Deus Necros

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” the Hunter asked, stepping forward slowly. His voice held less anger now, more hesitation. “What if she is someone evil, what if she deserves that?” There was a roughness in his tone, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own words.

Ludwig didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes remained on the next stake, fingers already brushing the charred flesh around it. “I think that death,” he said slowly, almost thoughtfully, “is a far easier punishment for evildoers. This…” his voice dipped low, almost reverent in its disdain, “this is a cage built for something far more complicated. The only people who receive treatments like these are either baleful demons, or unjustly treated souls.”

He paused, knuckles tightening ever so slightly. “And so far, I’ve yet to see anything demonic from her.”

The Hunter scoffed, limping back a half step. “Don’t you have eyes?” he said, gesturing angrily with his good hand. “She almost killed me. My arm’s broken.” His breathing hitched again, the ribs clearly still hurting him with every word.

Ludwig didn’t flinch. “If you were in her place,” he said, his voice calm but heavy, “nailed with these unholy bindings, left to rot in limbo with no choice between life or death, then finally got free, and the first person you saw was someone wearing the robes of the very people who tortured you…” he turned his gaze up, locking it briefly with the Hunter’s. “Wouldn’t you crash out too?”

The room was quiet again. Only the crackle of some unseen torch, somewhere distant, echoed faintly.

The Hunter looked away first.

“…What about her attacking the Knight?” he said, trying to salvage the argument.

“I drew my weapon on her first,” the Knight said, cutting in before Ludwig could respond. His voice was quieter now, tinged with something approaching regret. “I made the first move.”

Ludwig nodded, almost absently. “While I didn’t do much,” he added, tone measured. “So she didn’t strike at me.” He glanced at the woman’s slackened face again. “It’s not proof, but it’s reason enough.”

In truth, Ludwig didn’t know what she was. Innocent or monster, it didn’t matter yet. What mattered was the choice Necros offered him: save, or kill. He needed a justification. A reason to give the others. Even if that reason was little more than borrowed logic.

The Hunter gave a long, frustrated sigh and dropped into a crouch, rummaging through his side pouch with his remaining good arm. After a moment, he pulled out a small vial, the liquid inside shimmered faintly, like melted red rubies.

He looked at it. Then hesitated.

Ludwig raised a brow. “You have any more of those?”

“No,” the Hunter replied, his grip on the vial tightening. “Last one. I need it to fix my damn arm. Why?”

“Why else,” Ludwig said flatly, “save it. Might help lessen some of her wounds.”

The Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Charitable bastard,” he muttered, “easy to give away things when they’re not yours…” Yet, despite the protest, he didn’t hesitate much longer. With a grunt, he tossed the vial toward Ludwig, who caught it without effort.

And without a word, he returned to his work.

He moved slowly now, methodically. One stake after another. Twelve in all.

Each pull was followed by a low shimmer as the cursed runes died.

Each release brought a soft tremor from the woman’s form, less pain, more numbness, like a frozen limb being thawed by sunlight after years in the cold.

When the last stake was drawn, Ludwig sat back on his heels. The silence that followed was strange, still, yet less oppressive, as if something had loosened in the air itself. The woman’s chest rose faintly, steadily. Her skin, torn, scarred, riddled with holes where the stakes had been, began to knit itself together. Slowly, agonizingly, but visibly.

The collar, however, remained.

Ludwig touched it gently, inspecting the metal. There was no keyhole. No latch. No seam.

“That,” the Knight said from where he sat recovering, “was melted onto her neck.”

“Gruesome work…” Ludwig murmured.

The Knight gave a dry laugh, he wasn’t amused, “Your ancestors had a nasty hobby,” he said.

“I don’t condone most of their work ethics,” the Hunter replied, wincing as he adjusted his posture. “But they were good at hunting monsters.”

“Yeah,” Ludwig said darkly, “and from the looks of it, even better at torture, or making the said monsters.”

His fingers slid under the collar. Cold, unyielding steel pressed against the broken skin beneath.

A soft chime echoed in his mind.

[You’re being affected by the Containment Curse of the Collar of Restraint!]

[Your stamina will be reduced by 99%!]

And then,

[INNEFECTIVE! As an Undead with Unlimited Stamina you are immune to the curse of Restraint.]

Ludwig’s jaw tensed as a wave of deadening numbness rushed through him. It was cold, like plunging into glacial water, like being flayed from within, but for him, it translated only into dull resistance. Something to ignore.

He gripped the collar firmly.

The woman’s neck, fragile as wet reed, offered little structure. But it allowed enough space for him to work his hands beneath the loop of iron. With one deep breath that he didn’t need, he began to pull.

“What are you doing?” the Hunter asked, alarmed. “That thing is made of steel…”

Ludwig didn’t answer. Quietly, he muttered, “Limit Break.”

His body responded instantly. Muscles bulged beneath his coat, his frame expanding subtly as dark energy coursed through his undead form.

SNAP.

The collar split. Sparks burst from the fractured metal like a dying firework, scattering red and white across the room’s walls.

And then… silence.

The woman’s entire body slackened.

Her face, once a mask of agony and voided consciousness, now showed something else entirely: relief. Her breath came easier. Softer. Not quite sleep, but peace.

Although her face was blackened by burns and charred bits of skin, hair completely gone, ears which were severed at the base, and nose that seemed to only have the bone structure left, she looked like she was finally at ease.

Ludwig leaned in and pried her mouth open.

He regretted it instantly.

Her teeth, what remained of them, were broken, chipped to their roots. Shards of enamel glinted like porcelain shrapnel. Her molars were simply gone, replaced by darkened gaps and bloodied gums.

More signs of torture, or worse, the pain might have been just powerful enough that she literally grounded her teeth against each other until they were no more.

Ludwig sighed. The expression, on him, was strangely human.

He uncorked the vial the Hunter had given him and, carefully, poured the liquid between her lips.

No reaction. No change.

She remained limp, her body still caught between suffering and recovery.

The Hunter shook his head. “Lost cause, I tell ya. That was just like pouring water on sand. What a waste.”

Ludwig didn’t reply. His gaze flicked to the Knight.

“I don’t have any potions, Sir Davon,” the Knight said quickly, “we used them all back at the cave.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it,” Ludwig replied. “I’m asking if you’ve got any spare clothes. All I have is what I’m wearing right now.”

The Knight hesitated, then nodded. He unfastened one of his pauldrons, peeled off the tattered cape affixed beneath it, and handed it over.

Ludwig draped the fabric over the woman gently, shielding her body from the cold and giving her some well needed decency, though not that she needed any, most of her body was completely unrecognizable by the burns. Then, with a practiced ease, he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other beneath her back, and lifted her into a quiet, steady carry.

“What now?” the Hunter asked, voice uncertain.

“Now,” Ludwig said, “we leave.”

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