Deus Necros

Ludwig stood up, the dull ache in his joints giving way to a slow-burning steadiness as the Bastos Wine coursed through his veins. The groan of bones repairing themselves was no longer alarming, just another discomfort in a long line of accumulating injuries. He rotated his shoulder with a grimace, feeling the last sharp snap of a rib slotting into place beneath the skin. This time, the fight had taken a turn. Not a victory, not even an advantage, but something new. And that was almost more dangerous. The repetition of death had given him a strange kind of certainty. But now? He was in uncharted ground.

The difference made him pause. For the first time in what felt like a hundred tries, he had survived this encounter with Celine. She had not drained him. She had not killed him in blind instinct. And more importantly, she had recoiled. That one moment of hesitation, that flicker of something buried in her eyes, had shifted the entire rhythm of this scene. Ludwig’s thoughts raced even as he outwardly remained still. If this was no longer a loop, then every step forward was risk. Every moment was fragile.

“If only I could use the souls,” he said under his breath, his eyes briefly flicking to the lantern at his side. It pulsed dimly, the collected fragments within still sealed, still dormant. So much power held beyond a promise offered by The Knight King and approved and overseen by Necros’s system.

“That wouldn’t be that helpful to you anyway,” came the Knight King’s voice, firm but lacking condescension. It was a quiet statement of truth, not dismissal.

“I guess,” Ludwig murmured in reply. He didn’t turn his head. His gaze had already found its target again. The werewolf.

The creature was still in his same old spot atop a large boulder, hunched and crouched down with both hands lazily hanging down. The edges of his mouth curved into the barest hint of a scowl. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Not at the moment. His golden eyes tracked every movement like a hawk, not out of malice, but calculation. Watching. Waiting.

“The souls I have aren’t enough to deal with… that,” Ludwig muttered, his chin tilting in the beast’s direction.

But before he could speak further, something else caught his attention. A subtle shift. Not a sound, but a feeling. The kind of awareness that came not from sight, but from a presence turning, a focus being sharpened.

The vampire, Celine, was staring. Her body had stilled, her movements now slower, less feral. She was no longer reacting to Ludwig’s proximity. Her attention had moved elsewhere.

“Euh… Ludwig,” Thomas said, voice hesitant and low.

“What is it?” Ludwig didn’t take his eyes off the vampire. Something about her posture made him uneasy.

“I think the vampire… or Celine, just noticed the thing under the Queen.”

Ludwig followed her gaze. Traced the invisible line of tension that extended from her still form. Her eyes had narrowed, and her entire frame leaned ever so slightly forward. There was intent in her body now, not the twitching chaos of hunger or pain, but something grounded. Focused.

She wasn’t looking at the Queen.

She was looking through her.

Toward whatever rested below.

Ludwig’s throat tightened slightly. “What is she trying to do?” Thomas asked, his voice a whisper carried on unease.

“As long as her fangs aren’t pointing at me,” Ludwig said, rolling his shoulder again, “I don’t really care.”

His hand moved with practiced ease. A flick of his wrist sent the metal chain coiling out in a clean arc, glinting in the flickering cavern light. It wrapped itself around the hilt of Oathcarver where it had fallen earlier, and with a jerk, the blade came skidding across the bloodied stone and into his waiting hand. The grip felt familiar, grounding. He exhaled once, steadying himself, and brought the weapon up into a low guard.

His focus returned to the Queen. But something had shifted in her too. She was no longer tracking Ludwig with that slow, ponderous weight of ancient hatred. Her attention, like Celine’s, had moved. And it was making her twitch. There was tension in her bark-covered limbs now, almost like discomfort, or perhaps unease.

Then Celine was gone.

She didn’t fade. She didn’t teleport. She simply ceased to be where she was. One heartbeat and she stood still. The next, the air cracked with pressure and the ground where she had stood crumbled from the force of her departure.

Ludwig’s eyes strained, but he couldn’t keep up. Even his instincts had failed to register the path she had taken. A second later, the Queen’s hulking body jerked violently as a section of her side detonated in a spray of black bark and steaming sap. She had crushed the wall Ludwig created earlier in a sweeping motion, scattering stones like pebbles. But it was already too late.

Celine reappeared directly before her, low to the ground, her right hand held back at an angle. A second passed, and then five massive blood-red arcs slashed upward in a fan of violent energy, splitting the Queen’s chest like a scroll under a blade. Roots tore loose and flailed, bark shrieked like metal against stone.

There was no time to breathe.

Celine leapt again, her form a blur, slipping between the Queen’s flailing limbs with unnatural grace. The Queen roared, not in pain, but rage. Her arms lashed outward, desperate to swat the intruder away.

Ludwig was already moving.

“Not on my watch,” he said, his voice low and even, as he snapped his wrist again and sent his chain lashing forward. It coiled around one of the Queen’s arms with a clatter of steel against bark. He couldn’t stop her entirely, but he could drag against the motion, slow her swing by even a fraction.

And that fraction was enough.

Celine reached the Queen’s chest. Her hands were no longer hands. They were claws, digging through flesh and rot, carving through the thick mass of corrupted tissue like a creature tunneling toward something hidden deep inside. Blood sprayed in thick arcs, black and bubbling. Viscera clung to her fingers, sticky and hot.

The sounds that filled the grotto were not the roars of battle, but the squelch and tear of something too long left buried being unearthed.