Deus Necros

Earlier in the capital of Tulmud, just as the rift was closing and the suffocating presence of Van Dijk’s descent faded, the battlefield was still shuddering from aftershocks. Stone dust drifted in the air like ash from a dying fire, settling over corpses and cracked cobblestones. The treacherous fanged werewolf stood amidst it all, his chest heaving in a rhythm too slow to match his fury, his fur glistening with blood both his own and borrowed. His muzzle curled back into a snarl, the sound low at first, then erupting into a full, throat-rending howl. It carried across the broken city like thunder.

“These wretched things!” his voice rasped, more beast than man, his words slurred by fangs but heavy with venom. “Do they dare, dare waste years of my precious work?!” His claws flexed until the joints cracked. He slammed one paw against the ground hard enough to make fissures splinter across the cobblestones. “Graaah… I should run all the way to Solania this instant, just to tear him apart piece by piece, break every bone until the marrow spills… but…” His voice trailed off into a growl as his head turned sharply.

Ahead, at the ragged lip of the portal, Van Dijk stood motionless, his posture unnervingly calm. But the aura around him was not. The air quivered, as if reality itself was confused whether to flee or collapse inward. Van Dijk’s gaze was fixed, his crimson eyes not on the wolf but somewhere beyond, as though he had just glimpsed something that even he could not name. The faintest flicker of confusion crossed his face.

The werewolf froze, hackles raised. He’s not right. Something’s off. His instincts screamed that charging here, against that unreadable calm, would not end in triumph. He was already ragged, his body still mending from the clash with the saint’s tentacles and the holy maiden’s blade. The vampires, too, were stirring, their aura shifting from fragile to recovering. A growl churned in his throat. I can’t fight him now. Not like this. Not with my body weakened.

He twisted his head to glance back. Titania, her face and body cracked as if it was porceline and her holy aura sputtering like the embers of a dying pyre, was struggling just to stay upright, yet her eyes still burned with battle hunger. Beside her, the Shrike was worse, half her body was simply gone, her limbs dripping, her laughter a ragged, wheezing echo of madness. If he stayed here, he would be cornered between foes and fate.

His decision came in a heartbeat. He crouched low, muscles tensing, and with a sudden bound that cracked the stone beneath him, he launched into the air. In mid-leap his arm shot out like a vice, seizing what remained of the Shrike’s ruined body.

The sudden motion broke Van Dijk from his reverie. His arm lifted in a swift gesture, mana crackling at his fingertips. His voice snapped like a whip: “Not so fast.”

The werewolf’s teeth gleamed as he turned mid-flight, his grin wide, mocking. “Oh?” he growled, voice a rumble of amusement and spite. From deep in the furred folds of his flank, he pulled a small cube, dark metal glinting faintly. Without hesitation he hurled it upward, spinning end over end.

The effect was immediate.

The cube pulsed once, and then the air around them collapsed in silence. Every flicker of mana, Van Dijk’s gathering spell, the residual light of Titania’s aura, even the sparks of magic clinging to broken cobblestones, vanished, sucked dry as though into a void at the bottom of the ocean. For a full breathless second, all magic was nothing.

Van Dijk’s hand faltered. The spell he had poised died on his fingertips like a candle snuffed between wet fingers.

The werewolf didn’t waste the opening. His claws dug deep into the Shrike’s body as he wrenched her closer. His other leg lashed outward in a brutal kick, striking Titania squarely in her chest as she lunged. The impact sent her staggering back, armor screeching against itself, blood spattering across the cobblestones.

“Let’s meet again later!” the wolf howled with a laugh that echoed hollow through the drained air. “Got stuff to do.”

As he spoke, his jaw unhinged unnaturally. From deep in his throat, a small crystalline sphere tumbled forward, slick with saliva. The moment it hit the ground it pulsed, flaring with warped light. Space folded in around it like cloth drawn through a needle, the glow wrapping around his hulking form and the broken body of the Shrike.

Van Dijk’s eyes narrowed, the mana already returning to him as the cube’s brief suppression waned. He raised his hand again, but it was too late.

In the final flash before the warp closed, the werewolf’s fanged grin remained visible, sharp and triumphant. Then the two of them vanished, spat out of the city in an instant. ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ NoveIＦire.net

Too slow to stop them, Celine, who had lunged moments. Her blade, humming with the restrained fury of her wrath, came down hard, but struck only empty stone, carving deep into the cobblestones where the beast had stood. Sparks flew, her face twisted in silent rage, her breath ragged.

Behind her, Van Dijk exhaled once, sharp through his nose. The noise of the battlefield returned to him, the groans of the wounded, the frantic cries of clerics rushing to heal, the cautious but swelling cheer of adventurers who, for the first time, felt they had survived.

Across the battered streets, the surviving adventurers raised their weapons, exhausted voices lifting in ragged pride. They shouted in disbelief that the capital still stood. That they had lived. That the storm had passed.

From the shattered gates of the capital, where the monstrous tide had first poured through, came the thunder of disciplined boots. The once-quiet archway was suddenly a living vein of steel, hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers surging through in tight formations. Shields gleamed with sigils of the royal line, spears bristled like a forest of iron, and the faint hum of wards emanated from the ranks of mages at their rear. Imperial knights in gilded plate split off from the column, their plumes catching the dying rays of dusk, while squads of battle-clerics hurried forward, their white-and-gold vestments already stained with blood as they sought the fallen.

The street shook beneath their arrival, each unit breaking apart into practiced lines, sweeping down alleys, carving through straggling undead that stumbled mindlessly. The groans of ghouls and rabid monsters were cut short by steel, while bolts of conjured flame streaked overhead, striking down beasts that had lingered too long. The air filled with the metallic tang of fresh blood mingled with the acrid scent of burning rot.

A cheer went up from the weary adventurers who had held the line. Many of them collapsed where they stood, swords clattering from trembling fingers, tears running hot down faces caked in grime. Victory was declared in strained voices, some defiant, others cracked from exhaustion. The dome that had caged the city was gone, and with it, so too was the crushing sense of suffocation. For those men and women who had stared into despair and lived, the flood of reinforcements felt like the gods themselves had answered.

But not everyone shared in the relief.

At the edge of the broken square, Van Dijk’s attention never strayed to the soldiers or their victory cries. His crimson gaze fixed only on Celine, who stood amidst the debris like a statue of rage given flesh. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, her hand clenched so tightly on her blade that the steel trembled. The green glow of one of her iris flickered, warping into a dangerous red before snapping back, a candle flame resisting the wind.

In a single step, Van Dijk blurred forward, appearing before her in silence. He did not reach for her, did not speak at first. He simply studied her, eyes narrowing as though seeing something both impossible and familiar.

She turned her head slowly. Her gaze met his, and for a heartbeat, the battlefield around them seemed to fade. The recognition was faint, buried under layers of wrath and centuries of pain, but it was there.

“Eldest Sister?” Van Dijk said at last, his voice quieter than the tumult around them. His head tilted slightly, disbelief breaking through the composure of his tone.

For a moment, she only looked at him. Then her fist shot out, closed tight, slamming into his chest with the force of a hammer.

The impact echoed like thunder. Van Dijk’s body was hurled backward, crashing into rubble with the force to shatter walls. Stone towers that had barely survived the siege folded in on themselves as he tore through them, dust clouds rising in his wake. For an instant, even the cheers of the soldiers faltered, replaced by gasps.

“Oi, stop that!” a young adventurer shouted, his sword raised uncertainly. A cleric nearby rushed forward, hands glowing faintly with the last of his holy magic. “Please, enough! The danger has passed! He’s on our side!”

“Get out of my sight!” Celine’s voice was sharp, breaking like glass. Her sword came alight, pale green aura searing along its edge, and she turned the blade toward the eight tier mage who had just clawed his way out of rubble.

Van Dijk emerged slowly, dust falling from his black attire in clouds. He brushed at his shoulder with a hand as though the blow had been little more than an inconvenience. His crimson eyes, however, burned with a restrained heat. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, his tone flat but edged.

She didn’t answer. With a blur, she was in front of him again, her sword cleaving downward toward his neck.

The Guildmaster, battered and bandaged, lurched forward with a broken sword in an effort to intervene. But before his blade even rose, Van Dijk’s bare hand lashed out. Fingers closed around the glowing sword mid-strike. Aura cracked and hissed against his skin but held firm in his grip. The impossible had happened: he stopped her clean.

“You…” Van Dijk muttered, his crimson gaze drilling into hers, “You’re weaker than you should be. Far weaker. What in hell happened to you?”

Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you unfilial bastard?” Her leg snapped upward, kicking at him in fury.

Van Dijk’s other hand lifted lazily, a whisper leaving his lips. “Binds of Latvia.”

Purple light burst outward, ethereal chains materializing from the air itself. They slithered around Celine like serpents, winding over her limbs, her torso, snapping shut tight enough to halt her movement. She strained against them, every muscle in her arms trembling with the desire to tear him apart.

Van Dijk’s eyes flickered with calculation as he leaned closer. “A curse,” he said softly. “Strong enough to seep into the hereditary bloodline of a Pure Vampire… strong enough to choke your composure. It reeks of that same… presence.” His words faltered, as though speaking it risked drawing its gaze.

Celine growled in response, low and primal, as the vines around her left eye writhed violently, pulsing like living veins. Her aura flared, wrath bleeding through the cracks.

Van Dijk’s eyes narrowed. His voice shifted, taking on the precise cadence of an incantation. “Serenity, apathy, discord abolished, cleanse the mind, open the eyes. [Pure Mind].”

Silver light ignited at his fingertips. It wrapped around her like water over stone, seeping into her eyes, her face. Sigils unfurled one after the other, ancient glyphs that burned in the air before pressing into her skin. They settled over her vines like brands, each mark dampening the fury, smothering the redness that threatened to consume her.

The effort strained even him. He clicked his tongue sharply as the spell resisted, his hand trembling faintly. His reserves, vast though they were, drained faster than expected. “Tch… stubborn.” His mutter was low, but the signs of progress were undeniable. The writhing vines shrank, receding one by one. The crimson hue of her eye dulled until the pale green shone through again, clear and calm.

Her aura shifted. The rage-drenched heat evaporated into a stillness that was almost serene.

“There,” Van Dijk exhaled, lowering his hand as the chains dissolved. “Looks like you’re stable. Now, tell me, ”

His words cut short.

Celine surged forward, her forehead smashing into his nose with a crack.

Van Dijk reeled back two steps, one hand clutching his face, crimson eyes wide with bewilderment. “That, shouldn’t have happened. Why aren’t you calm?”

Celine’s lips curved into the faintest, cruelest smirk. “That was me being calm, you damn brat.” Her voice carried no anger, no rise, only ice. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then looked him dead in the eyes. “You really don’t understand, do you?”