The doors of the manor blasted open inwardly, not merely swinging but ripping, old rusted hinges screaming as the massive twin panels slammed against the inner walls. A gust of cold air surged in, one that smelled of crushed bone, ancient dust, and the sweet rot of flowers that never bloomed under a real sun.
And through the jagged threshold ahead—
They saw it.
The manor’s once-forgotten gardens—what remained of them—had turned into a cathedral of the damned.
Hundreds of Reavers lined the shattered courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, each with head bowed, wings tucked in reverence. They were prostrating. Kneeling not in fear, but in awe. A macabre congregation. Their bodies twitched faintly, barely resisting the instinct to scream. They were not idle. They were waiting.
And at the center of their worship, a being stepped forward.
No, not stepped—moved, as if the world itself shifted beneath it to make way.
The Moonflayed King had arrived.
A towering mass of pale silver and ghost-white flesh. Twenty meters, perhaps more, of paradox incarnate. Its presence bent perspective. Size lost meaning. Each breath it took seemed to pull stars closer.
The wings unfurled slowly behind it—long, elegant in their curvature—but they bore no feathers. At a glance, they gave the illusion of divinity. But the closer one looked, the more they were revealed as leathered, sinew-bound extensions of something not born under any sun. Veins pulsed faintly under the surface, like the inner lining of something still growing.
Its head bore no face. Just a gaping sewn mouth, threads of black iron binding the lips shut in jagged loops. The eyes were gone—burnt away, eyelids crusted with blackened scarring, fused open yet empty. Where ears and a nose should have been, there was only smooth, unmarked skin. It had hair, long and flowing, almost regal—reaching past its lower back like the trailing edge of a burial shroud.
But it was the chest that paralyzed them all.
Where a ribcage should have enclosed something sacred, the Moonflayed King’s chest was opened wide like a grinning wound. The ribs had curled outward into a grotesque crown, spiraling like jagged roots from a dead tree. And within… a heart—or something that resembled one—beat slowly. It pulsed with a deep, ceramic resonance, like a stone bell struck underwater.
Every beat echoed across the air and into their bones.
Thunk.
It wasn’t sound—it was a signal. A command. A countdown.
Its arms, too many to count, hung low and dragged behind it like broken pillars. Each was thin, but stretched far too long, the fingers ending in nails that shimmered with unnatural sharpness—like relic blades still hungry for names.
And as it walked… the world warped.
Where its feet touched earth, flowers bloomed—roses, lilies, and strange twisted things with colors that had no names. For a brief, impossible second, it was beautiful.
But only for a second.
The moment the King lifted its foot to step again, the flowers twisted, withering mid-bloom, their petals reshaping into gnarled faces—faces locked in silent screams, wide-mouthed and hollow-eyed. Some familiar. Some foreign.
The flowers didn’t just die.
They remembered.
Timur was the first to break the silence.
“Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi…” he muttered, voice climbing with each repetition, like a man realizing he had just woken into a dream that wasn’t his own. “I’m just a B-class adventurer, man… this shit is way over my paygrade.”
Beside him, Melisande’s fingers were clenched so tightly around her staff that the wood creaked. Her lips were pale. Her holy sigil dimmed to a whisper of light.
“None of my… none of my holy magic is working,” she said in a soft breath. “We literally cannot afford injury.” She turned to Ludwig, eyes wide. “Think about this, Davon. If we try and fight… we’ll all die.”
Ludwig didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed forward, but his thoughts moved far deeper than the rest could see.
He took one glance at Robin, whose clenched jaw and twitching fingers betrayed the panic he was trying to smother. Gorak wasn’t much better. The massive barbarian held his axe like it was his last anchor to reality, his knuckles white as bone, his body tight with the kind of tension born only in the presence of death.
Ludwig exhaled slowly.
[Warning! You’re in a hostile environment!]
[Your Death Point has been updated!]
[You are facing an enemy that you cannot defeat!]
***
Sudden Quest!
Survive the Moon Flayed King
Quest Difficulty: ???
Quest Reward: Survival
[Note: The Moonflayed King is serving the Wrathful Death. It’s unable to fully anchor itself in the land of Bastos due to the presence of the Fragmented Wrath Core. This is merely temporary.]
You must obtain the final Fragmented Wrath Core and combine all four of them.
By sacrificing them to Necros, you’ll be able to prevent the full descent of the Moonflayed King.
If the Moonflayed King descends, your Death Point will be updated to the moment it fully materializes.
You have 15 minutes to retrieve and offer the Wrath Core to Necros.
***
Ludwig’s mind sharpened like a blade drawn against wet stone.
The implications were clear. The moment this… this thing fully descended, he would die. And not just once. Over and over.
Trapped in a loop.
Death. Revival. Death again.
Until there was nothing left of him. No souls to come back with.
He didn’t have the luxury of panic.
He had 15 minutes.
He had to find the last Fragment.
Now.
He turned his gaze back to the King.
[Inspect], Ludwig muttered mentally, eyes focusing on the abomination walking through a world that was beginning to bleed beneath it.
***
[Inspect]
Name: The Moonflayed King
Designation: Unique Aberration
Level: ???
Tier: [Epic Unique]
Danger Rating: ☠☠☠☠☠
HP: ∞ / ∞ (Variable – Bound to the Moon Cycle)
Affiliation: The Red Moon / The Wrathful Death
{Status Effects}:
• [Fragmented Descent] (Temporary): Cannot fully manifest while fragments of the Wrath Core remain unreclaimed. Projection tethered to the Eye of the Moon. All direct interactions limited. –
• [Reality Shear]: Warps spatial perception. Projectiles and abilities may misfire. Movement and time distortion within a 60m radius.
• [Conceptual Dissonance]: Cannot be classified as “living,” “undead,” or “construct.” Abilities targeting such fail.
• [Marrow Echo]: Sound doesn’t reach ears. It resonates through bone.
• [Phasing Moon]: Abilities shift dynamically based on the Moon’s phase. The Red Moon changes form over time. Descent will unlock its final phase.
Abilities:
• [Crown of Flensing Moons]: Summons phantom lunar halos that orbit him. Each halo counts as an independent entity and lashes out at enemies within range. Halos change effects depending on the Moon Phase.
• [Anointed By Hunger and Rage]: The King siphons health, stamina, and mana from enemies that look directly at him. Duration and rate scale with Fear. [Ineffective]
• [Throne of the Marrow Deep]: Passive. Those within line of sight begin to lose physical cohesion over time. Reduces Defense and Maximum HP every 30 seconds while within presence.
• [Procession of the Flayed]: – Periodically summons Flayed Heralds, lesser echoes of himself, stitched from the memories of the dead. Each Herald carries a random former boss’s trait.
• [Final Eclipse: The Eye Unblinks]:
Ultimate ability. Upon reaching Descent Threshold, The Eye of the Moon will Open. A field-wide event triggers, sealing all escape methods, freezing time for all except the King, and initiating certain death on all targets that have been perceived by the moon.
LORE:
“The King was once a godling who dared peer through the Eye of the Moon. What looked back flayed not just his body, but the concept of his existence. Now he lingers between dimensions, listening for the soft footsteps of those brave or foolish enough to call his name aloud. His voice is not heard in ears, but in marrow. He does not walk—but reality bends to bring him closer.”
***
Ludwig lowered the system window and tightened his grip on Oathcarver.
“The thing is…” he began, his voice calm, almost eerily so, “I’m not saying that you should run because you can. The place is already fully locked down by these things. You may run. You may hide.” He tapped the tip of his sword into the floor—wood split beneath the weight.
“But you’ll still be caught.”
He stepped forward, each movement silent, smooth.
Outside, the King stopped.
Just beyond the shattered gates, surrounded by kneeling Reavers, it halted. Its towering body tilted forward ever so slightly.
Then—one finger lifted. Slowly.
And pointed.
A silent command.
A single directive.
The Reavers moved.
Not all. Just a few.
They rose from their prostrated positions with perfect, mechanical synchronicity. Two of them howled, their claws flashing in the moonlight, and without a word, they lunged toward the manor’s gaping door.
“Ready up!” Ludwig barked. “Incoming!”
One Reaver leapt directly at him, claws wide, mouth unhinged.
The other vaulted over, wings outstretched, heading straight for the group inside.
The Reaver lunged fast, faster than most beasts twice its size should be capable of. Its claws shimmered in the crimson moonlight, distorting around the edges like glass cracking in water.
But Ludwig didn’t move.
He stood still as the Reaver reached him—until the last fraction of a heartbeat.
Then, with a single, brutal motion, he twisted his body and brought Oathcarver upward in a rising arc.
The sword didn’t hum.
It roared.
The sheer weight and length of the weapon turned the swing into a wall of steel. It didn’t slice—it collapsed into the Reaver with the force of a falling bell tower. The creature’s scream died mid-throat as its torso shattered on contact, ribcage imploding inward. It barely had time to register pain before it was thrown backwards, spinning in the air like a puppet with its strings cut.
Its body hit the manor’s outer wall—and kept going, cracking through stone and vanishing into the rubble.
Ludwig exhaled through his nose, then clicked his tongue, “Damn, didn’t die in one hit…” he then lowered Oathcarver to his side. The blade thudded into the wood with a deep, groaning creak, and the floor cracked beneath his feet.
Behind him, the second Reaver had already closed the distance to the others.
“Melisande!” Timur barked, stepping forward, blades ready.
But he wouldn’t need to.
Oathcarver was already lifting again.
And Ludwig turned with it.