Deus Necros

Chapter 449: Never Backing Down

A thunderous crash split the night as rubble collapsed under the force of impact, sending a storm of dust and splinters spiraling upward until they seemed to vanish into the starless vault above. Ludwig’s body lay broken within that ruin, his groan muffled beneath the weight of stone and shattered glass. His vision flickered between the sharp clarity of undeath and the disorientation of a body that had been mangled beyond recognition. Across the fractured space where his status floated, his health bar bled crimson, a sliver away from vanishing altogether.

Every limb protested in angles no human body should endure. Bones had twisted, snapped, and crunched together as if some giant hand had tried to fold him into a grotesque sculpture. Even as an Undead, sensation clawed at him, not the raw agony of living nerves, but a pale echo of it, muted, dull, lingering like the memory of a blade that had long since been pulled free. It did not make the state any less dangerous. He could do little more than drag breath through lungs that did not truly need air, knowing he was useless like this.

They had managed to force the beast’s health down by half, a small miracle when measured against the eternity it had taken. Yet the mountain that remained ahead loomed insurmountable. Ludwig downed another vial of Bastos Wine, feeling the thick, metallic taste coat his throat as its corrupt alchemy spread through him. Slowly, painfully, his undead skin and flesh remembered its shape, knitting fractures and forcing joints back into place with the unearthly speed that belonged only to his cursed form. Regeneration would do the rest in time, but he could not afford to be idle while the battle raged.

Through the dust-choked air, he turned his head and for the first time since the clash of titans ensuing right next to him a far deadlier struggle than the mere ’God like entity he fought’ , He saw Titania marked with blood. It was no mortal wound, no deep scar, yet the thin trickle running from her nose was shocking in its own right. The Holy Maiden of War wiped her face without ceremony, pinching one side of her nose and blowing the blood and snot clear, then smearing it away with the back of her hand. It was the kind of gesture that belonged to soldiers in trenches, not to saints wreathed in divine power. She gave a humorless laugh under her breath, eyes sharp with resolve.

“Didn’t think you had that much power in you,” she muttered, the words half to herself, half to the snarling monster before her. Her shoulders squared, her grip tightened on her weapon. “I might really have to get more serious.”

Across the broken field, the Treacherous Fanged Apostle, the ancient werewolf, bared his teeth in savage delight. His voice was a rumble that carried over the shrieks of steel and the roar of distant fires, the tone steeped in cruel satisfaction. “Almost everyone thinks I’m just a bit stronger than my offspring. And guess where all those fools who thought that ended up?” His grin widened, fangs glinting in the dim light. “You’re right. In my stomach.”

Then he laughed, a sound like bone grinding on stone, and hurled himself forward again. The earth groaned beneath his weight, sparks bursting as claw and blade met once more, their collision painting the battlefield in violent arcs of light.

The battlefield shook beneath their duel, every clash of Titania’s blade against the werewolf’s claws sending shockwaves that shattered stones and rattled the bones of the fallen. Sparks leapt into the air like stars torn from the heavens, only to vanish against the choking fog of ash. Each swing was a testament to two forces unwilling to bend: Titania’s sword arced with precision, her aura burning bright against the beast’s relentless ferocity, while the Apostle’s monstrous limbs lashed out in raw, primal hunger.

Not far from them, Mot’s pale figure flickered like a candle flame pressed against a storm. His tentacles, once thick and substantial, now trembled with each strike, their edges fraying into transparent wisps. Where before they had struck like iron chains, now they wavered, insubstantial, their form less matter and more dream. Mot’s shoulders strained with the effort of keeping them tethered to reality, his childlike face set in grim determination.

“Titania!” His voice cracked through the battle, strained and urgent, carrying the weight of a warning no one could ignore. “We have to end this fast… or he will wake up!”

The air seemed to still at the words, even as the clash continued. Ludwig, still crouched in the rubble with his bones knitting themselves back together, felt a grim satisfaction stir in his hollow chest. So the boy had limits. For all his frightening power, for all the impossible reach of Azathoth that he drew from, it was not infinite. The strain was visible now, carved into every sluggish motion, every weakening strike. The danger remained immense, but the reminder that even Mot could not draw forever without consequence was a small, bitter comfort.

Yet the timing was all wrong. Mot had already burned through enough to crush one Apostle earlier in the night, and Ludwig knew from the child’s trembling tone that the backlash was already close. Each moment risked pulling the Dreamer further awake, and Ludwig’s instincts whispered that nothing good would come if that happened. He could not afford to imagine what lay beyond that awakening.

Celine was carving her way through the Moonflayed King’s storm of strikes with a grace that should not have been possible for someone half-consumed. Every movement of her silver hair caught the sickly light of the burning ruins, her body weaving between wings that shattered stone towers and claws that carved furrows through the earth. Each time her blade met resistance, sparks sprayed like fireflies, and her breath hissed between clenched teeth. Yet there was something unnatural in the way her limbs moved, stiff, too sharp, as though the body obeyed a will not entirely her own.

Her left eye, pale green and steady, strained to anchor her, while the right burned with a crimson fury that pulsed like a living wound. Red and black veins spidered across her cheek and temple, burrowing under her skin in frantic coils, spreading further each time she drew more strength to strike. Ludwig’s hollow gaze tracked it carefully, watching with grim certainty that she was walking a path she shouldn’t. She fought like a woman half herself and half something else something Wrath wanted to claim.

The Moonflayed King seemed to recognize the danger she posed. Despite its size, despite the host of adventurers hacking at its limbs and even with the swarming Moon Reavers helping it keep them off, the woman was pretty dangerous. Its wings shifted to shield its face from her blows. Feathers, jagged as spears, spun loose and rained upon her, each one carrying the weight of steel. She slipped between them, cutting the ones she could not avoid, her body leaving pale streaks of silver in the dark, until the crimson eye shone brighter still.

The adventurers on the ground were already pressed to their limits, shouting to one another, blades flashing under the shadows of titanic wings. The Guildmaster, pale but unwilling to falter, barked orders even as clerics swarmed to his side to keep his battered body upright. Every time the Moon Reavers lunged, the line of S-rank fighters staggered back, their spears and blades keeping the tide at bay but barely buying time. The battlefield was a storm of exhaustion, and every heartbeat felt borrowed.

Then, without warning, the King’s massive claw swept down, not at Celine, not at Titania, but directly at Ludwig where he sprawled recovering. For all its fury against the others, it seemed intent on crushing him first, as though something in his presence drew its hatred. Ludwig’s cracked lips twisted in a bitter grin. Of course, it wanted him after all Ludwig was the one that stopped his first descent in the Bastos Manor. He could not move, not yet; his body was still a ruined vessel barely held together by the Bastos Wine. In the split second before impact, he thought only of what his next revival would cost and how he would change things that time.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, bracing for the inevitable.

The blow never landed. A blur of red streaked through the air, and Ludwig felt himself yanked violently sideways. Dust exploded as claws tore through the ground, leaving a crater where he had stood. He stumbled as he was dragged along, the world spinning, until the shape resolved beside him. Redd’s form had shifted almost fully into that of a half-human, half-fox silhouette with elongated ears twitching to every sound, whiskers glinting in the dim light, and slit-pupiled eyes that burned with the same crimson as his namesake.

“We gotta heal you up,” Redd said, voice roughened by the strain of transformation. His fur was matted with sweat and dust, his breaths sharp, but his grip steady on Ludwig’s ruined arm.

A cleric’s voice rang out from behind them, urgent and hopeful. “I can help!” He saw how valiant and brave Ludwig had fought and didn’t want to grant him the mercy of Death yet. He was still useful.

“No!” Ludwig’s reply was a snarl, harsher than he intended. The cleric froze mid-step, confusion clear on his face as he looked at the battered man before him, bones jutting at awkward angles, his frame trembling.

“Take care of the others,” Ludwig forced out, steadying his tone. “My… racial trait does the rest. I recover faster that way.” He had to lie smoothly, convincingly; if even a drop of holy energy touched him, there would be nothing left but ash. He would not expose what he was to a priest in the middle of a battlefield.

Redd’s ears twitched. “Then what?”

“Grab my arm,” Ludwig said flatly, holding it out with a grimace. “Now twist it into place.”

For a moment Redd hesitated, his vulpine features drawn into a conflicted frown. But Ludwig’s eyes, cold and unwavering, left no room for refusal. With a growl, Redd snapped the limb back into position, the sound sharp and wet. Ludwig bit down on what should have been a scream. Pain for him was only an echo, but the phantom of it still echoed like fire through his nerves. He snapped his other joints back into place with brutal efficiency, each crack a reminder of what his body had become.

The potion burned its way through his system again, Bastos Wine stitching together what flesh and bone could be forced into order. By the time Ludwig stood, he no longer looked broken merely ragged, eyes shadowed, his form unsteady but upright. He flexed his fingers once, then tightened them into fists. The undead shell was whole enough to keep going.

Ahead of him, Celine was unraveling faster than he liked. The red veins had crawled almost to her jaw now, her movements sharper, less human, her crimson eye flickering wildly. With each blow she landed on the Moonflayed King, Wrath claimed another inch of her soul.

“Celine!” Ludwig’s voice cut through the chaos. She turned toward him sharply, that single pale green eye locking onto him as though it alone tethered her back to sanity.

“Switch.”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then, without question, she kicked away from the King and landed hard before Ludwig. He reached out, and their palms clapped together in a solid, grounding gesture.

“Rest,” Ludwig said, his voice low but edged with command. “Cool off the Wrath before it eats you alive. You’re already at the edge.”

Her chest rose and fell once in acknowledgement, her breath unsteadies. Then she stepped back, letting him pass.

Ludwig’s hollow grin returned, sharp and mirthless. His weapon was still lodged in the King’s ruined eye socket, but that was where he would go. The timer had ticked down at last, and the weight in his core shifted with hungry anticipation. He could feel it.

“The timer on Limit Breaker is finally over,” he muttered. Then louder, with all the force of his unnatural lungs, “Limit Breaker!”

The surge was immediate, a flood of mana too immense for mortal flesh. His veins burned black as power coursed through him, spilling from every pore in a haze of violent fumes. His frame shuddered under the weight of it, but his legs moved, carrying him up the length of the giant’s arm once more.