Deus Necros

Ludwig rushed in first. Two of the Lizardmen were retching right in front of him. He ignored them to look for proper prey.

The riverbank stank like a latrine and a slaughterhouse had agreed to share a room; sour bile, wet earth, and the sharp metallic tang of fear mixed together until it was hard to tell what was worse.

The two lizardmen in front of him weren’t even looking up, one had both hands planted in the mud, shoulders convulsing as if his spine wanted out, and the other was folded over on itself, tail twitching uselessly. They were obstacles more than enemies, bodies occupying space in a narrow, ugly choke point.

The alarms tolled in the settlement the moment they reached the areas where the torches lit the ground, they’ve been spotted, but at the same time those alarms didn’t sound properly.

Whoever was either ringing the bell or blowing the horn seemed to stop midway. The sound started as a warning and then died into a broken stutter, as if the alarm itself had lost faith.

Ludwig didn’t need imagination to fill in the gap; he could hear the retching and frantic scrambling below the half-formed clangs.

Ludwig thought that either was good, disarray, no matter how, was good here.

The Tower had reduced them to level 100 and limited their magic, but it hadn’t limited humiliation, and humiliation was turning the settlement’s defenses into comedy.

Ludwig wasn’t laughing. He was using it.

He kicked the first Lizardman aside; the poor thing couldn’t even fight back as he was fighting a more urgent battle, the battle of intestines.

The body rolled with a weak hiss, claws scraping mud, too busy surviving its own stomach to register the boot. Ludwig stepped over it and moved deeper, eyes hunting for anything upright, armed, and still capable of intent.

A healthy-looking Lizardman charged Ludwig, howling with all its guts, only to have its body carved in half as Durandal, in sword form, came down, splitting the creature from head to groin, spear included.

The strike was clean and merciless. Ludwig didn’t need to wind up; Durandal simply arrived where it needed to be, and the champion’s shout cut off mid-breath.

The Knight King made it to the other side of the stone bridge second; he immediately went into Tyrant Blade mode. Slicing and tearing apart anything that tried to fight back. Gale moved like a siege engine that had learned to be graceful, each step heavy, each swing exact, and the air around Oathcarver felt as if it had been sharpened by will alone.

Lizardmen who tried to form a line were cut down before their line became a line. Those who turned to run were split before their feet found traction.

A couple Champion Lizardmen who were having a less shitty time dealing with their troubled stomachs tried to put up a fight. They held their spears with difficulty, as they tried their best to rush and get rid of the invaders.

But Gale had other thoughts. He didn’t go for the kill, no, he lunged forward, and struck sideways with the flat of Oathcarver. The impact sounded like a door being slammed in a storm. The blow rattled the first Champion, lifting him from where he stood and slamming him into the other Champion. That’s all he needed to do to demoralize the two champions: the first hit hard enough that his eyes rolled back and he folded without dignity, and the second, caught under the sudden bodyweight and shock, lost whatever control the poison had left him. His stance collapsed into panic, and his tail lashed uselessly as his body betrayed him.

Both were out of combat in one blow.

Without wasting a breath, Gale rushed toward the wooden gate, with a shoulder bash connecting, the whole thing blasted into splinters, and dangerously large tree trunks that flew everywhere. The gate didn’t just break; it became ammunition. Planks and posts shot inward like thrown spears, punching through flimsy hut walls.

Several huts were torn apart as the pieces of the gate razed them through the ground, and Ludwig saw bodies dive away, some lizardmen fast enough, some not, because even a “non-lethal” entry became lethal when your entrance was a death knight with a battering-ram shoulder.

More Lizardmen rushed out, healthier, maybe some that didn’t even drink from the river. They came from deeper huts and from the far side of the settlement, eyes clearer, posture steadier, weapons gripped like they still believed this could be repelled if they acted fast enough.

Ludwig noticed the difference immediately: less stumbling, fewer hands clutching stomachs, more coordination. These were the ones that could actually become a problem if allowed to gather.

But they weren’t much of a threat once the rest of the orcs joined the fight. The orcs hit the settlement like a wave that had been held back too long, boots slamming into mud, axes rising, snarls breaking loose.

They followed Ludwig’s command: do not kill those who are unarmed or are not willing to fight. But for these fresh ones, rare and healthy lizardmen, the orcs were close to drooling for a chance to fight, and so the group of orcs hounded them. They didn’t chase with discipline; they chased with hunger, but the direction was correct: pressure the healthy, break their attempt at organization, keep them from becoming a center of resistance.

Honor? Glory? Or Pride? All of it was meaningless in Ludwig’s eyes when it came to war.

There was only a victor and a loser, and here, the losing side was definitely the Lizardmen. Victory didn’t require slaughtering everyone. Victory required removing the enemy’s ability to resist and forcing the rest into submission. If he was going to become king in this scenario, he needed bodies left standing when the dust settled.

“Find the broodmother!”

“The what?” Grath asked.

“Big female lizardman! Find her first!”

“Yes!” Grath understood and rushed forward. His great axe broke both bones and structure whenever it swung.

It was supposed to be a long night, but it seems that it’ll end sooner than expected.