Deus Necros

“Back already?” The guard at the teleportation gate of Peltora leaned on the haft of his spear as Ludwig approached. The man’s armor creaked with the movement, a scuff of polished steel against the leather straps. His tone was casual, but his eyes flickered over Ludwig’s face, then darted toward Celine who seemed uninterested by everything going

“Rushed business,” Ludwig replied, his voice calm and clipped. He raised his hand, fingers brushing the insignia pinned just over his heart. The faint metallic tap was enough to catch the guard’s attention.

The man straightened at once, his previously easy stance snapping to something more respectful. “Ah… that explains it then. Priority transport. No wonder you received a recommendation from the Holy Order.” His gaze lingered on the adventurer rank along with the token of Titania, the way one might stare at a banner of authority, before darting away.

Behind him, the crystal pylons of the gate glimmered faintly in the evening light. The sigils etched into their bases pulsed softly, waiting.

“Destination?” the guard asked, already reaching for the dials set into the stone pedestal.

“Rasta,” Ludwig confirmed with a curt nod.

The guard’s hands moved quickly, runes sliding under his touch with a faint hum. “Coordinates set. Safe travels,” he said, though the faint twitch at his brow betrayed his curiosity. It wasn’t often that someone carried that kind of pass.

The gate flared to life. Rings of light unfolded like ripples across water, and the air took on a metallic tang, ozone-rich and heady. Ludwig stepped forward, Celine a shadow half a pace behind him.

For a heartbeat, the world dissolved into motion and light. Vision became a blur, sound stretched thin like a scream caught in a wind tunnel, and the ground tilted as though trying to shrug them off.

Then it snapped back.

They stood not in Peltora’s crooked, soot-streaked streets but in a city carved from order and pride.

White marble greeted them, so bright it nearly hurt the eyes after the dull grays of Peltora. The city of Rasta was a tapestry of symmetry and restraint. Rows of towers rose like spears planted by some ancient giant, each facade adorned with reliefs of gods and harvests, each balcony framed by ivy pruned to perfection. Nothing leaned. Nothing was out of place.

The wind here was cooler, sweeping down from the mountain peaks that loomed behind the city. Ludwig could taste clean stone dust on the air, mingled with the faint sweetness of wheat fields far below. Every sound echoed, boot heels on marble, the distant toll of a bell, the low murmur of a market far beneath their tier.

The gate itself was positioned on an upper terrace, beneath the shadow of what could only be the palace. From this vantage, Ludwig could see layer upon layer of the city beneath them, each level segmented by high walls and wide gates that remained open, allowing the steady flow of carts and travelers. Beyond those walls, fields rippled gold in the sunlight, and a river cut a silver scar through the plains, feeding irrigation channels that glittered like veins.

Ludwig’s eyes drifted higher. The palace dominated the skyline, a fortress of white stone and iron, every inch of it bristling with armored figures. Their armor gleamed like polished silver, thick as tank plating, their halberds catching the light as they paced the walls. Even from here, Ludwig could feel their gazes, sharp and watchful, a silent warning: don’t linger.

Ludwig thought that someone important must be living there for all this security.

After taking a breath and taking everything in, he turned to Celine.

“Looks like an agricultural city,” Ludwig, taking in the rows of tilled earth beyond the walls, the silhouettes of farmers bent to their work. “With how much grain is growing here…”

Celine didn’t answer. She stood beside him, cloak draped close, her expression unreadable. The wind tugged at a lock of her dark hair, but she didn’t move to fix it.

Ludwig studied her a moment longer, but he didn’t press. Her silence wasn’t empty, it was armor, a shield built after too many years of pain. He respected that.

“Let’s go,” he said softly, breaking the stillness. “There’s a carriage station down there.”

They descended the broad stairway, their steps echoing against the marble. Merchants called from stalls set neatly against the terraces, selling polished grains, jars of oil, baskets of herbs. The air carried scents of rosemary, warm bread, and iron from distant smithies. Children darted between legs, their laughter rising and fading like birdsong.

Ludwig’s eyes never stopped moving. He marked exits, alleys, the rhythm of the city guard patrolling the tier. Celine followed silently, though he caught the briefest twitch of her nose as she passed a bakery, the scent of cinnamon and yeast heavy in the air.

The carriage station sat near the edge of the terrace, a half-circle of waiting wagons and resting horses. Coachmen lounged on crates, smoking or sipping from tin mugs. When Ludwig approached, one man, a lean, sun-browned driver with quick eyes, straightened.

“Let me guess,” the coachman said, squinting at Ludwig’s gear, at the way he carried himself. “The Darkest Dungeon?”

Ludwig raised a brow. “Interesting name for it. How did you know?”

The driver’s smile was thin and tired. “Not many adventurers come to Rasta. Too calm, too tame. And the ones who do?” He tapped his pipe against his boot. “They’re all chasing that cursed place. They think they’re different. They think they’ll come back with glory.” His eyes flickered, darker now. “Most don’t come back at all.”

Ludwig gave a soft huff of laughter, not dismissive but thoughtful. “I’ll take that as a warning, then.”

“It’s human of me to warn you,” the coachman said, climbing into his seat. He tugged the reins, the horses snorting softly. “But it’s also human to take the fare. Got a family to feed.”

“And that,” Ludwig said, stepping up into the wagon with Celine behind him, “is something I understand.”