Deus Necros

The man fell back with a squelch, the blood beneath him too thick and slick to offer any traction. He landed hard, spine catching the uneven edge of a broken blade lodged in the dirt, but pain was quickly overridden by the sheer, crawling terror overtaking his senses. He scrambled backward on elbows and heels, his limbs slipping and sliding against the viscera-soaked ground, flailing more than crawling. His fingers clawed at the slick stone, nails cracking against shattered helms and blood-smeared armor. His boots slipped in entrails and the gore of his comrades, and still he crawled.

Ludwig followed. Calmly. His sword, Oathcarver, vanished with a quiet flicker of dark light, dissipating into nothingness. He didn’t need it now. His arms folded behind his back, a posture almost casual, yet somehow far more menacing than if he’d been holding a blade. Each step he took was deliberate, measured, the soles of his boots pressing into patches of blood with a faint squelch. His expression never changed watchful, amused, and disturbingly tranquil.

The man screamed, short, pathetic bursts of panic that devolved into desperate whimpers as he crawled through the mangled bodies of the very soldiers he had commanded only minutes ago. Their eyes, where still intact, were glassy and wide, mouths open in mid-cry. Some had collapsed mid-stance, weapons frozen in the act of drawing. Others had simply fallen like puppets with their strings cut, drained of all essence.

Where… where did it go wrong?

The thought scratched frantically at the back of his mind as he tried to comprehend how everything had unraveled. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It never had before. They always received forewarning when someone attempted to breach the Darkest Dungeon, that cursed abyss where the Imperial Prince had once vanished, where the famed sword had been lost to legend. They were the watchers, the final gatekeepers. Their task was simple: intercept anyone who emerged. For decades, no, centuries, they had stood here, guarding the silence generation upon generation.

And though they had never recovered the weapon, they still held their post, because failure wasn’t an option. Because the empire demanded it. Because the sword… that relic… was never to fall into the hands of the unworthy.

But this time, this time they hadn’t been lucky. If it had been a B-class adventurer or below, the dungeon would have consumed them. If A-class, they’d be manageable with the force he commanded. S-class? Rare, but they usually avoided trouble with the Empire.

But this, this wasn’t one of those scenarios. This was something else. Something worse.

These weren’t adventurers. They were monsters.

One of them was a vampire. A true vampire. And that alone… that alone twisted the captain’s gut into knots. There was only one other true vampire he knew of… a Black Tower master whose very name required the combined might of the Holy Order to even approach. And rumor held that he’d gone peacefully, not from weakness, but from calculation and amusement.

But this vampire, this one hadn’t negotiated. She had acted. And within the span of a single breath, his entire force had died. Without a whisper. Without a chance.

He sobbed. “Please! Don’t kill me!”

Ludwig tilted his head, crouching as he stepped lightly onto the man’s foot, pinning it down with a faint crunch. The movement was smooth, unhurried, yet absolute. The man couldn’t move anymore. The scramble was over. Now there was only stillness.

“I see you’re the one begging now,” Ludwig murmured, his tone rich with irony. “Quite the reversal, isn’t it?”

He lowered himself further, forearms still folded behind his back as he came nearly nose-to-nose with the man. His voice dropped to a quiet register, almost a whisper, as if they were sharing a secret. “You see,” he said, “I wasn’t all that interested before. But now… well, now I am.”

His gaze darkened. “So tell me, why are you here? With all this force? What were you hoping to accomplish?”

The man swallowed, hard, his throat making an audible click. His eyes flicked from Ludwig’s pale face to Celine, who lingered nearby like a shadow. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But he didn’t speak.

“You should answer,” Ludwig said softly, the edges of his smile sharpening ever so slightly. “While I’m still asking nicely.”

The man’s breath hitched. “You’ll kill me if I do,” he croaked. “They’ll kill me too if I talk…”

Ludwig’s smile widened. “You know,” he said, “you’re dead either way.”

The words landed like stones.

The man whimpered, shoulders shaking, face wet with tears that mixed with blood and grime. “C’mon,” Ludwig said gently, “don’t make me look like the bad guy here. You’re the one who came at us with weapons first, remember?”

“I, I didn’t know you were this strong…” he wept, voice cracking under the strain.

“That,” Ludwig said, tilting his head again, “isn’t something you want to say out loud. Because if we were weaker, you’d have killed us. Right?”

He gave a theatrical sigh, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Now how do you suppose I should feel about that? I have feelings, you know.”

A strangled laugh rang out, Thomas, perched invisibly on Ludwig’s shoulder, howling with amusement. Even the Knight King, solemn and grim as ever, let out a dry snort, his gauntleted fingers flexing in silent approval.

Only Celine remained unmoved, her brow arched, gaze unreadable.

“Please!” the man cried again, his voice raw, his face streaked with blood and tears and snot. “Don’t kill me!”

Ludwig’s eyes didn’t soften, but neither did they grow cold. “I told you,” he said, “you’re dead either way. But…” he lifted a hand in mock generosity, “tell me what you know, and I promise it’ll be painless.”

The man hesitated, glancing again at Celine, at her calm, empty eyes, and something in him finally broke. He began to speak. Slowly at first, then all at once, spilling secrets and names and reasons like a confession before judgment. He told Ludwig everything.

When he finally finished, he slumped, shoulders sagging, breath hitching with hope.

“You’re not gonna kill me?” he asked, voice trembling with disbelief.

Ludwig straightened, brushing off his knees. “Nah,” he said, with a light chuckle. “I’m not that evil. You can go. You’re free to leave.”

For a moment, the man simply stared. Then, with hands shaking, he began to rise. Relief poured from him like sweat. He stood, one knee trembling, a laugh of nervous disbelief escaping his lips,

…and then his head flew off, twisting mid-air as blood arced high into the air and painted the dirt beneath him in a fresh red bloom.

His body remained standing for a breath longer before it collapsed with a soft thud.

Ludwig didn’t flinch. “Ah. But I didn’t say she wouldn’t,” he said, glancing toward Celine.

She was already shaking blood from her fingers, flicking it disdainfully onto the grass.

“You’re not gonna eat that?” Ludwig asked, mildly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking like you want to.”

“Nah,” he said, glancing at the corpse. “Just saying. Seems wasteful and all.”

“He was riddled with sickness,” Celine said, wiping her hands on a rag she kept tucked at her waist. “Something he caught from a brothel, I’d wager. One of his soldiers was clean. That’s the one I consumed.”

“Must be tough,” Ludwig said quietly. “Living as a vampire.”

“Not really,” she replied, voice even. “I don’t crave blood. Not the way lesser ones do. For True Vampires, a single glass can last us decades. But…” she glanced around the field of dead men, “…a good meal now and then, after a battle or when wounded, it helps.”

She turned to him. “We should leave. They had horses. We’ll take them.”

“Oh sure,” Ludwig said, and followed as they approached the line of battle-worn steeds.

The air was cooler near the edge of the trees, and the horses were restless, still catching the scent of spilled blood. Celine approached a sleek black mare, laying her hand on its neck. The beast snorted once, but allowed her near. Ludwig chose a lighter-colored stallion, something chestnut and dust-kissed.

As they mounted, Celine watched him for a moment. Then, without preamble, asked, “How old are you?”

Ludwig blinked. “That came out of nowhere,” he said, nudging his horse forward.

They rode side by side, hooves crunching softly on the blood-damp earth.

“I’m twenty-two,” Ludwig said after a moment. “Twenty-three, soon.”

“Fascinating,” she murmured, though her tone was anything but fascinated.

Ludwig squinted. “I feel an insult coming. Why not go ahead and say it?”

“The way you handled that,” she said, “it was too cold. Most people your age are arrogant, impulsive. Not many act with clarity in blood. Let alone conviction. Takes guts to be like that. Rare in your generation.”

She glanced at him. “How long has it been since you died? A decade?”

“Not even a year,” Ludwig said.

Her gaze narrowed. “Unfortunate. Died young. Do you remember who killed you?”

He nodded. “Two of Master Van Dijk’s servants.”

Her brows drew together. “My brother’s servants… I see.”

“It wasn’t on his orders,” Ludwig said quickly. “They were just bastards. I’ll deal with them once I’m strong enough.”

“You look strong already,” she said.

Ludwig smiled faintly. “They’re in the Black Tower Academy. I can’t just knock on the door and ask to kill two of their people.”

He looked ahead, voice calm. “Let them forget me. Let them live easy. Let them think the world is safe again. And then, when the fear is gone, when they’re soft and fat with pride… that’ll be the perfect time.”

“Cold,” Celine said again. “Also, how do you ride so well?”

Ludwig chuckled. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“For a twenty-two-year-old commoner? Yes. That’s a warhorse. They don’t let just anyone ride them.”

He shrugged. “Guess I’m talented.”

He didn’t mention the private riding lessons. The stables. The wealth. All of it was gone now. He was no longer a boy from a gilded world. A different world…

Now, he was just Ludwig Heart.

The Undead.