Ludwig’s expression tightened, lips curling down, eyes narrowing. The situation had spiraled beyond even his worst expectation. The King alone was a calamity. Now, in the corner of his vision, a notification ticked upward mercilessly: the counter of lives lost.
Eight thousand dead. Rising.
At ten thousand, the quest would fail.
He clenched Oathcarver’s hilt until his knuckles whitened, mind racing. He would have to deal with both, the Werewolf and the King. The thought chilled him.
And then a voice thundered, shaking the earth itself.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!" Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel(ꜰ)ire.net
The command tore through the chaos like a thunderclap, carrying the weight of authority and fury all at once. The howl rattled shattered windows, sent loose stones tumbling down broken walls, and made even the Moon Reavers hesitate mid-stride.
On a mound of rubble, framed by smoke and moonlight, stood a woman. Her hair, usually immaculate in battle, now hung loose and disheveled, streaked with dust and ash. Her armor was fractured in places, plates hanging by torn straps, gouged and blackened as though it had been chewed through by fire itself. Mud, grime, and blood smeared her from crown to boots, but for all that, her flesh bore no wounds. Not a single cut marred her skin. She looked indomitable.
In her right hand she clutched a grisly trophy, the severed head of Sister Gallows. The eyes were gone, replaced by pits of darkness, but the mouth still moved, twisted in mockery.
"I told you," the voice hissed, high and cruel, leaking from dead lips. "You already lost."
The cackle that followed was jagged and unnatural, like rusted blades scraped together. Even Ludwig, who had faced horrors beyond mortal reckoning, felt something coil cold around his spine. The laugh was wrong, too alive for a corpse, too hateful for silence.
"Shut up." Titania’s voice was flat, devoid of ceremony. She slammed the head against the rubble, bone cracking audibly as it struck. The grotesque echo ended in a sputter. She didn’t bother looking at it again. She came down from her perch, heavy boots crushing stone to dust. Her gaze swept over the battlefield, first to the towering King, then to the Werewolf, and finally to the ruin of the city around them.
"You lot have some nerve," she muttered, more annoyance than awe coloring her tone. "Doing this kind of shit in a city I’m responsible for. You know how much of a nightmare the paperwork’s going to be after this?" She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath. The way her lips curled made it clear that she found the bureaucratic aftermath almost more irritating than facing gods or monsters.
A shadow flickered behind her, and from it emerged Redd. His movements were stiff, his clothes ragged, blood caked along his skin, but he was upright. His regeneration had left his body pieced together, stitches of flesh and shadow working in tandem, and his eyes burned with feral defiance. He came to her side, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
From the left, another figure appeared, her stride brisk, her blade already in hand. Celine. The silver-haired vampire moved as though every heartbeat pressed her forward. She was marked by cuts and bruises, her armor dented and torn, but her aura still blazed sharp and dangerous. Her breathing was ragged, but her grip on her sword was steady, unshakable. She took her place with no words, her red eye catching Ludwig’s from across the clearing for the briefest instant. Relief touched his chest like a whisper, she was alive, and standing. Although that redness in her eyes felt far too uncomforting. It was too red...
Even with allies reappearing, Ludwig could not let tension slip from his jaw. Their presence steadied his resolve, but the battlefield had only grown more monstrous with each new second. Allies against calamity, but not nearly enough to tip the scales.
"Ah. You’re here too."
The voice came from behind Ludwig, casual, almost lazy. He turned his head to see Mot stepping out of the dust, hands tucked loosely into his sleeves as though he had only been watching from a distance until now. The boy’s dark eyes narrowed on Ludwig, a hint of irritation flickering. "Why do you always end up in the worst possible place?"
"Not by choice," Ludwig muttered, jerking his head toward the monstrosity looming above the rubble. "But we’ve got to stop that."
Mot followed his gesture, lips pursing. "Ah. Yes. That’s... going to be a bit annoying."
"Can’t you just crush it," Ludwig pressed, voice low and sharp, "the way you did to the lich?"
The boy shook his head, his small frame looking even more out of place against the ruin and blood around him. "Nah. Doesn’t work like that. You can’t just keep pulling on Azathoth’s power like a spoiled brat tugging at his father’s robe. He might wake up." His gaze tilted upward, studying the Moonflayed King without flinching. "And trust me. That’s the one thing you don’t want. At least not now..."
Ludwig’s grip tightened on Oathcarver’s hilt. The blade hummed faintly, drinking in the tension that saturated the air. "So what then?"
Mot’s lips curled faintly, not quite a smile. "Then I’ll assist you. Go wild. Tear the board apart, and I’ll make sure you don’t get swallowed whole." He raised a hand, and out of nothing, a metallic rod manifested. Its surface glistened with an oil-slick sheen, symbols crawling across it like worms through soil. He tapped it once against the ruined ground.
From beneath Ludwig, a tentacle erupted, slick, coiling, massive. It wrapped the air around him, and before he could ready himself, it struck upward with force enough to make his stomach lurch. The world tilted, stone and blood blurring as he was hurled forward, straight toward the chaos.
He didn’t panic. But a curse hissed through his teeth nonetheless. If Mot had a plan, it would have been useful to hear it before being launched into the maw of calamity. Instead, the boy had offered nothing but silence and faith in improvisation. Ludwig knew then: the plan was nothing more than to dive in and see what survived the fire.