Deus Necros

Chapter 422: Terror

The light of the teleportation gate shimmered around them, fading into the ambient glow of the capital’s sprawling teleportation plaza. As Ludwig, Celine, and Redd stepped forward, the warm hum of magic gave way to a sudden pressure in the chest, the kind that comes not from a spell, but from the thick, overwhelming presence of too many people crammed into too little space. It struck them all at once, and their postures stiffened accordingly.

The capital of Tulmud greeted them not with fanfare or calm, but with chaos. An ocean of bodies surged through the cobblestone streets beyond the arching gate, the stonework itself worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Dust hovered in the air, kicked up by the near-constant shuffle of boots and the creaking roll of cart wheels. Here, in this teeming artery of the empire, every inch of space was consumed, by stalls overflowing with bright silks and roasted meats. By children chasing each other between merchant wagons, by beggars shouting half-blessing curses, by guards trying and failing to push their way through the crush. It was a riot of color, sound, and motion. The scent of sweat mixed with perfumes and the more pungent odors of livestock trapped within narrow alleys, making the air feel thick, almost chewable.

Redd, now bearing the face of an older, sterner man, his youthful recklessness disguised behind weathered cheeks and a short-trimmed beard, stepped in closer to Ludwig and leaned in, voice hushed. “Let’s not stay too long in the open,” he said, eyes scanning the crowd. “You never know when some high-level mage might brush past us and see through the glamours. One dispel and we’re fried.”

“You’re the only one wearing a disguise, Redd,” Ludwig replied calmly, not even bothering to lower his voice. His tone was dry, mildly amused. “You’re the walking lie here.”

Redd clicked his tongue, unfazed. “Says the man who asked the illusionist to hide his girlfriend’s glowing sword,” he shot back, pointing subtly toward Celine’s side, where her weapon, an unmistakable relic to the trained eye, had been magically dampened to appear as little more than a traveler’s broadsword.

Ludwig glanced sidelong at Celine, raising a brow. “Do we look like a couple to you?”

Celine, who had been observing the flow of traffic with mild detachment, turned her gaze to him with a soft blink. “I wouldn’t know,” she said evenly. “Never had a boyfriend or a fiancée before.”

There was a brief pause. Ludwig tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Huh. Then the world’s been blind this whole time,” he muttered, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle that barely reached his eyes.

Redd, who had been mid-step, stopped dead. His mouth opened, then closed. He gestured toward them helplessly, exasperation written all over his mature face. “You two are flirting,” he said flatly. “We have a mass murderer heading toward this city, and you’re flirting?”

“We’re not,” Ludwig said at once, brushing off the comment without a shift in tone. “Anyway, where’s the Adventurer Guild’s HQ?”

Redd blinked, sighed, then turned to point up the sloping road beyond the market swell. “Upper city. Where it’s even worse. But I know a shortcut, less crowded, just try not to step in anything dead.”

Without waiting, he ducked into a narrow alley, the brick walls flanking him stained dark with years of grime. Ludwig and Celine followed, their steps falling quieter on the soot-lined cobbles. The air here was cooler, shielded from the sun by the tightly packed buildings above. The scent changed too, less livestock, more mildew and old iron. Far less festive. Far more tolerable.

They moved fast and low, Redd guiding them through twists and blind turns with the confidence of someone who had once lived here, or at least spent enough time among the rats to know which ones had teeth. Every now and then, they’d pass a beggar curled in a corner or a drunk slumped against a wall, but none paid them any mind. And that was the point.

Beyond the alley’s shadows, the distant sound of trumpets echoed. The cheer of thousands celebrating the Hero Tournament carried over rooftops, mingled with the beat of ceremonial drums and the crackle of fireworks. Ribbons fluttered from windows and balconies, swaying like lazy serpents in the wind. The people of Tulmud, in their blissful ignorance, were caught up in a grand story. But Ludwig’s mind wasn’t on festivals.

He needed that S-class certification. Not for prestige. Not for wealth. But because every dungeon he conquered brought him closer to his goal, the systematic dismantling of the Usurpers who ruled from behind their masks. Power, real power, lay buried in the world’s hidden corners. And dungeons, for all their traps and madness, were the keys.

Celine, silent beside him, walked with hands folded neatly in front of her, her pale green eyes watching their surroundings without seeming to. Ludwig’s thoughts strayed again to the Wrath Core inside her, a volatile relic that pulsed with untamed fury wanting to let loose any moment it got the chance to. And he was running out of time to find a solution before the core consumed more than just her control.

As for Redd… Ludwig glanced at the disguised bandit ahead, noticing the twitch in his shoulders, the way his steps seemed rehearsed, almost distracted. Redd wasn’t just here to play guide. He was hunting. Or perhaps… waiting. If the Shrike really did appear, Ludwig suspected Redd would try to confront her. Whether for revenge, closure, or a foolish hope of justice, Ludwig wasn’t sure. But if Titania was in the capital, as she should be, then the Shrike’s death was a matter of inevitability.

Or so Ludwig told himself.

Eventually, they reached the end of a shadowed corridor of alleys and emerged into a wider street. The change was immediate. The building before them towered in clean-cut contrast to the worn stones and creeping moss of the alleyways. It was a stark white structure, polished marble steps leading to massive twin doors framed in golden archways. Tall, orderly windows reflected the city’s light like polished shields. No boisterous adventurers in muddy cloaks or loud-tongued merchants lingered out front. This was no rowdy branch.

This was the Guild’s heart.

And it looked it.

Inside, they found the expected bustle, not of blade-toting brawlers, but of clerks and registrars, parchment and ink, stamping seals and sorting missions. The floor beneath their boots was smooth tile, cool to the touch, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and waxed wood.

A uniformed clerk approached, his expression practiced neutrality. “Business or documentation?”

Ludwig reached into his coat and presented the sealed letter he had been given in Peltora. The man took it, eyes scanning the wax and sigil. Something shifted in his demeanor, not alarm, but respect, and he gestured for them to follow.

“I’ll take you upstairs. The Guildmaster has been informed.”

They ascended wide stone steps lined with brass handrails, their footsteps echoing in the lofty stairwell. Ludwig took note of the lack of visible guards. That, in itself, was a statement. Only fools or the suicidal would cause trouble in this building.

The clerk gestured to a hallway lined with carved doors, each bearing brass nameplates. One bore no name, only a carved symbol, an old sigil of the Guild. He opened it and entered, shutting the door behind him, leaving the three outside in brief silence.

Moments passed.

Then the door creaked open again, and the clerk stepped aside. “Come inside. The Guildmaster wishes to speak with you.”

As Ludwig stepped forward, Redd and Celine followed, but the clerk raised a hand. “Alone, please.”

Ludwig turned slightly, offering them both a glance and a nod. “I’ll be fine,” he said, then entered.

The door clicked shut behind Ludwig with a muted finality, sealing out the hallway’s gentle echo. Inside, the office was smaller than he’d expected, less an opulent seat of power, more a practical war room, built for function over grandeur. And yet, there was no mistaking the weight of the presence that filled it.

The Guildmaster sat behind a desk so clearly unsuited for his bulk that the sight verged on comical, had it not been for the man’s aura. Thick-shouldered and wide-necked, his physique strained even beneath the layers of formal fabric and pinned brooches, as though he could have tossed the whole desk aside if he’d been in a mood. His sleeves were rolled, revealing scar-laced forearms; veins like old rope coiled around muscle. Despite the spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose and the stacks of parchment at his sides, nothing about him seemed scholarly.

He looked up from a report and removed his glasses, placing them gently on the table, as though shedding a mask.

“So. Francois mentioned that you cleared the Darkest Dungeon in just a couple weeks,” the Guildmaster said at last, voice deep and even. “Quite the impressive feat. Even I couldn’t do it.”

“It’s because you’re too strong,” Ludwig replied without pause, his tone flat but pointed.

The Guildmaster raised an eyebrow, curiosity twitching at the corner of his mouth. “That’s an interesting way to phrase it. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ludwig didn’t blink. He lied with the ease of someone used to treading peril. “The Umbrites in there, they copy the strongest person they detect. Not just looks. Skills. Tactics. It’s a miracle you made it out, if you were fighting dozens of yourself if not hundreds,”

There was a short silence as the Guildmaster leaned back slightly, folding his arms, weighing the words. “I could say the same about you,” he finally said. “Even though… I can’t remember a thing that happened inside.”

Ludwig shrugged, playing the part. “I’ve got a good memory. Doesn’t mean I’m strong. Just… adaptable. I have ways of handling my own weaknesses. That’s why I survived. But we’re not here to talk about that, are we?”

“No,” the Guildmaster said, with a faint trace of a smirk, as if mildly entertained. He reached down, opened a drawer with a sharp metallic creak, and retrieved two items: a gleaming badge and a document bearing the name ’Davon’ in elegant calligraphy.

The badge shimmered under the office lantern, a diamond core wrapped in gold and platinum filigree, radiating an aura of quiet significance. He set it on the desk with a soft clink.

“This makes you one of the Empire’s very few S-rank adventurers, and allows you to take on dungeons without anyone’s permission.” the Guildmaster said, tapping the badge once with a thick finger. “But don’t let that go to your head. It doesn’t mean you’re the best. Not even close. There are people stronger than you out there, some who’ve turned down this badge because it was… beneath them.”

Ludwig tilted his head slightly, watching the badge for a moment before raising his eyes again. “So it’s a multi-pass,” he said. “With my neck as the collateral.”

“You catch on quick,” the Guildmaster said. “Just don’t die. A fair number of adventurers get this rank and die on their first mission. They think it means they’re invincible.”

Ludwig gave a slow nod. He had no illusions about invincibility.

The Guildmaster leaned forward, elbows braced against the desk. “Now then, about Palios. Are you willing to sell it?”

Ludwig shook his head before the man even finished. “It’s not mine to sell.”

“I see.” A pause. The Guildmaster’s eyes narrowed slightly. “May I speak with your companion, then?”

The timing was uncanny. The door creaked open almost as if summoned, and Celine stepped in with silent, steady poise. Her expression was unreadable, though there was something sharp in her gaze, something old. Behind her, Redd stood in the hallway looking helpless, clearly trying to stop her but lacking the will or the strength to succeed.

“I will not hand it over,” Celine said before anyone could speak.

The Guildmaster leaned back, his tone shifting immediately, less business, more curiosity. “Ah. A True Vampire,” he said. “Rare.”

He flipped the document on his desk without looking at it, gaze fixed on her with a new, measured weight. “Then there’s no issue. If someone was strong enough to take it from you, they’d deserve it. But clearly, that hasn’t happened.”

His eyes scanned her, lingering for only a moment too long. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in some time.”

Celine’s frown deepened, though she said nothing.

To Ludwig, the man’s casual awareness was unnerving. That he could gauge her strength, and her current weakened state, in a single glance and from a few exchanged words… This Guildmaster wasn’t just muscle. He had experience. The kind that rarely came without bloodshed.

“I’ve heard of a Gourmet in the capital,” the Guildmaster continued. “They offer… legal sustenance. A Blood Banquet, every other month. It’s not operating now, things are chaotic, but once the tournament ends, you may want to attend. The rules are simple: don’t kill. Drink as much as you need. The donors… they volunteer.”

Celine’s brows knit together. Ludwig’s expression soured.

Willing donors?

That didn’t sit right.

Still, it wasn’t why they’d come. Ludwig leaned forward slightly. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

The Guildmaster gestured lazily toward the door. “Clerks downstairs can handle all adventure-related issues. You’ve got your badge. Don’t overstay your welcome.”

“What if it’s a threat to the capital?” Ludwig said.

That got the man’s attention. His gaze sharpened, chin tilting up just enough to indicate he was now fully listening.

“Go on,” he said.

Ludwig glanced at Redd, who had just stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. “There’s a killer,” Ludwig began. “Village after village, left in ruin. No survivors. Heading toward the capital. Name’s the Shrike.”

The Guildmaster didn’t blink. “We’re the headquarters of the Adventurer’s Guild. We already know.”

His voice was calm. Confident. “They won’t come here. Too risky. This city’s crawling with Holy Order agents, Imperial soldiers, Adventurers. We’ve got two SS-ranked members stationed here. No one’s stupid enough to attack Tulmud.”

Ludwig nodded once. He had expected that answer.

“Well. I’ve done my part,” he said. “Consider yourselves warned.”

The Guildmaster’s tone grew almost dismissive. “Thanks for the tip. But really, nothing like that is going to happ, ”

The words died in his mouth.

A sudden, sharp crack rattled the walls. A thunderous boom shook the floor beneath their feet. Papers trembled. Inkpots spilled. The room trembled again, another explosion. Then another. The air vibrated with rising panic, and a distant cacophony surged, shouts, screams, the unmistakable roar of chaos blooming through the city.

A chill settled over the room, colder than any draft.

No one spoke.

The Guildmaster’s face turned slowly, pale and drawn, toward the window. Far off, in the skyline of Tulmud, black smoke curled into the sky like a reaching hand.

The Shrike was here.