Deus Necros

The clash on the other side of the city had already reached its climax.

Celine stood atop the broken corpse of the masked Harpist, her chest heaving, her silver hair whipped into disarray by the lingering storm of energy that had accompanied their duel. Around her, the battlefield was unrecognizable. Streets had collapsed into themselves. Stone buildings had been reduced to heaps of rubble. Smoke rose in coils, blotting the edges of the crimson moonlight. The very air felt scorched, still trembling as though the echoes of the Harpist’s music lingered long after the strings had gone silent.

Even hardened veterans of the Order, men who had faced undead hordes and abyssal fiends, could only stare wide-eyed at the devastation. The Harpist’s power had been unlike anything they had fought before. Each time he struck his instrument, the world itself seemed to fracture, as though reality strained to obey sound. Spells unraveled mid-incantation. Shields cracked. Even the strongest of wards bent under his notes.

Hoyo, battered and bruised, leaned heavily on a shattered wall. His ribs ached where bone had splintered, his arm hung limp where the strings had snapped against it. He was still breathing only because priests of the Order had poured healing into him again and again, keeping his mangled frame stitched together by holy force. The burden of dragging the Fat Hero away from danger every few minutes had only worsened his condition, and though he would never admit it aloud, resentment gnawed at him.

The Hero had done nothing. Worse than nothing, in fact, his presence had been a liability. Hoyo’s pride screamed each time he had to shield the boy, but he dared not abandon him. He needed the Order’s favor. He needed the place at the Hero’s side for his own reasons.

And yet it was not the Hero who had decided this battle. It was the silver-haired woman now standing with her blade dripping in silence. Her aura shimmered dangerously, her movements increasingly erratic as her emotions threatened to slip beyond control. The glow of her red eye pulsed in rhythm with the malformed moon above, the light deepening as though answering its pull.

The Harpist had forced her further and further, his strings cutting not only through stone and flesh but through the very weave of magic. And still she had pressed on, her strikes sharp, each slash of her sword an act of fury barely contained. Blow after blow, until she had finally torn away the Harpist’s limbs, shredded his instrument, and left nothing but a twitching, maskless and faceless corpse beneath her boots.

The battlefield went still. Only the ragged sound of breathing broke the silence.

“Cough,” The harsh sound of blood filled the air. The Cardinal collapsed onto a pile of rubble, Thankfully for him his clothes were already crimson, otherwise he’d look like he came out of a slaughterhouse. Bishops and priests scrambled to his side, glowing hands already pressing against his chest, their chants quick and desperate. The copper tang of blood mingled with the acrid smoke of battle.

His chest was a ruin. Not long ago, the Harpist’s string had ripped his heart free from his body. Everyone had assumed the man was finished, yet by some act of defiance, or miracle, they had forced it back into place and flooded him with holy magic. It was barely enough. He was alive, but only in the loosest sense of the word.

“Cardinal Sutros,” one bishop whispered, his voice thin with fear. “This is only fieldwork. You cannot move. We stopped the bleeding, nothing more. You require treatment from a peer, another of your rank.”

The Cardinal spat blood into the dust and waved their words aside with trembling fingers. “It is… fine.” His gaze shifted, sharp even in weakness, to the woman standing over the Harpist’s corpse. “Young lady. You waste your strength wandering alone. A talent such as yours is not meant to be lost. Join the Order. Under us, you would not only survive, you would ascend.”

Celine’s expression did not change. Her sword lowered slightly, but her attention did not linger on Sutros. Her red eye burned faintly as her gaze turned outward, searching the horizon where another battle raged unseen. Ludwig. He was still out there, fighting alone. The Cardinal’s offer was nothing but air to her.

The silence stretched until Hiro stepped forward. His voice rang out, deliberately loud enough for all to hear. “You should take his offer. With the Order, your chances improve. That thing inside you…” His eyes narrowed, glinting with the strange sight only he possessed. “You know as well as I do that it’s dangerous. The Wrathful Death though I don’t know what that is has a hold on you. I can see it, even if the others pretend they cannot.”

The words barely left his lips before Celine moved. Her blade was already against his throat, the edge pressing into the folds of his neck with chilling precision. The Hero froze, eyes wide, sweat breaking across his brow as the reality of how close he had come to death struck him. He had not even seen her move.

“W-wait!” Cardinal Sutros’s voice cracked, spattering more blood across his chin as he coughed. “Hero, enough! You do not understand what you speak of!” He strained against the priests holding him, forcing words out in gasps. “Young one, forgive him. He is reckless, ignorant. Spare him.”

Celine’s disgust was evident. She stared down at the Hero, her red eye searing him as though she could strip away his bravado and expose only the fear beneath. After a long moment, she pulled the blade away. She turned, without a word, and vanished in a flicker of speed, leaving only silence and unease behind her.

“Cardinal!” Hiro rounded on Sutros, his face red with anger and shame. “Why did you stop me? She could have been bound to us, convinced to serve. If we stripped that curse from her, ” He caught himself, fumbling with the word. “She could have been forced…I mean convinced into the Order for her own good.”

Sutros exhaled slowly, his strength waning. “More like your own good…you fool. Do you think we are blind? We knew from the beginning she bore a curse. We chose not to speak of it. She was an ally, and we needed her trust. And now, you have shattered that chance.” His head lowered. “But at least one thing is accomplished. Crucendo’s clone lies dead. That alone buys us time. Time to withdraw from this city before more monsters rise.”

His words ended in another cough, flecking his lips red. Slowly, painfully, the Cardinal allowed his attendants to pull him upright. His steps were unsteady, yet his will refused to break. With each motion, he pushed the Order forward, guiding them toward the looming wall beyond the wreckage.