Deus Necros

Ludwig’s mouth tugged into the faintest of smiles, not one of mirth but of dry inevitability. “I was planning on doing that regardless,” he said, his tone plain. Yet his eyes flickered over Danny’s worn form, the trembling limbs, the exhaustion in his posture. “But can you handle the trip?”

“Yes,” Danny answered at once, and his hands tightened briefly over the crystal as though to anchor himself. His eyes closed, his lips moved, and a low chant spilled forth, each syllable laced with fragile conviction.

Light burst out. Not a flicker, not a gentle gleam, but a flood that drenched the cavern in sudden brilliance. It was a holy light, raw and absolute, its radiance pure enough to sting even in the periphery. Sigurd raised a hand to her brow instinctively; Gehrman squinted against the blaze. For Ludwig, the wash of it pressed like a tide, a force meant to scour and purify, a touch that should have seared him to the bone. He braced without meaning to, every thought preparing for the lance of pain that should have come. For an Undead, Holy Magic is worse than poison to a living being.

And yet… nothing.

The light poured over him, lingered on him, and still no agony followed. He felt only the brightness, the pressure of it, but none of the torment that his nature should have endured. His undead essence was silent before it, unmoved. Dare he say it felt… warm and comforting.

“This should help me up a bit,” Danny muttered as the light receded, his shoulders straightening slightly though his knees wobbled beneath him. With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but upright, the crystal clutched to his chest.

“We need to go…” he said, and the words, though fragile, left no space for hesitation.

***

A sneeze cracked the silence of the frosty plains, abrupt and almost comical against the vast stillness of the land. The sound bounced faintly between snow-draped ridges before vanishing into the white expanse. Two figures trudged along the frozen path, their steps muffled under thick crusts of ice. Wind howled in low, throaty bursts, weaving between stone outcroppings, biting against exposed skin and rattling the edges of armor. The world here smelled of iron and pine sap frozen in the bark of stunted trees, the air so dry it scoured the throat with every breath.

“I hate the cold,” grumbled the taller of the two women, her words carried on a plume of breath that hung briefly in the air before dissolving. She drew her wool-padded shoulders tighter, though her gear was already layered for the climate: leather armor with seams lined in fur, thick trousers bound with straps, a long sword slung securely against her back. Each motion of her body betrayed both familiarity with hardship and an obstinate refusal to admit its toll.

The younger woman beside her seemed to belong to another season entirely. Her brown hair caught glints of pale sunlight that pierced the clouds, and her gaze, bright even behind the glass of her spectacles, carried a warmth at odds with the frozen trail. There was something about her presence that made the chill less absolute, as though she pulled with her the memory of summer. “You’re the one that decided on wearing that top,” she said, adjusting her scarf with deliberate care. “Your chest is exposed.”

“That’s for mobility, young lady,” the elder retorted, rolling her eyes yet not without humor. She gave the younger a sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth twitching in faint disapproval. “Also, you shouldn’t speak to your teacher like that.”

The younger woman’s lips curved in a smile sharp with amusement. “Last I remember, you taught swordsmanship at the Black Academy, Professor Joana. And I never partook in those lessons.” Her tone carried a mocking reverence, and she shifted the strap of her pack against her shoulder, snow crunching beneath her boots.

“Shuu,” Joana hissed, suddenly crouching low. Her hand raised slightly in signal, fingers splayed against the white glare. “Kassandra, look up. You see that?”

Kassandra’s gloved hand pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. She narrowed her eyes, squinting at the shadow crouched against the ridge ahead. A beast, black against the whiteness, moved with slow, deliberate hunger. “Looks like a hellhound… but it’s different.” Her breath hitched faintly, clouding the lens of her glasses. “Why is its fire blue, and why is it in a cold region?”

Joana’s expression tightened, though her eyes gleamed with the old spark of thrill. “Seems the news about the Dark Continent’s monster invasion was true. It’s feeding on something. Let’s get close.”

Kassandra’s brow furrowed as she adjusted her stance. “We don’t know what level that thing is. You don’t think it’s wiser to study it first?” She glanced again, noting the eerie light that licked over the beast’s flanks, flames that did not melt snow but rimed it with frost.

“The best way to understand something,” Joana said, her lips curling into a grin wide and reckless, “is to first beat it up, then ask it questions.” She crouched lower, drawing her weight forward, and began her approach with unnerving speed for someone burdened by the cold.

Kassandra pressed a hand to her forehead, muttering, “This damn goblin-sprinting idiot…” Her voice carried the mingling of exasperation and reluctant admiration. She watched Joana’s back shrink against the snow before following with a slower, more careful pace.

The creature never saw the first strike. Joana’s blade flashed downward with cruel precision, aimed low between its hindquarters. The steel sank deep, and a shriek unlike any earthly sound ripped from the beast’s throat. Its head snapped up, jaws blazing with blue fire, but agony folded it before the fight could begin. It crumpled, whimpering in distorted notes that echoed pitifully against the mountainside.

Joana withdrew her sword in a single clean motion, the air sizzling faintly as the frostfire licked against her steel. She smirked down at the writhing form, making certain that her weapon’s name, the Gelder Blade, lived up to its reputation. The creature sagged into silence, the blue fire guttering low, its life snuffed with shocking abruptness.

She waved her companion forward with the tip of her blade, calling out over her shoulder, “Well, don’t just stand there, Kassandra. Come have a look.”

Reluctantly, Kassandra advanced, her boots crunching in the packed snow. When she reached the carcass, she crouched beside it, her eyes wide with both scientific fascination and disquiet. “You’re right,” she whispered, leaning close. “This does look like a hellhound… but, check this out.”

Joana, still crouched, reached her gauntleted hand toward the flames that stubbornly flickered over the corpse. Her palm passed through the azure tongues. She lifted her hand again to show Kassandra: no burns, no blisters. Instead, her skin was dusted with rime, a sheen of frost clinging as though she had plunged it into a glacier stream. “This,” she said quietly, “is frost-fire.”

Kassandra’s breath caught, her eyes widening behind the lenses until they gleamed. “We need to take this to study it.” Her fingers trembled with urgency as she produced a small sigil-etched ring, its surface glowing faintly. With practiced care, she activated it, and the carcass shimmered, folding into a pocket of space with a flicker of light. “This is too valuable for research. A creature that can emit frostfire hasn’t ever been recorded before.”

“I mean, it’s the Dark Continent,” Joana replied, sheathing her blade with a casual flourish. “Everything there is unheard of.”

“You speak as if you went there before,” Kassandra said, her tone half question, half challenge.

“Close,” Joana admitted, her gaze lingering on the mountains that loomed sharp and gray against the dim sky. “I had the chance to work on some matters near Solania back in my days. But nothing to the extent of fighting a creature from the Dark Continent itself.” Her voice lowered, more serious now. “Still, I was able to see a fair few from afar. Strange that they’re out here…” She scanned the peaks again, the line of her brow deepening. “They should all be trapped in the, wait. Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Kassandra asked, shifting uncomfortably as she followed Joana’s eyes toward the ridgeline.

Joana’s hand darted for her communication crystal, her breath misting in urgent bursts. “Van Dijk!” she barked into it.

At once, the crystal flared, and a man’s figure appeared in shimmering holograph. Van Dijk’s image hovered above the snow, sharp and darkly imposing even in projection. His gaze fixed forward, then narrowed. “What is it?” he asked, his voice calm, though a weight lay beneath it.

“Look,” Joana said, lifting the crystal and pointing it toward the mountains. Her hand shook slightly as the projection widened its view.

Van Dijk’s features tightened, the faint light from the hologram casting his expression in stark relief. “Hmm. That’s strange. Where’s the magic circle that was locking the whole place down?”

“That’s why I contacted you,” Joana said, her tone clipped. “It’s all gone. The barrier that was holding the Dark Continent back… it’s completely gone.”

Van Dijk’s head lowered slightly, a shadow falling across his face. His next words came measured, heavy. “That’s a serious problem… especially with what I just heard.”

“Is there more?” Joana pressed, her grip firm around the crystal.

“Yeah,” Van Dijk said. His tone was flat, though the weight behind it made the cold air feel heavier still. “The Pope was announced dead a bit ago. And without him, Letonia will be rundown with monsters from the Dark Continent. You need to find Ludwig and leave the place immediately. Once the Dark Continent’s monsters start pouring in…” He paused, eyes narrowing further, “no one can tell what might happen.”

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