Deus Necros

Chapter 513: The Godless Weapon

The Knight King’s spectral eyes narrowed. “That’s no ordinary beast. A Sobekline… it shouldn’t exist this in this place. They are very territorial and their skin is highly sought after and precious”

The salamander hissed, tail lashing as if trying to warn its master. The movement only made ripples race across the pond toward the oncoming monstrosity.

Then the water went dark again, just for a heartbeat, before the jaws came down.

The Sobekline struck like a collapsing mountain. The swamp around them became an ocean of churning mud. Ludwig felt the air pressure change, that immense vacuum of motion before impact, the rush of displaced water screaming around his ears.

He didn’t flinch.

His body moved before thought. One hand traced a half-circle through the air, a gesture almost lazy in its precision. Magic flared in the hollows of his palm, pure and red and hungry.

By the time the shadow of the Sobekline’s mouth engulfed them, the weapon was already forming.

Nightbreaker.

It tore into existence with a sound like tearing metal. The handle dropped heavy into Ludwig’s grasp, the head of the mace trailing fireflies of crimson energy. Weight, impossible and ancient, sang up his arm.

Ludwig twisted his body with the creature’s motion, his regalia’s cloak snapping in the wind, and swung.

The impact did not sound like a strike, it sounded like the world itself being folded in half.

The mace connected with the Sobekline’s upper jaw, and everything above the neck ceased to exist in a coherent shape. Bone shattered like porcelain. Shards of scale spiraled outward in a storm. A heartbeat later, the shockwave caught up, the rolling boom

of pure kinetic destruction that flattened reeds, churned the water, and hurled clumps of mud high into the air in a tidal wave of rot and murk.

The sound echoed across the swamp like thunder answering thunder.

For several seconds, nothing moved.

Ludwig stood with his arm still outstretched, Nightbreaker’s head dripping black and red and ichor. The salamander beneath him trembled, not from fear but from the vibration of the blow.

Then the remnants of the Sobekline’s skull sank back into the mire which had its water return to it, leaving only bubbles and a thin crimson foam on the surface.

The silence that followed was almost reverent.

Thomas broke it first, voice half in awe, half in irritation. “By all that’s unholy… remind me never to annoy you when you’re holding that thing.”

Ludwig’s breathing steadied; he rolled his shoulder, testing the ache. The strike had been effortless, almost too effortless. “So this is what it’s capable of without Aura,” he murmured. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, not pride. “That’s dangerous.”

From the corner of his vision, faint golden text shimmered.

[You have slain a Sobekline.]

[You have obtained: Corrupted Scale of a Sobekline ×1.]

[You have obtained: Brave Soul ×2.]

Ludwig blinked. “Wait… Brave Souls?” His grin returned, sharp and disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Thomas floated around to face him. “You sound more excited about loot than about nearly sinking half a forest.”

“Because that,” Ludwig said, tapping the air where the message lingered, “is ten thousand souls each. Twenty thousand total. That’s… absurd.”

“These beasts live centuries,” the Knight King replied, his tone quieter, analytical. “They devour, sleep, and grow in solitude. That much essence makes sense.”

“Maybe.” Ludwig flexed his fingers, feeling the pulse of the Heart of Wrath respond faintly in his chest. “But this weapon…” He looked down at Nightbreaker. The mace’s surface glowed faintly, still hungry, its crimson veins fading into dull gray. “It didn’t even try.”

“You saw it yourself,” The Knight King said. “That wasn’t strength alone. It was anger. The Wrathful Death’s essence still lives inside that weapon. You’re barely scratching it.”

Ludwig studied the weapon’s massive head. It was the size of his torso, each spike carved with ancient sigils he didn’t yet understand. “It feels weaker than when he held it,” he admitted quietly. “Lighter. Like it’s waiting.”

“For what?” Thomas asked.

“For the armor,” the Knight King answered before Ludwig could. His tone was certain. “The weapon and the armor were one. Until you meet its conditions, you’re wielding half of what it truly is.”

Ludwig nodded slowly. “Level two hundred,” he murmured. “And maybe a death wish or two.”

He looked out over the water where the Sobekline had died. The ripples were fading, carrying flecks of blood across the mirrored surface. For the first time, he felt something almost like pity.

Morde’Xander, the Wrathful Death, had once been a man. A hero of his age. He’d fought for his people, protected them, bled for them. Only to be broken by the very king he served.

His story had been carved into the weapon’s aura like a curse: a man turned godless through betrayal. A father forced to watch his family die, his bones scattered through the mountains now called Solania.

“Understandable,” Ludwig confirmed again. “All of it.”

For a brief moment, the thrum of the Heart of Wrath answered like a heartbeat echoing his own. Then it went still again.

“Getting sentimental?” Thomas teased, but even his tone was subdued.

“Maybe,” Ludwig said. “Or maybe I just know what it’s like to be used and discarded.” He let the thought hang, then shook his head. “Either way, I’m borrowing your rage for a while longer.”

He swung Nightbreaker once, more gently this time, flicking the grim and blood from it, then dismissed it back into his inventory. The air relaxed around him, as though relieved.

“Let’s move,” he said, adjusting his grip on the salamander’s ridge. “The forest’s still a ways off.”

“Where the Elves hide,” murmured the Knight King. “And beyond them, the sands.”

“Exactly.” Ludwig tapped the creature’s neck. “Run.”

The salamander obeyed, resuming its relentless sprint through the mire. Behind them, the swamp slowly stilled, the only proof of the battle a wide circle of shattered water and a faint echo of thunder rolling across the dead horizon.