Deus Necros

“Are you really going to go up against that?” The voice belonged to Thomas, echoing not in the air but in the hollows of Ludwig’s mind. It was less a question and more a whisper of doubt, one that lingered even after it was spoken.

Ludwig didn’t answer immediately. His undead breath caught for half a second as his eyes tracked the enormity of the figure before him. The Queen towered like a thing born from a cathedral’s fever dream, her form a mass of petals and thorns stitched together with the language of pain. Her presence distorted the air. Roots flexed beneath her feet like muscles about to contract. The battlefield itself recoiled at her mere existence.

“Do I look like I have a choice?” Ludwig finally said. His words were quiet, not weary, but spoken with the dull certainty of a man walking through the same nightmare again. He adjusted his grip on Oathcarver, the weight of the sword familiar and grounding, though it did little to lighten the burden ahead.

Beside him a small spectral form on his shoulder, the Knight King stirred. “Between two evils,” he said, his voice calm but edged with something closer to grim approval, “this is the better one. Not by much. But I suppose even a drowning man will choose the shallower depth.”

“I know,” Ludwig replied. He rolled his shoulders once and shifted his stance, the weight of Oathcarver now resting over one shoulder. His voice was sharper now, more focused. “I’d rather face this thing than take my chances with an Apostle. I’m not the kind of story’s chosen main character, a fool who walks into battles blind and comes out lucky. One should always learn something new, and the first lesson is knowing your limits.”

Without waiting for response, Ludwig snapped his hand through the air, then brought it down with purpose, as if marking a line between this moment and the next. The motion was both ritual and release.

“Numbers against numbers,” he shouted. His voice reverberated outward, sinking into the ground. “[Rise Undead!]”

The command tore through the air like a whip. A heartbeat later, the ground began to tremble beneath their feet. The tremors were small at first, just faint ripples along the ground, but they quickly escalated into a rumbling quake that spread outward from Ludwig’s position. Stones rolled. The broken pieces of the platform nearby shifted slightly, the roots groaned in response. There was no mistaking the summoning. Something was waking below.

High above, the werewolf had taken a perch atop a protruding stone, watching from the shadows with idle amusement. He rested on one haunch like a feline king regarding a coliseum brawl. “Dark magic,” he mused aloud, his voice low and almost delighted. “I see, what a waste for something like you to serve a useless god,” He didn’t move to interfere. He simply smiled, sharp and unbothered, content to spectate what came next.

Ludwig remembered Van Dijk’s warning. Using necromancy in unmarked ground could be a gamble. In the wrong place, the spell might awaken things better left buried, or worse, draw the attention of something nameless and ancient. But he had no luxury to wait or test the soil. Risk was part of the cost. Still, he felt the edge of unease in his ribs as the first bones erupted from the dirt.

The soil split with a sound like tearing cloth. Arms clawed out from beneath the surface, followed by crumbling skulls and hunched spines. First came skeletons, rattling with rusted iron and the faint scent of burial dust. Then the shamblers followed, their flesh putrid and wet, fingers curling toward nothing. More and more clawed their way free, dozens forming a jagged ring around Ludwig, each standing in jagged silence awaiting a command. It wasn’t a perfect army, but it was enough.

Across the battlefield, the Queen responded.

Her howl rose like a broken horn, low at first, then ripping upward into a scream that sent every root swaying as though the cavern itself had taken a breath. Her roots surged downward in a violent motion, embedding into the soil like iron stakes, slamming deep enough that the ground cracked in wide arcs around her. They did not reach toward the enemy. They did not seek escape. She was chaining herself to the earth.

“She noticed,” the Knight King said quietly.

Ludwig nodded once. “I’d be blind not to see it. She’s anchoring herself, locking her body to protect what’s beneath her. You were right, Thomas. Her true core is down there.”

And then came the Perturbants.

The creatures had been frozen until now, locked in stillness by the sheer pressure of the werewolf’s presence. But he had stepped back, and the Queen’s scream had called them. That scream was their summons, the chorus that broke their chains. They responded without hesitation.

They charged.

The whole cavern cracked with motion. From every shadow, from every crevice, from behind stone and twisted root, they came. Their forms were jagged and bent, made of claw and twisted tree bark and thorn filled flesh, their shrieks disharmonious with the rest of the world. They moved like broken puppets made of living bark and thorn.

Ludwig’s response was immediate. He hurled his chain forward, the links shooting outward in a blur, wrapping tightly around one of the Queen’s limbs. For a split second, the weight of the connection held. Then she pulled. The force nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket, but Ludwig used the momentum instead of resisting it. He allowed himself to be flung forward, hurtling through the air directly toward her.

Oathcarver raised in his grip, its edge catching the last of the daylight. The Queen saw him coming and responded in kind. One of her other arms lifted, swinging wide, its end unfurling into a mass of thorn-like tendrils aimed to crush him out of the sky.

“Explosive Mines,” Ludwig shouted.

The spell didn’t hesitate.

A mine manifested mid-air beside him, shaped like a coiled flare. It detonated a moment later, the explosion knocking him hard to the left and throwing his body clear of the incoming swipe. The shock tore through his ribs, wrenching a grunt from his throat, but it was manageable. The dull pain sharpened his focus. He twisted in the air, adjusting.

[-1500 HP]

Midair, his body flipped into a controlled arc. His muscles locked, then snapped into motion as the next strike was prepared.

“Summersault Slam!” The words were not a command, but a force of will.

Oathcarver rose high above him, and just as it reached its peak, Ludwig summoned another explosive mine at the blade’s tip. The result was immediate. The detonation burst outward, hurling the weapon downward with augmented force. The air around the blade rippled from the speed. It crashed against the Queen’s forehead like a falling tower.

The impact tore a massive gash through her face. Black ichor spurted out in all directions, thick and acidic, hissing as it struck stone. The tendrils beneath her mask split apart, shrieking against the pressure of the blow.

[-26,571 HP]

Her faceless visage split open, revealing the wet, coiling roots that lived in place of bone and sinew. The injury didn’t kill her, but it staggered her, forced her to shift. It was enough.

It was a start, and if it bleeds… It dies.

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