The second reaver had already made it halfway toward the group, Ludwig was readying up to pounce on it when he saw the expressions of the party, they didn’t look like amatures so Ludwig only watched.
Timur jumped up, twin blades crossing ahead of him in a gleam of silver arcs. He was short of frame, built closer to a street brawler than a battlefield veteran—but that meant nothing when he was in motion. His stature was the last thing his enemies remembered.
He let out a howl—not bestial, not holy, but something entirely his own, a war-cry of grit and lived violence—and met the Reaver mid-air.
Claws slammed into steel.
The impact was thunderous. Sparks burst from the clash in a staccato of gold and red, illuminating the gory ruin behind them. A deafening ring echoed across the manor as both combatants were flung backward from the force of it, boots carving grooves into blood-wet stone and wood. Neither yielded.
The Reaver’s claws twitched. Timur’s blades smoked.
And then Robin moved.
A ghost’s breath couldn’t match his speed. One second the rogue stood in the debris-strewn corner of the room, the next he was streaking forward, little more than a blur of black cloth and intent.
The Reaver had barely steadied itself when it saw him coming.
It reacted violently—too violently—lashing out with a massive claw in a downward strike, sharp enough to shear a man in two. It did just that.
Robin split.
But only in image.
A flicker of distortion revealed the truth—an afterimage, split into thirds by a blow that had never landed. The real Robin had already disappeared—air where flesh should have been.
Above.
From above came steel.
He descended like a shadow given gravity, both daggers gleaming, their edges catching the crimson gleam of the corrupted moonlight bleeding through shattered windows. He came down on the Reaver’s back, perfectly between the wings—right at the base of the spine.
The daggers plunged deep.
A visceral sound—half squelch, half crack—punched through the stillness, and the Reaver convulsed violently. Its wings snapped open in agony, spasming uncontrollably, scraping the walls. Its howl—sharp, bone-rattling—ripped through the manor like a sonic curse.
It bucked, thrashing to throw the rogue free.
But Robin had already leapt away.
Boots hit the floor with a sharp thud, and his leg spun low, sweeping hard.
The Reaver didn’t expect it. Off-balance, wounded, distracted—it crumpled, crashing down with a growl of surprise.
Then came thunder.
Gorak was no blur, no whisper of death. He was the avalanche.
His approach rattled the floorboards. Every step left small cracks beneath his boots as he came roaring in, massive axe hoisted sideways, the blade trailing sparks as it carved the air.
Robin’s sweep had done the work. The Reaver was down.
And Gorak brought the axe down in a punishing arc.
Steel met resistance—not flesh, but claw.
The Reaver, even grounded and bleeding, was no fool. It caught the axe between its claws, halting it in mid-air. The two were frozen, deadlocked—Gorak snarling through gritted teeth, muscles bulging as he pushed; the Reaver screeching, twitching, eyes wide and defiant.
The axe groaned. Its wooden handle creaked dangerously.
The stalemate held.
But Robin wasn’t done.
He darted forward again, blades reversed. With a twist of his body and a flash of movement, he drove a dagger into the Reaver’s neck from the side—deep and true. Blood erupted. A gurgling roar.
The pain broke the Reaver’s rhythm.
And that was all Gorak needed.
The axe came down with finality.
Steel met bone and kept going. The weapon bit deep into the Reaver’s chest, crashing through its visible ribcage in a brutal crunch. A gout of black ichor burst from the wound as the monster convulsed.
Timur didn’t hesitate.
He leapt from behind, springboarding off Gorak’s shoulder, both swords crossed in front of him like twin guillotines.
He landed hard, bringing them down across the Reaver’s neck in a perfect scissor-slice.
The head popped free in one clean motion.
It rolled across the floor in uneven bounces, the face still contorted in mid-howl. A grim mask of failure.
Ludwig, standing nearby, observed in silence.
He had expected to step in. Had already begun shifting his stance to intervene.
But apparently, there was no need.
He smiled faintly. A sharp, almost imperceptible curve of the lips. Then turned—slowly—toward the open doors of the manor, where the true threat waited.
Where the Reavers still watched.
There were dozens more—no, hundreds. Row upon row. Wings furled. Claws idle. Eyes glowing.
Watching.
Waiting.
Fighting that many? Impossible. Not in fifteen minutes. Not even in hours.
Even if he was at full strength, even if time paused, even if he was unopposed by fate or fear—
It wouldn’t be enough.
He would not only have to kill, but search—locate the final fragment, rip it from whatever entity held it, and offer it to Necros—all while avoiding that thing outside. The walking apocalypse.
It wasn’t a choice.
It was a noose.
“Guys,” Ludwig said, softly, still facing forward. His voice was calm. Steady. Deadly in its composure.
“I don’t like that look on your face, Sir Davon,” Timur muttered, wiping black ichor from his cheek as he stepped down from the Reaver’s corpse.
“Yeah,” Ludwig replied, “I’ll have to go in alone. I trust that you guys will stay safe.”
“Nah,” Timur said, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t think we can…”
“That’s if you stay here,” Ludwig interrupted, not turning. He lifted a hand and pointed toward the far wall—toward a jagged breach, a hole just wide enough for a single man to pass.
“What’s that?” Timur asked.
“That’s a dungeon,” Ludwig said. “Leads deeper into the ground. Old tunnels. It’s infested with Mutated Grey Rats. Filthy things. But they don’t bite nearly as hard as Reavers. You’ll be fine.”
Robin, still breathing heavily, stepped forward. “So what are you asking?”
“Go in. Hide. Hold the line. If anything follows, make them earn every step,” Ludwig said. His tone never changed.
“What about you?” Gorak asked, tightening his grip on the axe haft.
“I have something to do out there.”
“That’s not a good enough reason,” Timur said. “You’d be useful down there. With that big thing you swing? We need the wall.”
“I can’t,” Ludwig said again, more firmly this time. He reached up and hoisted Oathcarver again, placing the massive blade across his shoulder like a burden he’d been born with. “I can’t swing this in tight quarters. I’d be dead weight. Worse—I’d slow you down.”
He turned, just slightly, eyes gleaming violet-blue beneath the shadow of the shattered doorway.
“And besides,” he added, “there’s something keeping that… giant… from fully entering our world. He isn’t whole. Not yet.”
“I noticed,” Robin said, voice low. “But he’s becoming more solid. Every second, he’s… more here.”
“Yes,” Ludwig nodded. “And the last fragment—it’s the key. It’s somewhere out there. The Reavers have it.”
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating pause.
“That’s foolish,” Melisande said. “Stay with us. We’ll survive longer together.”
Ludwig looked at her.
He didn’t smile this time.
“Longer, maybe, but that’s all, survive longer, eventually we’ll fall if it descends…Remember,” he said, “You’re a party. A group. You came here together. You leave together. No one asked you to fight this with me. So don’t stop me.”
Timur reached out and placed a firm hand on Melisande’s shoulder.
“Davon… I don’t know who you are. But I like you,” he said. “You’ve done right by us. We’ll remember this, if fate permits another meeting.” He turned and started walking toward the hole. “Godspeed, kid.”
Melisande lingered. Lips parted. Something unsaid caught behind her teeth.
Robin gave her a look. Shook his head. “Don’t make it harder.”
Even Gorak didn’t argue. He met Ludwig’s gaze once. Then followed the others into the breach.
And Ludwig was alone.
He exhaled.
Quiet.
Composed.
And then—he moved.
“Alright,” he said softly, a whisper to no one but himself. “Time to get serious.”
“[Vengeance],” he murmured.
A sick red aura burst out from him—thick, violent, pulsing with an undercurrent of raw hatred.
“[Galvanize],” he added.
Another aura followed—sharp, blue, crystalline. It clashed with the red. They didn’t cancel.
They merged.
Purple crackled across his form like lightning over storm-lit seas.
“[Limit Break],” he whispered.
His robes groaned.
His muscles swelled, bulked, thickened. His form warped within the armor. But the Manticore leather flexed and held, expanding to match the new weight.
He crouched.
Left hand gripping the floor.
Right hand holding Oathcarver, raised high.
Then—
Like a coil snapping—
He vanished forward.
Like death unshackled.
And the others, far behind, could only pray.
But what prayer could reach a man who is already dead?
***
Ludwig’s feet were a blur as he dove right into the fray, he didn’t stop nor halt nor took a glance at the Moonflayed King.
The first of the unfortunate Moon Reavers jumped his way in an attempt to halt Ludwig, but with a single arm, Ludwig swung from over his shoulder, to the ground in a sideway arc.
The Reaver wasn’t split in half, but was struck with the force of a fright train, sending it hurling and crumpled down several dozen meters away in a mangle of broken bones and shuddering spasming muscles.
[-65,447! Hp]
[You applied [Stun] [Laceration], [Bone Crush], [Mutilation], [Profuse Bleeding], [Rupture] on Moon Reaver ]
Ludwig ignored the slew of notifications as more Moon Reavers came toward him. He didn’t try to fight, not this close to the Moon Flayed King, so he immediately crouched down, charging his thighs like a loaded Spring and jumped up in [Steadfast Leap] his target was the farthest of the Reavers of the group, to which Ludwig’s entire body surged several dozen meters in the air, he immediately mixed [Summersault Slam] into his leap, which spun his body once, twice, and thrice, achieving the maximum possible damage limit for [Summersault Slam] and then with a vicious roar, the weapon struck true, cleaving the Moon Reaver.
No, cleaving was wrong, more like crushed the creature as would a giant sledgehammer do to a small nail.
The creature’s entire body was splattered onto the ground where bits and pieces flew everywhere along with a massive crater in the ground that erupted in explosive rattles and spiderweb cracks, destabilizing any and all Moon Reavers nearby.
Ludwig didn’t wait as he flung his left arm forward, springing out the Soul Shackles toward a nearby tree, and with a tug, he launched himself forward into the air and away from the manor.
In that moment, the Moon Flayed King, which only stared turned toward Ludwig, then pointed his hand.
The reavers which were prostrating all stood up, all hundred and some of them and then howled a single chorus roar of obedience and bloodlust.
The Reavers chased, and Ludwig was the prey.