Deus Necros

The bandits surrounded them in a loose, cocky arc, their mismatched weapons catching the last dying rays of sun like fangs eager for flesh.

Timur took a single step forward, planting his boot firmly into the cracked dirt. His arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly as he spoke—his voice calm, solid, authoritative in the way only a true veteran could be.

“It’d be wiser for you lads to just leave,” he said, voice even, no strain, no threat. Just a fact being laid bare. “I’m really not in the mood for this today.”

For a heartbeat, the bandits hesitated—just enough to notice—before a braying laugh shattered the tension.

“The hell’s this short baldy sayin’?” barked one of the louder ones, a broad-shouldered thug with a missing tooth and a scar slicing across his eyebrow.

He turned, grinning at his fellows, brandishing his chipped blade like a badge of honor. “Think we’ll just give up loot that fat and a chick that hot here? We haven’t had a decent meal in months—let alone a woman to warm the nights!”

He jabbed his sword directly at Timur, waving it like a mockery. “What ya gonna do about it, old man? There’s twenty of us and four of you!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the mob, the bandits emboldened by numbers if not by brains.

Ludwig stepped forward.

Calm. Unhurried.

He moved past Timur, drawing every eye without a word.

“Why are you wasting breath on fools,” Ludwig said quietly, “when their eyes can’t even see?”

The air around him shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of shift that made instinct gnaw at the back of your mind, the way prey might feel when it realizes the grass isn’t just rustling in the wind.

Timur exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Oi, Davon,” he said gruffly, “no need to dirty your hands on trash.”

But Ludwig only smiled slightly, his head tilting ever so slightly.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice steady, “I won’t kill them.”

The words, simple as they were, sent a murmur of confusion through the bandits.

“You hear that, lads?” the tooth-missing bandit cackled, slapping his thigh. “The boy says he won’t kill us! We should be thankful!”

Mocking laughter broke out—uneasy, but loud enough to hide the sudden ripple of doubt spreading through their ranks.

“You should,” Ludwig replied.

The laughter faltered.

“Because,” Ludwig continued, “if you had a brain between you, you’d notice the tusks on the barbarian’s back.”

He pointed lazily toward Gorak, who stood like a living fortress behind them, the massive blood-streaked tusks strapped across his back like war trophies.

Fresh blood still glistened along the bone ridges.

The bandit who had been jeering blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. A flicker of realization entered his eyes—but pride is a stubborn armor.

“Nice try,” the bandit said, forcing a smirk. “Coulda found ’em on a corpse of an old Mountain Nesha, for all we know.”

Ludwig’s smile deepened, almost pitying.

Without another word, he flexed his right hand outward.

A deep, almost metallic hum vibrated through the air—and then, Oathcarver materialized into his grasp.

The bandits flinched instinctively, some taking involuntary half-steps back at the sight of it.

Oathcarver was absurdly massive. Almost as tall as Ludwig himself, broad as a tower shield, its black surface dull and scarred, yet somehow alive with grim purpose. The very presence of it bent the air around it.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You got scared, Peter?” another bandit jeered nervously. “Looks heavy. Looks useless.”

He stepped forward, forcing a laugh. “Bet he can’t even swing—”

Before the words finished leaving his mouth, Ludwig moved.

Not a swing. Not an attack.

Simply a tilt of the blade.

The massive sword’s tip dipped downward—deliberate, heavy—and hovered inches from the lead bandit’s chest.

The man froze mid-step.

He could feel it.

The sheer weight behind the blade. The way the ground itself seemed to groan under the strain. Ludwig carried it in one hand as if it were a feather—and he hadn’t even shifted his stance.

All Ludwig had to do was let go.

The tip would fall—and carve through the man’s body without hesitation.

The bandits’ laughter died like a snuffed flame.

Peter—loud, boastful Peter—visibly paled. His hands twitched against the hilt of his blade, a small betrayal that screamed louder than words.

Boots shuffled.

Eyes darted.

Breaths hitched.

They were beginning to understand.

“Y-you think you can scare us with one rusty plank?” the gang leader barked, voice strained and cracking at the edges. “We’re twenty strong! You’ll tire out before you drop half of us!”

But none of his men moved to support him.

“Oi,” someone muttered at the back of the group, voice thin with fear, “this ain’t no normal traveler…”

Timur simply crossed his arms, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips as he watched realization ooze into the bandits’ thick skulls.

He’d warned them.

Peter, still twitching, tried to salvage what little pride he had left.

“H-hey now, lad… no need to be hasty,” he stammered, lifting both hands in what he probably thought was a calming gesture.

Ludwig didn’t lower the blade.

Instead, he tilted Oathcarver just slightly—an almost lazy movement—but the air cracked under the shift, the blade creaking as it whispered promises of broken bone and torn flesh.

Peter swallowed hard, his bravado deflating.

“We meant no disrespect!” the leader cried, his voice almost squeaking. “Maybe we can… work somethin’ out, eh?”

He fumbled at his belt and produced a pouch—small, patched, with more holes than cloth. It jingled faintly, but the sound was sad, pitiful.

Robin clicked his tongue loudly.

“Damn,” he muttered dryly. “If anyone sees this, they’ll think we’re robbing you.”

Melisande stifled a laugh behind her hand, her shoulders shaking slightly.

Ludwig regarded the pouch with complete indifference.

“See now,” Ludwig said, voice almost conversational, “it’s been a while since we had a proper place to rest.”

He stepped back, letting the blade tilt back toward his shoulder, casual as a woodsman hefting an axe.

“Tell me,” Ludwig continued, his voice light, “where’s your hideout?”

Timur, arms still folded, sighed audibly.

“Sir Davon,” he said, the slightest hint of warning in his voice, “why waste our time? Doubt we’ll find anything useful in their den. Better to head to Mira directly.”

One of the bandits perked up immediately, eager to snatch a lifeline.

“We—we can lead ya!” he blurted. “There’s a shortcut—through the mountain! Imperial road’s longer, but the bandit paths? They’ll take you right into Mira’s territory. F’cours we’d pass by the hideout!”

Another bandit shot him a glare, but said nothing.

The group’s body language shifted.

Signals. Exchanges.

Ludwig saw it.

He wasn’t the only one.

Timur, Robin, even Melisande—all of them picked up the clumsy deception.

They were being led into a trap.

Timur inwardly sighed.

Well. Maybe it would serve as a lesson for Davon after all.

“Good,” Ludwig said softly. “You’ll lead us there. All of you.”

The finality in his tone killed any protest before it was born.

Weapons were sheathed. Heads lowered.

The once-proud bandits now stumbled forward like a herd of sheep, fear dripping from them like sweat.