Deus Necros

[You have slain one of the three Servants of the Wrathful Death.]

[Reward: 1x Heroic Soul.]

[Urgent Quest Cleared: Core Bearer.]

[You have obtained Advanced Necrotic Rituals. (Summoning Magic.)]

[Necros’s Favorability with you has increased significantly.]

[Unique Achievement Unlocked: First Apostle to Slay a Servant.]

[Reward: Title – Pious Apostle.]

[+10 to all stats. Resistance to Holy Magic increased.]

[New Magic Unlocked: Beginner Necrotic Offerings (Combat Magic).]

More. It kept going.

[Follow-Up Quest: Core Bearer II – Containment.]

[Celine Bastos is under the influence of the Wrath Core.]

[Warning: If corruption is not halted, she may become the next Thorn-Wombed Queen.]

[Her mental state is unstable. Protection is mandatory.]

Ludwig read it all. Then turned his gaze to the cocoon once more.

The last remnants of it pulsed.

A bitter, hateful hiss rolled from its deepest folds.

And behind him, he heard a laugh.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo off the cave walls like the Queen’s wail had, nor strike the ears with malice. It was quieter than it should’ve been, almost conversational, yet something in it was wrong. it came like a breath caught in a dead man’s throat. Dry. Unhurried. And cruel.

The Werewolf was already beside him. No weight in his step. No shadow cast. He was just there, crouching beside the torn cocoon like an old friend inspecting the body of a shared kill.

“You don’t even know what it is, do you?”

The voice sounded low and carefree, yet it carried the weight of inevitability.

“I let you play your little game,” the werewolf said, eyes not on Ludwig but on the shredded cocoon. “Kept my claws out of your spine. Kept my nose out of your little business, Divine Tasks and obligations.” His hand reached forward, slow and measured, fingers curled just enough to resemble something more surgical than violent.

Ludwig didn’t move. Not yet. His hand tensed on Oathcarver’s grip, but his gaze remained locked on the werewolf’s fingers as they dipped inside the remains of the cocoon.

“But this,” the werewolf continued, voice low and flat, “this was mine.”

He didn’t tear, didn’t dig. Instead, he gently reached into the deepest folds of what once had been the Queen’s heart. And from it, he drew something small. Something vile. It was twisted and hard to look at, thorned and pulsating with residual magic. It looked like a relic, like a heart that hadn’t remembered how to beat, trying and failing all at once. Ichor ran down his fingers in slow drips like venom trailing from a cracked fang.

“She kept it hidden,” the werewolf said. He didn’t raise his voice. There was no anger, no reverence, only bitter amusement. “Her last favor from the Wrathful Death. Probably meant to bloom inside the girl, but not anymore… in the normal sense that is…”

He sniffed it once. A sharp inhale. Then let out a brief, joyless laugh. It didn’t rise past his throat.

“Good enough for me, young undead… I suppose we’ll part way soon,”

Ludwig’s grip tightened. He took one slow breath, shallow and measured. But before he could speak, the cave itself answered.

A voice from the back. A shout. Holy steel behind it.

“INTRUDER! ON YOUR GUARD!”

The Order. Their arrival came like a rupture of light and righteousness. The throat of the cave flared with gold and silver. Sigils lit beneath boots. Flames of holy fire burned to life with the sudden force of prepared exorcism rites. They came in formation, blades raised, voices disciplined. Paladins. Clerics. The full might of the Order had arrived, and behind them strode the Cardinal. His eyes took in the sight and bloomed with something between awe and fury.

“There!” someone shouted, a young paladin near the front. “That’s the fiend!”

He pointed straight at the werewolf.

The werewolf didn’t even bother to blink. His nose twitched once as he sniffed the air. Then, slowly, he turned to face them.

“I was already leaving,” he muttered.

They didn’t wait. The first spell hit him full in the chest, light flaring in sharp white purity. It singed cloth, cracked air. The second spell came milliseconds later. But he didn’t dodge. He swatted it aside, like someone brushing ash from their sleeve.

Yet there was something from the spell still stuck to his arm after swatting it.

“I said,” he repeated, annoyed now, “I was leaving.” His eyes were staring at the Cardinal who was grasping the stub of his missing elbow.

He smiled, almost provocatively, then, without warning, he ripped off his own arm. Not with hesitation. Not with grimace. He just tore it loose from his shoulder like someone shaking off a tight glove. One of the binding sigils wrapped around the limb dissolved immediately, nullified.

This made Clementine reveal his teeth from anger. After all this was nothing but a monster than can self mutilate without any concern or worry.

The arm dropped, twitching. Already, muscle tendrils were curling outward from his shoulder, regrowing. Veins formed like ivy. Skin wove itself back together with dark hair sprouting seconds later.

He then reached for the sea walking confidently toward it. No one from the order seemed to be too willing to stop him.

And then, just before he fully vanished into the returning sea-mist, he turned again. His gaze lingered on Ludwig now.

“The Wrathful Death had many mistresses, Apostle,” the werewolf said. “But that one?” He glanced down at the torn womb. “She was his first and favorite.”

A pause.

“And I’m sure he’s looking forward to meeting the man who killed her.”

Then he stepped backward. Not fleeing. Not rushing. Just melting into the fog like something made of it. He was gone before the Order could respond.

For a moment, no one moved.

The paladins stood frozen, their weapons still raised but their hands uncertain. The silence that followed was thick. Not with reverence. Not even tension. Just confusion. Dread.

Then they saw Ludwig.

They saw what he held.

“Step away from that cursed being!” one of them commanded. The voice was steady, clipped. A tone born of training. No fear. Only protocol.