Deus Necros

It stood where Ludwig had been only seconds ago.

Not rising.

Not breathing.

Simply existing.

And that was threat enough.

The creature’s presence alone felt like a crack in reality. The Reavers—those ravenous monsters who tore through flesh without a flicker of remorse—parted around it like curtains of damp meat. They didn’t scatter. They didn’t flee. They cleared a path.

Like worshippers making way for something divine.

Or damned.

Every step it took cracked the swamp mud beneath its feet—not from mass, but from pressure. Not physical—but existential. The weight of a curse given shape. The air bent around it, rippling like heat over stone, distorting the outline of its already alien shape.

Then Ludwig saw its eyes.

Like twin orbs of molten blood, glowing through the mist, through the dark, through everything—locked onto him with an expression that didn’t change. Didn’t blink. Didn’t care.

It didn’t howl.

It didn’t roar.

It exhaled.

A long, slow breath of steam and sorrow and hate.

It dropped to a crouch and reached into the muck with a wet slap, curling clawed fingers around a fistful of the swamp. Then, impossibly, made eye contact across the distance.

It knew him.

And it wanted him to know it back.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes, and the battlefield stilled as he inspected the foe that came back to not life, nor Undeath but a more absurd form.

Name: Werewolf Lord Echo

Type: [Flayed Herald]

Level: 125

HP 125,000

Tier: Unique

Danger Rating: ☠☠

{Status Effects}

• [Cursed Allegiance – Moonflayed Pact]: Bound to the will of the Moonflayed King. Cannot retreat or disobey. Damage taken by the King is transferred to Heralds at 5% rate.

• [Flesh Unbound]: Defense fluctuates wildly depending on moon phase. Takes increased physical damage, reduced magical damage during Full Moon.

• [Lunatic Instincts]: Cannot be stunned, charmed, or distracted. Constantly regenerates stamina.

{Abilities}

• [Rend the Flesh]: Basic attacks cleave armor and flesh; if an attack lands on a bleeding target, heals the Herald for 3% of max HP.

• [Moon-Hungered Pounce]: Leaps great distances. If it lands on a wounded target, doubles critical hit chance and ignores 25% of their defense.

• [Howl of the First Sire]: Emits a deafening shriek, reducing nearby enemies’ accuracy and causing disorientation for 2 seconds.

• [Moonbrand Regeneration]: Heals 0.8% of Max HP per second while standing in moonlight. Healing doubles under Full Moon.

Lore:

“Once the First Sire of the Treacherous Apostle, now little more than a puppet woven from sinew and memory. His flesh was flayed, his blood boiled away, and his essence poured into the hollow mold of a servant. Though he retains echoes of his former rage, all loyalty has been corrupted, now bound to the Moonflayed King’s cadence. Beneath the skinless snarl, some part of him still remembers the hunt—but not why it began.”

Ludwig stared. Then muttered, under his breath, voice flat with grim admiration, “So this is what it means to be flayed…”

He wasn’t wrong.

The thing before him no longer resembled a werewolf. Not really. It didn’t resemble anything born of natural breath.

The fur was gone—all of it. Not shaved. Not burned.

Excised.

What remained was a raw, glistening anatomy study bathed in the light of a mocking moon. Exposed muscle fiber ran along the body like living armor. Thick black veins bulged under the surface, pulsing to a rhythm not its own, as though it were puppeted by some distant force.

Etched into the creature’s biceps and forearms were runes—carved directly into the meat—glowing faintly with cursed script that shimmered like whispers spoken just beyond the edge of sanity. The marks burned from within, slowly crawling across his body like a living contract.

Its claws had evolved—or maybe mutated. No longer simple bone, they were fused with jagged filaments of tarnished silver and cracked obsidian, turning its hands into instruments rather than weapons. Instruments of removal. Of flensing.

Its face… by Becros.

Where a maw should have been, there was only exposed jaw—skull fused with living tendon, twitching muscle and strips of meat arranged in a smile that never quite closed. No lips. No nose. No semblance of a creature who once hunted in the wild.

Its eyes, those burning red pits sunk deep into raw sockets, never left Ludwig. They didn’t blink. Didn’t narrow. Just stared.

From its back sprouted a line of malformed spines, bone growths twisted into thorns, twitching toward the sky with each labored breath, like antennae desperately feeling for the moon’s gaze.

In its hand, the Wrath Core Fragment pulsed like a bleeding heart.

Ludwig clenched his fists.

The Reavers had formed a jagged crescent around their herald, like knives encircling a king. None of them moved. None interfered. They simply watched—reverent, frozen, as if their own instincts knew they weren’t worthy to join this fight.

The Herald tilted its head slightly. A gesture.

Mocking.

Daring.

Ludwig’s eye twitched. The provocation was obvious.

And effective.

He exhaled, the breath fogging the air around his face. “Sure… why not.”

He didn’t snarl.

Didn’t roar.

He charged.

There was no flourish. No battle cry. Just motion—a blur of black and bone as he kicked off the ground, mud spraying in every direction. With a flick of his hand, Oathcarver reappeared, emerging from the sigil-etched ring at his finger.

The Herald surged forward at the same time, claws digging into the mud and earth for traction before launching its grotesque body like a spear. Half leap, half crawl—too fast, too twisted to be anything natural.

They collided like beasts.

The impact sounded like a landslide hitting a fortress wall.

Oathcarver met the Herald’s claws, steel shrieking as it scraped bone and rune-carved muscle. Sparks and gore exploded from the clash. The sheer force of the blow flung them apart, both fighters landing in the muck, skidding, correcting.

Too fast, Ludwig thought. Too reactive.

He flicked his left wrist. The Soul Shackles flared into existence and shot forward with the speed of a loosed arrow—striking the Herald’s throat, wrapping around like a serpent.

With a violent pull, Ludwig yanked hard, the chain groaning.

The Herald stumbled forward, its body jerking toward him. Bowed like an animal forced to kneel.

Ludwig’s other hand raised high, Oathcarver gleaming in the moonlight. He brought it down—full force, full weight—a guillotine meant to end.

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