Deus Necros

The metallic harness shuddered first, then hissed violently. Vents along its ribbed plating expelled a thick plume of pressurized steam, tinged with the acrid stench of scorched mana and oxidized iron. It wrapped around the beast like a fogbank, half-hiding its silhouette. The Bearowl roared though ‘roar’ barely sufficed to describe the guttural, bone-deep shriek that tore from its chest, a noise that clawed against the marrow of the ear and stung the lungs. The sound was more pain than fury, more ecstasy than instinct. It charged, eyes glassy and blood-rimmed, and brought both claws down in a wide, furious arc aimed squarely at Ludwig.

Ludwig’s boots ground backward a half step, weight shifting into a coiled lean. The moment the claws carved through air where his skull had been, he slid to the side. A fluid, practiced movement. One that gave him just enough time to draw Oathcarver from the whisper of shadow in his ring. The blade’s full length gleamed as it came out, heavy and black and gleaming with anti-light. With a burst of force, Ludwig drove its tip into the joint between harness and shoulder, aiming not to maim, but to dismantle.

Metal screamed. Bone gave. But not enough. The Bearowl shrieked and snapped backward, even through pain, protecting the harness like a soldier shielding his helm. There was intention in its retreat, desperation, not instinct. It took to circling Ludwig, slow at first, breath steaming in rhythmic gusts, each exhale harsher than the last. The scent of sulfur clung to the air. Its claws raked soft ruts in the moss as it waited, waited for backup.

“Need a hand?” Timur’s voice floated in, low but close. He was already stepping forward, dual blades drawn and catching the firelight with an oily sheen.

“Nope,” Ludwig muttered, eyes never leaving the beast’s twitching limbs. “Stay with the carriage. This one’s trying to stall. I’d bet my soul the piper’s trying to drain us before the big one arrives.”

Gorak stood like a statue, his war axe now hoisted onto his shoulder. The massive weapon curved with menacing elegance, its cutting edge glowing faintly under the thin moonlight that filtered through the churning clouds. Silent and ready.

Robin, crouched atop the carriage’s roof, pulled his crossbow into position. He didn’t blink. His every breath slowed, disciplined, tuned to the moment like a seasoned predator.

While Melisande was still caring for Redd but her staff ready for any and all needed intervention.

From the mist and foliage, a second Bearowl emerged. It barreled into the clearing, a mirror of the first, hunched, blood-flecked, red steam venting from its own harness. It joined its companion without a sound, flanking Ludwig.

Not that it mattered.

The first beast lunged again, both of its massive arms rising high, arcing to bring a double-handed hammer blow down on Ludwig’s skull. The movement tore branches overhead and sent a cascade of dew and dust spilling into the air. Ludwig’s grip tightened around Oathcarver. He didn’t dodge. This time, he rose to meet the fury.

“Limit Breaker,” he whispered.

The words burned with unnatural resonance. His muscles inflated to the point his manticore made robes threatened to burst, and the blade in his hands grew impossibly heavy, its edges glowing with the heat of condensed rage. With both hands, Ludwig swung upward, not to parry, but to obliterate.

The impact was devastating.

There was no clean severing. No surgical precision. Instead, the arms of the Bearowl shattered, folding in opposite directions like wet timber. Bone exploded in jagged sprays. Flesh and tendon peeled back with a noise like silk tearing underwater. Blood misted in red sheets. The beast collapsed forward in a heap of ruined limbs.

[-28,889hp!] Critical!

But it did not scream.

It howled, yes, but not in pain. The cry that erupted from its ruined chest was maddened, feral, furious. The kind of sound a dying god might make if denied vengeance. It threw itself forward, flailing without limbs, teeth gnashing.

The mouth opened wide, a strange mouth at that too, one that belonged to an owl but it was too wide, lined with curved fangs.

Before it could lunge, Ludwig’s left arm moved. The spectral chain lashed from his wrist with a sharp metallic hiss, wrapping around the Bearowl’s beak like a whip woven from bone and will. The snap of metal against bone locked its jaw shut with a crack.

The creature writhed, and Ludwig’s attention turned.

The second Bearowl was already moving, jaws open. This one didn’t aim to crush, it aimed to consume. Ludwig stepped aside, narrow as a whisper, and with his left hand summoned Durandal. It hissed into form, the scythe-arc curving with unnatural elegance. He slammed it upward into the beast’s jaw, forcing it closed in reverse.

[-17,177]

The blow pierced up through the palate, severing nerves, pushing bone aside like melting wax. Durandal embedded deep into the upper jaw and out, making the bear owl look like a hooked fish in the process.

Ludwig did not let it fall.

Strength, not just bound strength, but Undead strength, surged up his spine. With one hand, he lifted the beast by the impaled jaw. With the other, Oathcarver came down in a brutal arc, splitting the head at the base of the neck.

[Decapitation!]

[You have slain a Bearowl!]

[+1 Lustrous Soul]

The head rolled once. Twice. It stopped at the feet of the remaining Bearowl. Bound by chains. Bleeding from the sockets where arms should have been.

It did not move. It could not.

Ludwig kicked the shackle, and the force sent the beast stumbling forward. Oathcarver was already waiting.

It struck clean between the eyes.

The blade sank deep, too deep. Bone split. A golden eye popped from the impact and rolled sideways into the brush like a gemstone lost to the gods. The harness sparked once. Then hissed its last breath of steam.

Ludwig ripped both blades free, blood raining behind each arc.

He flicked the steel clean in one practiced motion, drops sizzling against the broken earth.

Robin gave a long, low whistle. “Damn, son. That was brutal.”

“That’s an interesting weapon,” Timur noted, his gaze on Durandal. He hadn’t seen it before, and now he wouldn’t forget it.

Only then did Ludwig feel it. The error.

‘Shit.’

“Yeah,” he muttered, feigning casual, “got it a while ago. Dawn Isles. Long story.” He rolled his shoulders. “Anyway. Eyes open. We’re not done yet.”

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