oathcarver was stolen from destruction. Returned to me, but not as it was. It remembers its shape. It remembers its duty. That is enough.”

Ludwig slowly passed his hand along the rust-patched weapon. The rough edges dragged against his glove, scraping ever so slightly.

“This thing could use some maintenance,” he muttered.

“It does,” the Knight King agreed, a glint of solemn amusement in his voice. “But for now, it is more than enough to crush anything that dares oppose you.”

Ludwig nodded once.

Thomas, finally catching his breath from the oppressive air, cleared his throat. “By the way… what are you doing now?”

Ludwig tilted his head, thinking. “I still don’t fully understand what’s happening outside,” he admitted. “And since we’re trapped here anyway…”

He reached into his inventory and pulled out a small stack of neatly bound tomes. The air shimmered briefly as the magical locks that protected them flickered away at his touch. The scent of ink and arcane residue spilled into the room.

“Time to learn more magic.”

Thomas floated forward eagerly. “Ooh—what kind? Curses? Hexes? Soul-burning void blasts? Come on, give me something spicy.”

Ludwig didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled one particular book from the pile. It was small. Modest. Almost unworthy of attention. A simple leather-bound notebook, dwarfed by the larger grimoires beside it.

Thomas blinked. “…That’s it? That tiny thing?”

The ghost squinted at the cover. Then his face crumpled.

“Really? Cleanse magic?”

“Yes,” Ludwig said plainly, flipping through the first few pages.

“You’re seriously studying bath spells?”

“I’m seriously studying the magic Van Dijk valued most,” Ludwig said, tone calm. “He was an Eighth Tier magician. Strong enough to level cities. But his favorite spell? Keeping his body clean. I’m starting to think he was onto something.”

The Knight King chuckled—deep and weathered. “It is the temperament of kings to remain untouched by the soils of the land.”

“Exactly,” Ludwig nodded. “And I’m trying to pass as noble, aren’t I?”

He bent his head to the book and began reading in silence. Magic glyphs danced on the page as he traced them, slowly feeding them into memory.