Deus Necros

The so-called escort of twenty bandits moved ahead, their formation loose and wary, a pack of wolves cowed into obedient mutts. Weapons stayed sheathed, though many of their hands hovered nervously near hilts or axe handles — old habits dying slow, stubborn deaths.

Ludwig walked in silence, a step behind them, Oathcarver slung lazily over his shoulder.

The black blade hung there like an executioner’s promise, its sheer presence ensuring none dared act foolishly.

The rest of the group followed.

Timur, arms folded, wore the same exasperated patience of a father indulging a reckless son.

Robin moved lightly, almost floating from shadow to shadow, his sharp gaze slicing into every false step the bandits made.

Gorak trudged along like a mountain on legs, each step deliberate and heavy, one hand resting idly on the massive axe strapped to his back.

Melisande, ever the most animated, hummed softly under her breath — an old habit, no doubt to steady her nerves. Yet her eyes stayed sharp, scanning side to side.

The bandits thought they were clever.

They thought they were subtle.

They were wrong.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of rustling in the underbrush—a too-sudden disturbance in the brittle bushes lining the rough path.

Ludwig’s head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing.

A small green figure stumbled into view—a goblin.

Short, ugly, its skin a sickly olive hue, its yellow, goat-like eyes gleaming with panic. It clutched a crude spear made from a broken branch with a jagged rock tied to the end.

The goblin froze, its filthy loincloth fluttering as it realized the terrible odds stacked against it.

One of the bandits, seizing the opportunity for some pathetic display of bravado, started to draw his sword.

“Let me take care—”

He never finished.

A pulse of heat split the air.

From Ludwig’s fingertip, a fireball—small, fast, precise—hurtled forward. It struck the goblin dead center in the chest before the creature could even screech.

There was a sudden roar as the fireball detonated.

This was no normal fireball, but an enhanced version that even Necros’s system has yet to register, a mix of Fireball and Explosive mines. Which Ludwig took pride in creating.

This after all was one of the many ways Explosive Mines could be used, courtesy of Van Dijk’s simple yet highly compatible spell.

[Explosive Fireball] bloomed outward with a concussive shockwave, swallowing the goblin whole in a cone of searing flame.

The creature didn’t have the opportunity to even protest let along run away as the flames roared.

The blast flared white-hot for a heartbeat, then vanished, leaving behind nothing but a charred skeleton that crumbled to ash before it even hit the ground.

[You have slain…]

The system message flickered at the corner of Ludwig’s vision, unnoticed by anyone else.

The nearest bandit, who had been mid-draw, stared in open horror. A thin trail of smoke curled up from the tips of his singed afro hair.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden silence.

“Y-y-yeah…no one told us he be a mage…” he stammered, slowly sliding his sword back into its sheath.

Ludwig didn’t spare him a glance.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” Ludwig said, brushing soot off his glove as if flicking away a troublesome insect.

The bandits—already a jittery mess—slinked forward, moving faster now, their bravado leaking from them like water from a pierced barrel.

But even fear could not strip them of stupidity.

Not entirely.

As they marched, Ludwig noticed the small shifts.

A few of the bandits subtly broke formation, pretending to scratch their legs or stumble off the side of the path. In doing so, they deliberately triggered hidden mechanisms — snapping tight unseen tripwires across the path.

Without breaking stride, Ludwig lifted his boot slightly and crushed the hidden line with his heel.

Snap.

The faint twang echoed through the woods like a mocking bell.

The bandits winced collectively, shooting nervous glances over their shoulders.

Still, Ludwig said nothing.

Timur smirked to himself but kept his face neutral.

Robin clicked his tongue in irritation, muttering under his breath, “Amateurs.”

Melisande shook her head, her expression somewhere between disappointment and disdain.

The path narrowed as they pressed deeper into the woods.

Further ahead, a second trap—crude, lazy—a pit dug hastily and covered with a pathetic blanket of woven grass and leaves.

It sat awkwardly in the middle of the trail, about as subtle as a drunk bard in a noble court.

Ludwig stepped around it without comment, not even sparing it a glance.

Timur let out a low grunt, unimpressed.

Gorak snorted under his breath, muttering something in his own tongue that sounded suspiciously like an insult.

Robin didn’t even bother stepping around it. He vaulted over the pit with a casual hop.

Melisande sighed audibly, adjusting the hem of her robe as she stepped delicately over the edge.

The bandits grew visibly more agitated.

Their little plans—weak, childish things—crumbled one by one under the weight of reality.

But it was the third trap that finally pushed Ludwig’s patience to its fraying edge.

A hastily rigged spike trap, hidden among the low branches, dangled precariously overhead, waiting for some poor fool to trip the thin string camouflaged across the ground.

Ludwig stopped.

He turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze locked onto the lead bandit.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t brandish Oathcarver.

He simply stared.

That terrible, quiet stare.

The kind that didn’t threaten death—it promised it.

“If you waste any more of my time,” Ludwig said, his voice cold enough to frost steel, “I’ll show you how well you swing from your own ropes.”

Ludwig’s weapon flashed, and the whole mechanism was blasted outward, spikes and logs to hell they went, flying dozens of meters in the air.

The lead bandit visibly paled. Sweat broke out along his hairline. His legs wobbled slightly, and for a second Ludwig thought he might collapse outright.

“Ah—those traps! Old stuff! Old, old security measures, y’know!” he babbled, throwing his hands up. “Forgot all about ’em! No more traps ahead, I swear!”

Timur arched a brow skeptically but said nothing.

Robin muttered something low and vicious under his breath, something about ‘half-wits and no dignity.’

Melisande smiled sweetly. A dangerous, pitying smile.

Ludwig didn’t respond. He simply turned back around and kept walking, forcing the would-be bandits to scramble back into a pathetic semblance of order.

No one tried anything else after that.

By twilight, when the sky bled into deep crimson and the air turned cold and sharp, they finally arrived at the ‘hideout.’

It was pitiful.

Old wooden walls, half-rotted and leaning like drunkards, encircled a muddy clearing.

Broken stones and misshapen bricks made up the miserable skeletons of collapsed buildings.

The place stank — of unwashed bodies, of mold, of food left too long to rot.

Inside, a handful of bandits lounged around a low, smoky fire pit, some half-dozing, others lazily sharpening blades or chewing stale rations.

One lifted his head blearily as the escort arrived.

“They’re back!” he shouted, voice cracking.

A second later, a louder voice boomed from atop the crumbling wall:

“Didn’t I tell you not to harm women?!”

All eyes turned upward.

Standing atop the wall was a boy—barely on the cusp of manhood.

He wore a wolf’s pelt draped over his shoulders, the head of the beast forming a grim helmet that framed his young, scarred face.

Green eyes glinted sharply under the fur. Crimson hair spilled down his back, wild and untamed. His leather armor was ill-fitting, stitched together from scraps and mismatched pieces. Yet despite his rough appearance, there was an undeniable edge about him—a tension in the way he moved, as if barely restraining some hidden violence.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed.

There.

Behind the boy.

A flicker of movement.

Two golden, slitted eyes blinked into existence behind him—high, feminine, inhuman.

Something wrong.

Something inhuman wrapped around him like a lover, unseen by anyone else.

“You see that?” Ludwig murmured, his voice low.

Timur, beside him, squinted.

“What is it?” he whispered back.

Ludwig’s gaze remained locked on the boy—and the ethereal figure cradling him from behind.

“That fiendish woman hugging him,” Ludwig said. His tone was factual. Cold.

Timur frowned. “I’m sorry, master Davon, but… there’s nothing there.”

Of course they couldn’t see it.

A soft chuckle came from Ludwig’s shoulder.

The Knight King’s small spiritual form flickered into view, unseen by the others.

“That’s no living being,” the Knight King whispered. His voice carried the weight of centuries. “That is a spirit creature. A thrall. Or, as they call it… a Skin Walker.”