Deus Necros

The Piper’s eyes widened, his agony now mingled with confusion and something close to fear.

The Bearowl, silent until now, suddenly gave a low, tremoring growl that reverberated through the bones of the street. Its breath came out in hot, ragged huffs, misting the air before it in great plumes of steaming condensation. It shifted on its limbs with an unnatural grace for a creature so massive, each motion accompanied by the groan of strained iron and the clicking of machinery embedded into its harness. Then it crouched.

The air changed.

With a burst that cracked the stones under its hind legs, the Bearowl surged forward. Its talons tore gouges in the stone street, sending shrapnel flying as it lunged. Each bound covered dozens of meters in an instant, and from its open maw came a screech, a shrill, soul-rending thing that twisted through the air like a physical blade.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed.

[Limit Breaker]

The notification blinked across his vision, and the world shifted around him. Magic rushed through his body like a surge of molten dark flaming fumes, and though no true fire moved through his undead veins, the sensation was electric. His muscles bulged beneath the regalia, armor stretching subtly at the seams, and a faint pulse of dark aura shimmered around him like heat from a furnace. Every fracture, every break, stabilized under the effect, not healed, but fortified.

He called Oathcarver.

The blade appeared to his right in a rush of shadow, its edge gleaming faintly with old, cruel light. No ceremony. No chant. Just presence, heavy and immediate.

Then he moved.

With all the force granted to him by his heightened state, Ludwig drove Oathcarver forward. His stance held firm, legs braced wide apart, the blade slicing through the air as it met the descending claw of the Bearowl.

Steel clashed with bone.

The impact erupted like a thunderclap, and for an instant, time seemed to fracture with it. Sparks flew in a blinding arc, molten fragments bouncing against the stone. The air burst outward in concentric shockwaves, the sound deafening even through the protection of his status. Dust rose in towering plumes, and the sheer force of the collision sent blood, old and fresh, streaming down the cobbled street in long crimson trails. Every remaining window on either side of the narrow lane shattered simultaneously, their fragments cascading like ice in a storm.

Both combatants reeled from the collision, forced back by equal resistance.

The Bearowl took two staggering steps, steam hissing angrily from the cracked seams in its back harness. Its breath came in growls now, throat trembling with fury and surprise. It had not expected resistance.

Ludwig steadied his footing, his boots grinding against loosened stone. He rolled his shoulder again, now held together not by bone but sheer force of will and a nasty tasting potion. His gaze never left the beast.

“You must find it quite frustrating,” he said softly, voice carrying through the remnants of the smoke, “for a mere ’human’ to match you in strength.”

He crouched then, lowering his stance into something predatory. The muscles in his legs tensed beneath the surface of his skin, straining visibly. Veins bulged, and beneath the fabric of his black regalia, thin thornlike vines curled from the aura itself, tightening in silent anticipation.

Then he leapt.

The cobblestone cracked beneath his departure, and in the blink of an eye he was already upon the Bearowl. The creature roared in reaction, swiping down with one monstrous claw. But it was too slow, Ludwig was already beneath its bulk. He slid through the narrow space between its legs, his blade tracing a gleaming arc behind him.

The steel tore into sinew.

The Bearowl let out a howl of pure agony as it stumbled, its rear legs folding beneath it. The smell of burnt feathers, fur and exposed blood filled the air, acrid and choking. It crumpled forward just as Ludwig’s slide came to a perfect halt behind it.

He didn’t hesitate.

[Summersault Slam]

A whirling motion overtook him. His body spun forward in a blur, both arms guiding the trajectory of the weapon as it arced behind him, then came down in a devastating blow. Oathcarver connected with the creature’s back just above the base of the metallic harness. The sound it made was not a crack but a concussive collapse, metal folding like parchment, ribs breaking like firewood. The harness imploded, crumpling into the Bearowl’s spine, letting off a final gout of white-hot steam that seared the sky in a straight line.

The blade embedded itself deep. Too deep.

Ludwig let it go.

With one firm stomp, he brought his boot down on the pommel, driving the weapon farther until it burst out through the other side of the beast’s chest in a sickening spray of gore and steam. The creature’s body twitched once, then again, and then sagged into stillness. Its weight folded in on itself, legs giving out in unison as it fell dead to the blood-slick street.

[You have Slain a White Bearowl]

[You have obtained an Elite Soul |1000|]

The notification came with a quiet chime, almost absurd in its contrast to the carnage that surrounded him. Ludwig stood amid the rising mist, his breathing non-existent, his expression calm. He turned his gaze toward the Piper.

The masked figure writhed still, one hand pressing desperately against his belly. He looked up at Ludwig with wide, disbelieving eyes, eyes that now saw something far more terrifying than what they remembered.

“Quite the disappointment, really,” Ludwig said at last.

“You… you weren’t this strong the last time…” The Piper’s voice trembled as he spoke, whether from pain or realization, it was hard to say. He coughed wetly, the sound punctuated by a spatter of bile.

Ludwig had no interest in explaining. There was no need to recount the trials he went through, nor the Witch’s gift of Nephilium that he drank, or the struggles he suffered within the Darkest Dungeon. Those things belonged to him and no one else. He had not yet reached his true potential, he has yet to even purify and use the Nephilium he now have, one obtained from the fallen angel. And still, this… this was enough.

With a flick of his wrist, Ludwig summoned another weapon. Not Oathcarver this time, but Durandal. Its curved, unholy edge gleamed for murder, He wasn’t about to pry his first sword from the carcass. Not when the Piper remained, he didn’t have that luxury.

The Piper noticed the new weapon with a flash of unease but tried to mask it behind wounded bravado. “Still,” he rasped, clutching his stomach tighter, “you’re still not strong enough for me to get serious!”

With a grimace, he drew his pipe again.

The moment the instrument touched his lips, the street changed.

A low sound escaped it, not music exactly, but something stranger. A vibration carried on windless air. And with it came movement.

Dozens, no, hundreds, of figures began to emerge. They slithered from alleyways, clambered over rooftops, and rose from the very piles of corpses strewn across the ground. Rats by the score. Wolves with red, vengeful eyes. Lizardmen that walked like drunkards. Even humans, faces vacant, but still very, very alive.

All bound to that pipe.

“Kill him!” the Piper howled again, and this time his voice was frantic, cracking with a note of desperation.

They surged forward.