Deus Necros

The copy did not move when Ludwig stepped past it. For a moment it only watched him walk toward the distant destruction, gaze steady and unreadable, like it was weighing him rather than judging him. Then, without warning, it shifted.

Ludwig felt it before he saw it, a subtle displacement in the air behind him, quiet but deliberate, like the street itself had taken a careful breath. He turned just in time to see the copy closing the distance. There was no stance, no declaration of intent, no flare of drama. The attack came cleanly, efficiently, as if the motion had already been decided minutes ago and it was only now being executed.

Ludwig reacted on instinct. His hand moved to Durandal, the blade rising just in time to intercept the strike. Steel met steel with a sharp, controlled impact that echoed down the empty street and died without finding an answer.

The force behind it pushed both Ludwigs back half a step. Not overwhelming, not monstrous, precise. That was the first thing he noticed. This wasn’t like the thing rampaging in the distance. This version of him didn’t waste motion. It was too accurate, too perfect.

This one was dangerous.

“You said no hostilities,” Ludwig said, adjusting his footing as the copy pressed forward again, keeping his weight low and his grip tight without letting his shoulders tense.

“I said you cannot use power, nothing about me not being able to use it” the copy replied, its tone even as it shifted its grip and angled the blade again.

The distinction became immediately clear.

The second exchange came faster. Ludwig parried, then countered, but the copy was already adjusting mid-motion.

It didn’t overpower him, it redirected him. A slight turn of the wrist, a shift in leverage, and Ludwig’s guard opened just enough to force him back, to make him spend effort fixing a problem he hadn’t meant to create.

He narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t strength. This was efficiency taken to an uncomfortable level, like watching your own habits stripped down into something that had no room for pride.

“You’re not holding back,” Ludwig muttered.

“I don’t need to.”

That answer lingered just long enough to distract him. It wasn’t the words that caught him, it was the implication, that the copy didn’t consider him worth restraint, or worse, considered restraint unnecessary because the outcome was already decided.

It was enough.

The copy stepped in again, forcing another exchange. Ludwig adapted this time, tightening his movements, cutting away unnecessary force.

He stopped trying to “win” the clash and started trying to read it, watching for a flaw rather than trying to create one.

This was not the way to win this fight, he knew for a fact that without being able to harm his opponent he’ll eventually lose. He needed to simply survive, learn, adapt then come up with a strategy.

And then he saw it. A small opening, the copy’s shoulder rotated a fraction too far during a follow-through. It was subtle.

The kind of mistake only someone who fought the same way would notice.

Ludwig moved immediately. Durandal cut forward in a clean, decisive line, aimed straight for the neck, controlled, efficient, exactly the kind of movement the copy itself had been using.

The blade connected.

And passed through.

No resistance. No impact. Nothing, like he’d swung through smoke that happened to look like flesh.

For a fraction of a second, Ludwig didn’t understand what had just happened. Then the copy stepped inside his guard. Too close. Its blade moved in a short, direct motion, and Ludwig felt it slide into his chest. There was no dramatic force behind it. No flourish. Just a simple, efficient thrust that pierced straight through his heart.

His body stiffened. The strength left his limbs almost immediately, his grip loosening as Durandal slipped from his hand. He exhaled, more in realization than pain.

So that’s how this works.

The world tilted. His vision dimmed. And then everything went dark.

[You Died!]

[Your Living Vessel has been exhausted.]

[The laws of this floor forbid immediate resurrection!]

[Necros has taken note!]

[You have been sent back to your last Death Point]

[Last Saved Death Point: Entrance of the Fifth Floor of the Tower of Trials]

When Ludwig opened his eyes again, he was back at the entrance.

The stone beneath him was cold and familiar, and his body felt wrong, lighter, hollow in a way that immediately told him what had changed.

He was Undead again, the sensation settling in like a cloak: no pulse, no heat in his skin, no living ache, just that clean, dead steadiness.

’Feels like home,’ he shrugged and rolled his shoulders.

He walked forward slowly, glancing down at his hands. No wounds. No lingering damage. The death hadn’t carried anything over except the memory of it, and that memory sat in his chest like a bruise you couldn’t touch.

“That was… quick,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.

There was no hesitation this time. He continued walking toward the copy.

The city unfolded again exactly as before, silent, still, distant destruction painting the horizon with smoke and tremors. A few steps in, the copy stood waiting in the same place, posture unchanged, sword held like an idea rather than a threat.

Ludwig slowed slightly, studying it. “…No explanation this time?” he asked.

The copy didn’t respond. It didn’t even acknowledge him.

Before Ludwig could press further, the air behind him shifted violently, this time not subtle, not careful. The impact that followed cracked stone and sent a tremor through the street like something huge had dropped from a height. Ludwig turned, already knowing what he was going to see.

It was him. Or rather, what he had almost become.

The form was distorted, crystalline growth tearing through flesh, horns rising, eyes burning with unfocused intensity. There was no restraint in its posture, no awareness in its gaze. It wasn’t thinking. It was just moving, like a weapon swinging itself.

The attack came instantly.

Ludwig barely had time to bring Durandal up before the impact hit him. The force behind it sent him sliding back across the ground, boots scraping against stone as he fought to stabilize himself. This was different from the copy. There was no precision here. No economy. Just overwhelming aggression, power thrown forward because stopping wasn’t part of its vocabulary.

It howled as it refused the fact its prey was able to survive the impact. Which only made it fuel its anger even further, then it rushed forward, hulking down the street, crushing the pavements.

The next strike came before he could fully recover. Ludwig stepped aside at the last possible moment, the blow smashing into the ground where he’d been standing and sending fragments of stone upward like shrapnel. He moved again, trying to create space.

It didn’t work.

The thing followed relentlessly, every movement committed fully, without hesitation or correction. Ludwig tried to counter once, testing it. Durandal cut into its side, or so he thought. The blade lagged behind, then passed through. No damage. No harm.

“Shit, you gotta be kidding me.” Ludwig realized that he really cannot damage anything here. And what’s in front of him is something that cannot be simply reasoned with.

The thing didn’t react. Didn’t even slow. Its hand closed around Ludwig’s arm, grip crushing, impossible to break.

Ludwig didn’t struggle. He had already understood. Trying to overpower this was pointless.

The next moment ended the same way as before.

He woke again at the entrance.

This time, he didn’t move immediately. He sat there for a few seconds, replaying both encounters in his head, the copy’s controlled efficiency, and the other’s mindless violence. The difference between them was obvious, almost painfully so.

The copy was better because it wasted nothing. The other one was stronger because it never stopped, never corrected, never cared what it broke as long as it kept moving.

Ludwig stood up.

“Brute force doesn’t work, and I’m too inefficient to fight the other guy…” he said quietly.

He walked forward again. The city reset. The copy stood waiting, silent now, inert, like a marker on the path rather than the path itself. The destruction came again. This one didn’t change. It charged like a mad rabid wolf, mindless, without reason, with all the power in the world and only Ludwig to release it on.

But this time, Ludwig didn’t rush into it.

He watched.

When the attack came, he moved differently. Not faster. Not stronger. Smaller. Less wasted motion, less resistance, less pride. He stopped trying to block everything and stopped trying to counter out of habit. He just avoided, by inches, by timing, by refusing to “meet” the strike the way it demanded.

At first, it barely helped. He still got caught. Still got overwhelmed. Still died.

But each time, he noticed something.

The thing overcommitted. Every strike carried too much weight, too much intent. It didn’t adjust. Didn’t recover properly. It burned through motion the same way it burned through everything else, and that meant its violence had a rhythm, a brutal, predictable rhythm, if you were willing to die enough times to learn it.

That was its flaw.

And slowly, through repeated deaths, Ludwig began to adapt, not by matching it, but by refusing to engage it the way it wanted. He stopped trying to win. He started learning how not to lose.

That was the only progress he had.

And for the first time since entering the fifth floor… it felt like the right direction.