Deus Necros

Earlier.

“Now,” came the voice, smooth and low, curling through the cavern like smoke from a distant fire, “where do you think you’re going?”

It was the werewolf. His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The words slid across stone and bone, echoing from the cavern walls with casual menace, like something ancient stirring in the dark, amused that anyone dared speak above a whisper in its presence.

“We spared you before,” the Cardinal barked, taking a step forward that clattered loudly in his armor, “don’t try your luck, you flea-infested mutt!”

The werewolf’s response was laughter. Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, slow, and unpleasantly patient. He remained out of sight, his voice drifting from the high shadows above.

“Spared me?” he said, with a sneer thick enough to taste. “No, I recall it differently. You didn’t spare me. You just didn’t have the spine to come at me yourself. That’s why you hide behind the boy.”

There was movement. Metal rang as several paladins instinctively took defensive stances. The Cardinal raised a hand, silencing them.

“Everyone, step back,” he said, eyes narrowing. His tone was iron. He took another step forward. This one measured. Heavy. The floor groaned underfoot. “I’ll deal with this myself.”

He meant to show strength. But the moment his foot landed, another voice entered. Softer. Sharper.

“Cardinal,” came the whisper so faint it barely carried. Yet it reached him. It was Mot.

His voice didn’t rise. But it found the Cardinal’s ear like a splinter.

“That is not wise,” Mot said, eyes fixed forward, unblinking. “You will perish if you fight it.”

The Cardinal’s jaw clenched. Something behind his eyes twitched. “Quiet,” he hissed, and his voice lost its measure. “Enough of this. My patience wears thin. This… scrap of fur, this mongrel runt, dares bare teeth at me. He already took one of ours, and now you suggest I let him linger?”

His hand rose, and with it came divine light. Holy glyphs spiraled around his forearm, pulsing and hot, summoned with violent intention.

“BINDS OF FAITH!” the Cardinal roared.

The cavern lit with sacred gold. Threads of burning sigils wrapped outward from his hand, hurtling toward the silhouette high above.

But the werewolf didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink. His arm was raised lazily, claws gleaming faintly in the gloom as he turned his wrist, admiring the glint of them as though he were polishing a blade, not about to be attacked.

The spell landed. Or seemed to.

Chains of light struck home and bound the figure where it stood. For a brief second, the Cardinal’s eyes burned with triumph.

“Got you now,” he said, a smirk beginning to stretch across his lips. “Let me sho, “

He stopped. His words froze mid-breath.

What he’d caught… wasn’t real. The werewolf’s body unraveled into smoke and vanished. An afterimage. Nothing more.

Laughter returned, now from a different place. Higher. Opposite side of the cavern. There, reclined once again on the perch he had taken before, the werewolf sat cross-legged, half-shrouded in shadow. He was chewing on something unidentifiable, casually tearing it apart between molars.

“You reek of Van Dijk,” he muttered between chews, “and the stench of prison… I suppose he was caught, or more like he’s allowing himself to be caught…”

The Cardinal’s mouth opened, to shout, to curse, to command, but he didn’t get the chance.

Because his arm was gone.

From the elbow down, it was simply not there. The stump ended cleanly, as if cut by a blade finer than any man could wield. The wound did not bleed right away. And somehow, the Cardinal hadn’t noticed. Not until his eyes tracked downward.

He did not scream. Not because of bravery. But because his mind hadn’t caught up.

The clerics behind him gasped. Some dropped their staves. Yet even then, the Cardinal’s face remained a mask. Unmoving. Unreadable. To the loyal behind him, it looked like discipline. Like holy resolve.

It wasn’t.

Mot was already at his side. Silent, deliberate, he placed two fingers against the open wound. A light blinked softly in the darkness, green-white and sterile. The bleeding stopped in a heartbeat. Flesh closed. But the silence lingered.

“Why does Van Dijk matter?” Mot asked without looking at the Cardinal. His eyes were still on the werewolf.

The beast licked his fingers and sighed, as if the question bored him.

“It would’ve been more fun if he was here,” he said, voice loose with amusement. “When the creature finally gives birth to that wretched little godspawn, you’ll all be ash. But Van Dijk, for all his arrogance, knows how to finish what he starts. He did it many times before after all, and all he got for it was redicule…But this one,” he gestured toward the Cardinal with his chin, “who thinks faith alone will bend reality. You have a long way to go… relying on that feeble faith of yours.”

“Life without faith is a meaningless dream,” Mot said, not looking away.

The werewolf’s grin showed too many teeth. “And faith without action,” he answered, “is a meaningless life.”

A pause followed. Brief. But thick.

“Then why stop us? If all is meaningless to you,” Mot asked finally.

The werewolf tilted his head.

“Stop you?” he said, blinking slowly. “No. That’s not what I’m doing.”

He chuckled again, quieter this time.

“You should be asking… why am I stalling you?”

Mot’s brow furrowed slightly. And for a moment, he looked almost older. Not by age, but by understanding. Like the lines of a thought had finally caught up to him.

“You’re not blocking us,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re holding us. Delaying. But only for a time…”

The werewolf nodded, slow and pleased.

“You’re not wrong.”

Mot’s eyes narrowed. “You want the child to be born, but it serves you no goal or purpose, maybe gratitude from the being that fathers it? But would it really care enough if you helped or remained on the sideline?”

There was no answer.

Only the Cardinal’s furious snarl as he lifted his remaining arm, and with it, another surge of holy magic crackled to life. The cavern began to glow again. Rage made visible.

“Don’t let this beast confuse you!” he shouted. “He is no messenger. He’s a demon’s dog. A mongrel bred in filth! We should destroy him now!”

But even as the spell reached its crescendo, something else shifted.

The cavern held its breath.

Mot turned first. Then the Cardinal. Even the werewolf stopped smiling.

All of them looked in the same direction. As if a wave of pressure had risen from the pit itself and touched their spines.

A distant pulse. Not loud. But undeniable.

“I guess I was wrong,” the werewolf muttered, rising slowly. His tone was different now.

He wasn’t amused anymore.

“It wasn’t you I was meant to stall. I thought you would be more troublesome with that Outer being and all, but it was the act of one who defies death that blindsided me…”

He peered into the dark, toward the winding corridor Ludwig had vanished into.

“That lad… he’s more trouble than I expected. Quite fun, and quite interesting…”

His eyes glinted.

“I suppose the Wrathful one won’t be pleased.”

***

Back at Ludwig in the shore cave.

He was finally receiving the needed confirmation of all his efforts.

The flood of recognition from a system that had finally decided to reward him for surviving what should have killed him. Bonus after bonus, stat after stat, poured into view like the rising sun. It did not feel triumphant.

It felt cold. Sharp. Necessary.

The notifications didn’t stop. They pulsed with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat, unfolding one after another like ancient seals unraveling in sequence. Each one felt like a whisper from something watching beyond the veil, something that took no joy in reward, only in function fulfilled.

You have reached 250 Agility. Your evasion has increased to 2.5%. You are far nimbler.

Your critical rate has increased significantly. +25% crit rate added to all physical attacks.

Dealing damage to a critical area will have the critical damage increased by 25%.

Your Dexterity has reached 250. You’re able to move more fluidly and rapidly.

All menial related works have become easier to handle. From writing magic inscriptions to creating potions and working steel or jewelry.

Your Charisma stat has increased to 250.

Your aura and allure grows more potent, incredibly so toward the opposite sex, and your personal favorability with all sexes increased dramatically.

Your summon control limitation has increased significantly. You can control a higher tier of Undead, up to Captain Level.

Your Vigor has increased to 250. You can feel your body growing far healthier.

Though undead, you now possess an unnatural regenerative ability.

Passively regenerate 2.5% of your base HP every ten seconds.

Your Wisdom has reached 250. You can now vaguely see through the mysteries of the world.

Your mana level has increased significantly. You are now able to easily use up to 4th tier level magic. [You still require the necessary Mana Jewel for this tier]

Your Strength level has reached 250. You feel the power of bulls running through your veins.

[Limit Breaker] can now stack only three times, but with increased effectiveness and only ten minutes of downtime drawbacks.

***

Each sentence landed not with the fanfare of victory, but with the quiet gravity of something inevitable. Ludwig felt the changes settle into him like the slow descent of dust onto ancient stone.

Nothing loud. No flare of light or burst of color. Only weight. A deepening, of himself, of his presence and existence. A confirmation of personality and being. The pressure of growth pressed inward, inward, inward. It coiled beneath his skin like molten ore, reshaping the vessel.

He felt it through his bones, undead rotting skin and inner corroded organs, there was not life, but vitality in them.

He did not need to see his reflection to know he had changed. The bones beneath his face felt sharper, the angles more defined. The subtle armor of slime and grime that clung to him like second skin no longer slumped off as waste, but clung to muscle that had reshaped itself to carry weight it hadn’t borne before. He felt his frame shift, leaner now, but stronger. The stiffness in his joints had vanished. Every movement felt taut, clean, like a bowstring drawn tight.

His hands flexed at his sides. The fingers felt longer. Stronger. His grip didn’t shake. He hadn’t noticed the tremor before. Now it was gone.

The air around him responded too. Not like a spell, not like magic being cast, but like the gravity of his presence had increased. A breeze pulled toward him where none had existed. The bone ash at his feet no longer simply moved with him, it parted before his steps. His footsteps left not tracks, but slight impressions that quickly returned to form, as though the island itself was learning to remember him.

Something else shifted. Quieter. But older.

His aura not the martial kind, but that of presence, once a subtle fog of mystery, now glowed beneath the surface of his flesh like dying embers of menace under stone. It didn’t blaze. It breathed. Noble. Patient. The kind of presence that made even ghosts want to step aside.

And as Ludwig’s gaze returned to the Queen’s crumbled remains, the haze of transformation still rolling across him, he saw something else.

Her essence had changed too.

The mockery in her expression, crafted of bark and rot now, but shaped too carefully not to be intentional, remained. But the power that had once curled inside her, coiled like a waiting serpent, had dimmed. Not gone. But subdued. As if the thing she carried had drawn it inward.

The cocoon pulsed again. Slower now. But heavier. The weight of its presence was clearer than before. Celine almost woken by his change…

“You can feel it, right?” Ludwig said at last, voice low. His words weren’t cruel. They weren’t triumphant. Just sharp.

“That fleeting hope of yours?”