Ludwig’s undead body stood trembling with strain amidst a sea of twitching corpses, his Durandal Shard slick with layers of coagulated black ichor that dripped steadily onto the blood-soaked earth. Every inch of his decaying flesh bore the marks of the endless battle – deep gashes that oozed dark sludge, patches of missing skin revealing glimpses of bleached bone beneath, and the persistent, gnawing ache of overused muscles that refused to heal properly. His tattered robes clung to his frame like a second skin, soaked through with a mixture of his own blackened lifeblood and the foul fluids of his enemies.
Before him, the final Werebat crouched low, its grotesque form silhouetted against the ever-present crimson moon that hung motionless in the starless sky.
[Werebats kills needed to finish the Quest: 9/10]
“One last,” Ludwig rasped through cracked lips, his voice raw from hours of shouted battle cries and labored breathing. His fingers, stripped of flesh in places from the constant friction of combat, tightened around the Durandal Shard’s worn leather grip. The familiar weight of the weapon felt different now – not just a tool of destruction, but an extension of his very being, its balance and heft as natural to him as his own limbs.
The revelations of the past night burned in Ludwig’s mind like brands:
The Bastos March existed in an eternal, unchanging night. Though the moon’s slow transformation from slender crescent to bloated gibbous proved time’s passage, the sun never came to banish the crimson gloom. The land seemed frozen in this perpetual midnight, trapped beneath some ancient curse or powerful enchantment that defied natural laws.
More importantly, the Knight King’s brutal trial had beaten a fundamental truth into Ludwig’s decaying flesh: the Tyrant Blade technique wasn’t about flashy skills or complicated maneuvers. After exhausting himself with [Vengeance]’s red aura, [Galvanize]’s blue electricity, and [Limit Break]’s explosive power – only to watch his enhanced [Summersault Slam] fail to kill a single Werebat – it had been a simple, frustrated downward chop that finally revealed the path. That perfect moment when his entire being – muscles, bones, weapon and will – had aligned into a single devastating motion, cleaving a Werebat cleanly from collarbone to hip with nothing but pure, refined technique.
The style’s deceptive simplicity was its greatest challenge. No wasted movement. No unnecessary flourishes. Every motion had to be economical. Every strike had to be fatal. Anything less was failure.
The last Werebat tensed before him, its clawed fingers digging trenches in the soft earth as it prepared to lunge. Ludwig waited, his undead body thrumming with anticipation despite its exhaustion. When the creature finally sprang, time seemed to distort – the world narrowing to just the arc of those filthy claws and the space they needed to traverse.
Ludwig’s body moved without conscious thought, sidestepping with practiced precision. He felt the rush of displaced air as deadly claws whistled past his face, close enough to stir the matted strands of hair clinging to his sweat-slick forehead. In the same fluid motion, he twisted his grip on the Durandal Shard, feeling every tendon and ligament in his undead frame coil like steel springs. His boot slammed down into the churned earth, finding perfect purchase as he channeled his entire being into the upward swing.
The blade moved with terrible perfection – a flawless marriage of leverage, momentum, and murderous intent. Not a skill. Not magic. Simply the purest expression of the Tyrant Blade’s brutal philosophy.
[Execution!]
[You have successfully completed the Quest: Mentor]
[Your Tyrant Blade Technique proficiency has increased]
[Your Tyrant Blade Technique evolved from Beginner to Amateur]
[The ban on [Trace] has been removed]
[The Knight King of Tibari is slightly satisfied with your progress]
“You’re no longer trash,” the Knight King’s voice echoed in Ludwig’s skull, the words dripping with reluctant approval. The spectral warrior’s tone carried the grudging respect of a master watching his worst student finally grasp the basics. “Now, you’re useful trash.”
Ludwig wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing black blood and ichor over his already filthy features. The gesture did little to clean him, merely redistributing the grime. He lacked the energy to determine whether the Knight King’s words constituted genuine praise or simply a lesser form of insult. “Still,” he panted, “I didn’t realize the technique applied to every movement.”
The Knight King’s tiny armored form materialized fully, hovering at eye level despite his diminutive size. His spectral armor gleamed with an otherworldly light as he crossed his arms. “That is the Tyrant Blade’s essence,” he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “No feints. No wasted motion. Only perfect, lethal efficiency.” The ghostly warrior’s helmet tilted slightly. “Against beasts, it is invincible. Against a true swordmaster?” He snorted, the sound like steel scraping stone. “At your current level, you’d be disarmed and disemboweled before your blade cleared its scabbard.”
Thomas’s glowing form flickered into existence between them, his usual blue light tinged with anxious yellow streaks. “Wait – hunted? Suspected?” The spirit’s voice rose in pitch. “What’s this about murder?”
Ludwig sighed, the sound rattling through his damaged ribcage as he sheathed his weapon with a tired scrape of metal. “The Holy Order came for Master Van Dijk,” he explained, his voice flat with exhaustion. “Probably Sebas and Evan’s doing.” A humorless chuckle escaped his cracked lips. “Then Evan chased me right to Professor Vastion’s corpse.” He spread his arms wide, indicating his battered, blood-soaked form. “You think they won’t pin it on me? I’m an undead – all they need to do is reveal that, and my head will decorate the imperial gate once I’m caught.”
Thomas pulsed erratically, his glow shifting through worried hues. “But you’ve been away during most of the killings! And Master Van Dijk vouched for you before—”
“Which means nothing now that he’s gone,” Ludwig interrupted, waving a mangled hand. His glowing blue eyes, the only clean things left on his ruined face, locked onto the Knight King. “But you said I don’t need another style. Why?”
The spectral warrior straightened, his diminutive form suddenly radiating authority. “The Tyrant Blade’s true power lies in complete mastery,” he declared, his voice taking on an almost reverent tone. “At your current level, you’re barely scratching its surface.” The ghostly helmet tilted meaningfully. “Reach intermediate, then advanced…” He paused, and when he continued, his words carried the weight of prophecy. “At Master level, no living swordsman could stand against you.” Then, with rare humility: “Though even I could only maintain that state for minutes at my peak.”
Ludwig’s exhaustion momentarily forgotten, he leaned forward, his ruined face alight with fascination.
“You look interested,” the Knight King said.
“Of course, the way you make this sound, feels like some overpowered broken technique.
“The only broken thing is you,” the Knight King said as he pointed at Ludwig’s ribs.
“Ah, wrong analogy, what I mean, it sounds really powerful.”
“And it is, not sound, but it is. The Tyrant Blade would slay all beasts and man itself once one is strong enough… though speaking of it is pointless, would you like to see it with your eyes? Though it is for but a few moments…”
“I would love to,” Ludwig said.
The Knight King studied him for a long, silent moment before giving a single nod. His tiny form floated closer, one gauntleted hand rising with deliberate slowness. “Close your eyes,” he commanded, his voice suddenly ancient and heavy with memory.