Thomas’s spectral form shimmered to life before him, the familiar pale-golden glow humming softly like a candle flame caught in hesitation.
“You’re treating them rather nicely,” Thomas said, his tone as dry as ever.
Ludwig let out a tired breath—not a sigh, exactly. More like a release of weight he couldn’t put down.
“I have to,” he replied. “I might need them later.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like your usual pragmatism. What’s eating at you?”
Ludwig didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands—his undead fingers flexing slowly. They still held strength. Still moved with purpose. But the pressure of limitation sat on his shoulders like a chain.
“I’ve put myself in a tight spot,” he finally said. “I can’t use my weapon. I can’t use my magic. Against the Reavers, it’s all useless.”
“Not all magic,” Thomas said, floating closer. “What about Van Dijk’s loot? Anything useful in there?”
Ludwig shook his head. “Books. Scrolls. Ritual formulas. Things that need time to study. Time we don’t have. The Reavers are hunting. And the last Beast Lord won’t last forever.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded.
“I might have to use Durandal.”
Thomas drifted in silence for a moment. It was quite the unique weapon after all and using it meant being seen.
But before Thomas could speak, another voice cut through the gloom. Strong. Measured. Regal.
“I can help you.”
Ludwig blinked.
The air around him thickened like a fog rolling in on silent hooves. The materialization was sudden and rapid as black smoke merged to create the small knightly figure.
The Knight King.
His current air was different, unlike before, though he always carried himself with seriousness, this time it felt more grave.
“You’ve been quiet,” Ludwig said, voice cautious but curious. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
The Knight King didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room like he belonged in it—like the manor had once been his.
“I can assist you in your small predicament, I’ll offer you my sword,” he said at last, “but under one condition.” The words hung in the air.
Ludwig narrowed his eyes. “Which is?”
The knight king stalled for a moment, as if weighing his words before he uttered;
“You are not to use the Souls you’ve gathered to increase your level—until you reach intermediate mastery of the Tyrant Blade technique.”
The silence after that was deep and immediate. Even Thomas floated back slightly, the glow of his body flickering like a candle hit by sudden wind.
Ludwig leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once against his thigh. “That’s a steep request. Why?”
The Knight King didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re gaining unearned power.”
Ludwig’s eyes sharpened. “I earned that power. I killed for it. Bled for it.”
“You misunderstand,” the Knight King said. “The problem is not the power. It’s how quickly you’re growing. Your body hasn’t caught up. Nor has your instinct. You don’t even know your limits because you haven’t reached them—you’ve skipped over them.”
He stepped closer, the echo of his words reverberating against walls that felt like they would crumble from their weight.
“You could spend your Souls. Level up. Gain more spells. More strength. You’d kill the Reavers, yes. You’d crush them. But you’d gain nothing but numbers. And one day—when you face something that numbers can’t defeat—what then?”
Ludwig’s mind flashed unbidden to the Gluttonous Death. To that thing’s formlessness, its speed, its absolute rejection of the laws of battle.
Power meant nothing if you couldn’t land a single blow.
“…Fine,” Ludwig said after a pause. “I’ll listen.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the air shifted.
A pulse of energy surged through the room—subtle, cold, binding.
A system message followed:
[Necros’s Pact Formed!]
Your Soul-dropped items are sealed. Any Soul items you receive from now on will be locked.
In return, their quality increases by one tier.
You have pledged to learn from your master truthfully.
Soul Level-ups will unlock after attaining Intermediate Tyrant Blade Technique.
“A warrior’s word,” the Knight King said, “is heavier than a mountain.”
He raised one hand, and the Malvolume Codex—long dormant—suddenly fluttered free from Ludwig’s belt. Its pages turned on their own, flipping to the third page . There, drawn in fine ink and faded silver, was the image of a corpse clad in ancient royal armor. Across his lap rested a sword.
The ink vanished from the page.
And something fell.
A metallic crash shook the floorboards as the weapon manifested—no glowing light, no special effects. Just raw, brutal weight.
It landed so hard it cracked the floor beneath, the rotten wood giving way under its sheer mass. Dust rose in a choking cloud.
Ludwig stared.
It wasn’t a sword—it was a slab of metal shaped like one. The blade itself was nearly the length of a grown man. Its width could rival a tower shield. Chipped edges. Scarred steel. The hilt alone was the length of an axe handle.
It wasn’t made to cut.
It was made to destroy.
Ludwig approached slowly and reached for the hilt. The moment his fingers touched the grip, he felt it.
Weight. Pressure. And an Untold Story.
He grunted slightly, muscles tensing beneath his undead skin. Even with his strength, it was far heavier than the Shard of Durandal. Almost double.
“This is…” he muttered, testing the lift with both hands, “…easily over a hundred kilograms.”
“Yours was forged in the depths of a black hole,” the Knight King said with pride. “Your Durandal, even as a fragment, might surpass it in purity. But mine… was forged in the blood of innumerable enemies.”
Ludwig looked down at the massive weapon. “This is the same one you used against the Gluttonous Death, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Ludwig’s undead muscles groaned as he raised it higher, finding his center of gravity and adjusting his stance. The weapon was heavy—not just in weight, but in intent.
“I’ll need time,” he said quietly, “to unlock its secrets.”
“Then begin,” the Knight King replied. “Because time… is the one thing you don’t have.”