Deus Necros

Somewhere else in the city, in the western quarter that lay just a short walk from the royal plaza, the Hero’s group ran hard through the narrow, uneven streets. The sound of their footfalls came in a disjointed chorus, the brisk, sure strides of older clerics in heavy boots, the softer padding of bishops in worn sandals, the labored, dragging thumps of one man falling behind. The air here still carried the thick scent of dust shaken loose from old buildings, mixed with the distant metallic tang of burning iron and the faint, acrid bite of alchemical smoke drifting from the direction of the arena. Occasionally, faint tremors passed through the ground underfoot, little reminders that the city’s heart was still under siege.

At the head of the group, Cardinal Sutros ran with his back straight and his face drawn into a mask of control. His robes streamed behind him, the crimson hem flashing in the light like a banner, but the measured rhythm of his steps hid the truth, that his body was still recovering from wounds deep enough to keep a lesser man in bed for weeks. Every movement looked deliberate, as though he were refusing to acknowledge the damage still lingering in his muscles.

Behind him, more than ten clerics and bishops kept pace, their features set and their breaths controlled, as if the act of running for their lives was merely another grim duty.

And then there was Hiro.

The proclaimed Hero of this realm, the man on whom legends were supposed to hang, was already falling behind. His armor chafed and groaned at the joints with each awkward stride, his gut bouncing with every step despite his attempts to stiffen his posture. The exertion had painted his face a blotchy red, sweat pooling at his temples and sliding down into the collar of his tunic. Every few strides he would let out a sharp exhale through his teeth, as if trying to rid himself of the stitch in his side without slowing down. It wasn’t working.

“Why… are we… running this hard!” Hiro wheezed, the words broken into gasps, his breath loud enough to draw glares from those nearest him.

Several heads turned his way. The looks were brief, almost casual, yet every one carried the same quiet condemnation, a narrowing of the eyes, a faint tightening of the lips. No one answered him right away, but the silence spoke loudly enough.

“We need to reach the walls of the city,” Sutros replied at last, his voice clipped and unyielding, each word sharp enough to carry over the rhythm of their steps. “There is an escape tunnel the royals use.”

“I see…” Hiro puffed, letting his shoulders roll as if he were trying to loosen them mid-stride. “But can we take a small break? We’re not being chased by anyone yet.”

The Cardinal’s eyes narrowed, though he didn’t slow. “We don’t want that to happen,” he said, tone still as flat and hard as stone. “That’s why we’re moving. So much for heroism.”

Hiro frowned, the expression barely visible under the strain of keeping pace. “I told you,” he huffed, “I’m not trained yet. I was just summoned here not even a month ago!”

The protest fell thin. Everyone present knew the truth knew that Summoned Heroes, even freshly pulled into this world, grew with unnatural speed. Weeks were often enough to transform them into warriors. Hiro’s lack of progress wasn’t from lack of time. It was because he hadn’t done the work, hadn’t endured the hardship. The only person in the group who seemed unaware of that was Hiro himself.

The streets narrowed as they pressed on, buildings leaning toward each other overhead, their warped beams and sagging stonework creating patches of shade that felt cooler but carried the stale scent of long-trapped air. Somewhere far to their right, muffled through walls and distance, there came the echo of shouts and steel, brief, jagged sounds swallowed quickly by the city’s labyrinth. Sutros did not slow. His gaze flicked only once toward the sound before fixing forward again.

They were nearing the midway point to the hidden tunnel when a new noise intruded. At first it was faint, an odd staccato pattern that didn’t belong to hoof, boot, or blade. Then it grew sharper, layered with a rasping pitch that made the hair at the back of the neck lift. It was laughter except wrong, fractured, almost human in shape but warped with something feral underneath. The sound bounced off the stone walls, gaining volume until it felt as though the street itself was grinning.

From the shadowed mouth of a side road, they emerged.

The hyenas were huge, each one taller at the shoulder than the smallest of the bishops, their frames all corded muscle under the shimmer of silver coats. But what marked them most was their fur, not the soft pelt of a beast, but an array of rigid, tightly packed spines that caught and reflected the wan light like a bed of needles. Their eyes shone with a fevered light, jaws parting to reveal teeth long enough to show even when their mouths closed. The cackling rolled out of them in mad, syncopated bursts, as if each creature was answering some invisible signal.

They didn’t slow.

“I’ll hold them off!” one of the bishops called, breaking forward, his staff already angled to strike. His voice was firm, but the faint tremor in his fingers betrayed him.

He didn’t get the chance.

From above, a shadow detached from the nearest rooftop. The figure fell fast, cloak whipping around him, landing square in the path of the lead hyena. His hand snapped out, fingers splaying wide before clamping around the beast’s skull. There was no struggle, only the sudden, brutal downward force as he slammed it into the cobblestones. The stone cracked under the impact, a burst of dust and blood rising around them.

With his other hand, the stranger extended a single finger toward the pack. His voice rose, sharp and commanding.

“NIGHT MARE!”

The street shuddered under them.

From the cracks between cobblestones and the shadows of nearby doorways, three enormous shapes surged upward, stallions wrought entirely of blackened energy, their forms rippling like smoke given muscle. Their eyes burned a pale violet, and their hooves struck the ground with the sound of iron on bone. The air around them tasted faintly of cold metal and old incense, as if the summoning had pulled them from some distant temple of the dead.

They thundered forward in perfect unison, each impact of their hooves sending vibrations up through the soles of those watching. The hyenas tried to scatter, but there was nowhere to go. The shadow-stallions trampled them under spectral weight, bodies shattering or folding grotesquely beneath the strikes. The mad laughter cut off mid-note, replaced by wet crunches and the hiss of dissolving flesh as the summoned forms passed over them.

The group halted almost as one. For a moment, no one spoke, they only stared at the newcomer, whose hood shadowed much of his face but could not hide the calm with which he surveyed the slaughter.

“You…” one of the bishops began, his voice quieter now, “that’s the magic of House Vastion.”

Sutros’ head tilted slightly, his voice measured but sharper at the edges. “That house has fallen. Their last heir died months ago. Who are you?”

The stranger reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his cowl. He pushed it back, revealing a young man, barely into his twenties by the look of him, with hair dark enough to drink the light, skin pale but unweathered, and eyes that held the kind of stillness found in men who did not waste their movements.

“Oh,” one of the older clerics murmured from the side, “that’s the one Mot mentioned… I saw him in the arena. Held his own better than most.”

“You looked like you were in a pinch,” the young man said evenly, scanning their faces one by one. “Where are you headed?”

“I asked,” Sutros said, stepping forward until he stood between the stranger and his group, “how do you know the magic of House Vastion.”

“Ah…” the man’s gaze dropped for the briefest moment. “Professor Oda’Ruh was my teacher. Before… his untimely passing,”

“You’re a Black Tower Academy student?” Sutros’ tone shifted slightly, somewhere between suspicion and reluctant interest.

“Yes.” The answer came simply, with no attempt to elaborate.

Hiro, who had been wiping sweat from his brow and trying to catch his breath, took the moment to step forward with a grin he clearly thought charming. “What’s your name? And don’t be stressed. This whole tournament,” he gave a small, dismissive wave toward the ruined city, “was just to find me a good companion. You should join my party. You look strong enough.”

“HIRO!” Sutros’ voice cracked like a whip. The sudden rise in volume made a few of the older bishops flinch. “You don’t invite strangers into your company without vetting them! We need verification, investigation, proof of origin. You have no idea who this man might be!”

“No,” Hiro said, shaking his head as if brushing off a child’s warning. “Did you forget? I have an eye for these things.” His gaze fixed on the stranger. “Hoyo Drak, right? Interesting set of skills you have there. I’m especially curious about that [Grafted] part…”

The flicker of change in Hoyo’s expression was small, but it was there, a tightening around the eyes, the faint shift of his jaw. It was gone a second later, replaced by an impassive calm.

“Don’t worry,” Hiro added, far too loudly for the setting, “your secret’s safe with me.” Of course, the street was far from empty; more than a few ears had caught every word.

“We can’t stay here anyway,” Hoyo said, his gaze already scanning the surrounding rooftops.

“Why? Afraid of a couple of monsters?” Hiro’s grin widened, as though he believed it was all bravado. “You were doing fine a moment ago.”

“It’s not the monsters,” Hoyo replied, his tone flattening, “it’s their master.”