Deus Necros

Chapter 441: Loot

“NOOOOOO!” The sound tore through the silence like a wound. It wasn’t just a cry of pain but the howl of a man who had watched every last glimmer of hope gutter out and die. The wretched voice echoed from within the newly-claimed lantern, each syllable reverberating against the hollow spaces of the ruined street until it seemed as though the city itself was mourning.

And then, abruptly, it ended. The wail cut off like a string snapped, leaving only the faint shimmer of light breaking apart inside the battered air. The second lantern dissolved into motes, fragments of radiance swirling like dust caught in a sunbeam. Those flecks drifted toward Ludwig’s own Soul Letting Lantern, fusing into its shell with quiet inevitability, as though it had always been waiting for this moment.

For a second his own lantern felt heavier, as if it had its own existence reconfirmed.

A cascade of system text flared before his eyes.

[You have killed one of the former Apostles of Necros.]

[Your Death Point has been saved!]

[You have successfully completed a part of the Shared Quest between Necros and the Four Gods of the Order.]

[You have obtained [Shard of Darkness]]

[Your Soul Letting Lantern has been upgraded.]

[You are now able to see some of the memories of those who are trapped in your Lantern.]

[You have obtained 1 Soul.]

Ludwig stared at the notification, then at the faint light coalescing in the palm of his hand. It was small, pitiful even, barely a wisp. He let out a sigh that fogged faintly in the cold air. For a foe who had once stood so high in Necros’s hierarchy, the reward was humiliating, no different from the scraps one might gather from a nameless wretch killed on the roadside.

“One soul,” he muttered. “A waste. For someone of that level to leave behind something so meager is depressing. But I still can’t fodder him…”

Thomas drifted closer, eyeing the glow with skepticism. “I thought you’d fuse him, grind him down for power.”

Ludwig shook his head slowly, fingers tightening around the trembling mote. “Not this one. He’s too pathetic for fodder. Better to keep him. Sometimes a worthless husk has more value preserved than destroyed.” His lips quirked faintly. “Besides, the lantern itself grew stronger. That’s worth more than squeezing this soul dry. It has knowledge about things I don’t know about, I can use him.”

The moment Ludwig pushed the trembling sphere into the body of his upgraded lantern, the white core shivered and reformed. Within its depths, a man took shape, a middle-aged figure, twisted in spirit. His mouth opened at once, and curses spilled out in a broken stream. He raged, his voice little more than a spectral growl muffled within the glass walls of the vessel. The soul tried to summon magic, hands weaving familiar patterns, but no mana stirred for him anymore. His gestures were impotent, and with every failed attempt his fury deepened.

Ludwig only gave him a glance. “I don’t have time for your tantrums.” His voice was flat, carrying neither triumph nor cruelty, merely dismissal. He turned away from the light and adjusted his coat. “Let’s move. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Thomas lifted a hand. “Wait.”

Ludwig paused. “What is it?”

“Loot,” Thomas said with a dry smile. “Even liches carry things worth having.”

Ludwig gave a reluctant nod and walked back to the scattered remains of the Lich’s body. The scene was grim: scraps of robe turned to ash, shattered bone ground into the street, fragments of ribcage blackened by fire. Almost everything had been annihilated by the titanic strike of Azathoth’s appendage. Yet amidst the ruin, something glinted faintly.

It was a notebook, chained in iron links blackened with age. The cover was scorched and twisted, the pages pressed together as though an enormous hand had clenched it tight and never released. The chains clung stubbornly, etched with small, forgotten sigils. Ludwig crouched, brushing ash from its surface, feeling at once that this was no ordinary diary. It was warped and clotted from the pressure of divine weight, yet it had survived where bone and flesh had not.

He reached for it.

Before his fingers could close around the artifact, the Codex Necros stirred of its own accord. The ancient tome manifested in the air before him, pages unfurling like wings. Its vellum fluttered without wind, and with a sound like inhalation, it drew the chained book into itself. The volume dissolved into ink, then vanished into the Codex’s shifting script.

[The Codex Necros has absorbed Hcil Algad’s Denotations of Necromancy]

“That name…” Ludwig frowned as he read the glowing text.

“You know him?” Thomas asked.

“Yes.” Ludwig’s voice lowered, carrying the weight of memory. “One of the first necromancers I ever studied was Algad. His texts were rare, but he was whispered about even among the forbidden stacks. For an Apostle to have notes drawn from him… he must have been a master, or a monster.”

The Codex Necros opened itself again, showing new inscriptions. Glyphs and careful diagrams filled the parchment, some so intricate they seemed alive, curling with faint traces of mana. It was more than mere description, it was structured as a manual, dense with instruction. Ludwig skimmed, eyes flicking between the runes and the small annotations. His lips curved faintly in spite of the exhaustion pressing on him.

“Study materials,” he murmured. “I’ll need to comb through these properly. Later.” He shut the Codex with a snap and let it fade. His eyes drifted toward the skyline, where rubble obscured the distant path the Werewolf had taken. The crimson light of the unnatural Gibbus moon stained everything it touched.

The sphere above was shrinking, the misshapen curve giving way to a full circle. His jaw tightened. “We don’t have much time. Once it’s whole, things will worsen. Far worse than this.”

Thomas tilted his head, expression wry. “Hard to imagine worse.”

“Imagine harder,” Ludwig said, and then he broke into a sprint, boots hammering against fractured stone as he followed the path of the Treacherous Fanged Apostle.