The Reavers followed Ludwig with a zeal that surpassed mere instinct. It was not hunger. It was not rage. It was something else entirely. Something more primal, more orchestrated. A puppeted obsession. They tore through the terrain of the Bastos March in erratic patterns—some running upright on two legs, others dropping low to sprint on all fours, their claws raking the blackened soil. Some even soared briefly above the tree line, their twisted wings catching moonlight like diseased banners in the night.
And yet, Ludwig was faster.
Chains whipped forward like lashing serpents, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, Ludwig propelled himself ahead with brutal speed, using the force to swing himself tree to tree, outpacing the tide behind him. The air screamed around him, and the world became a blur of twisted trees, shattered stone, and crimson sky.
His gaze remained fixed to the horizon, not on his pursuers, but on a distant blotch in the eastern quarter of the Marquisette—a wide, sprawling mire. Once, perhaps, it had been beautiful. A place of still waters and sunlight reflections. A lake where the people of Bastos may have laughed under lanterns, courted under willow trees, bathed under moonlight seven centuries ago.
Now?
It was rot, death, and decay. Where nothing lived, nor any living should remain.
A festering wound of the land. The perfect grave. nothing more than the breeding ground of monsters.
And something there called to him.
Two Reavers surged forward, wings tucked as they dove through the trees toward him, fangs bared. Ludwig twisted midair, caught a low-hanging branch with his chain, and yanked himself downward just as the claws passed inches from his skull. Wind howled around his ears as gravity claimed him.
But he was ready.
Mid-fall, his hand extended, and he muttered, “Fireball.”
The orb conjured at his palm immediately rocketed toward the sky-bound Reavers. They didn’t bother to dodge. Their curse rendered them immune to most projectiles.
Which was fine. Ludwig wasn’t aiming to do direct damage anyway.
But this Spell was different, since it was a mix of two spells at once.
The orb collided mid-air, and then—
Boom.
The air exploded, not from the Fireball itself, but from the detonation within it. Hidden inside the fireball’s shell, an [Explosive Mine] had been cradled—timed perfectly to erupt just as the Reavers coasted into range.
If the fireball had made direct contact with the Reaver, it would have either fizzed out, or simply passed through it. But the explosion that occurred near the Reavers this time along with the flaming expansion was enough to change things.
The shockwave was a blast of scorched air and concussive force.
[–6,880]
Ludwig saw the damage tag as he twisted in midair, landing hard, but with practiced grace. His boots slammed into the muck-dried ground, and without pause, he sprinted forward.
Having already spotted the general direction of the march within the march, he hurried forward.
Quagmire.
A trio of snarling shapes broke through the underbrush—Hell Hounds, their backs ablaze, flesh steaming, eyes glowing with unnatural fire. They charged him, claws spraying dirt, mouths frothing.
Ludwig narrowed his eyes. Then bent low. Sometimes one should take opportunities even in the face of danger, and he was going to take advantage of them and make distance, Ludwig lurched his body forward.
[Summersault Slam] into [Steadfast Leap]— which combined into [Surging Slam] his body became a bolt of force, a propelling force shot him forward several dozen meters away from where he stood and right toward the incoming Hell Hounds. His weapon trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. And then he slammed downward.
The unfortunate creature never saw the incoming sword as it came down with the power of a vengeful god right on its head.
It never had the chance to even yelp.
Its body cratered instantly beneath him, crushed flat under the unforgiving weight of Oathcarver. Only its limbs remained visible, twitching slightly, like a flattened insect beneath a boot.
[You have Slain a Lesser Hell Hound]
He didn’t wait. The motion continued. Tightening his wrist on the weapon’s handle, then ripped it out of the ground.
A twist of his waist. A pivot.
Oathcarver dragged in a brutal arc, crushing two more beasts mid-lunge, their bones snapping like brittle branches under the blade’s mass. Ichor burst from their skulls.
And just as fast as it started, the blade vanished—Ludwig called it back into his inventory.
He drew Durandal’s Shard instead. Oathcarver was a brutal killing tool, but it was still heavier than Durandal which could control its own weight.
He leaned forward, almost scraping the ground with his face, and surged forward, his undead body a blur of momentum and muted breath.
Behind him, the Reavers roared as Ludwig gained so much distance, so they could only rush after him in anger.
His legs began to falter—the edge of [Limit Breaker] waning. He felt it in his joints, the ache crawling back in.
“Again,” he grunted, and [Limit Breaker] surged once more. His muscles reinflated, breath steadied. A fresh burst of speed launched him forward like a cannon shot.
But time—time was not on his side.
“LUDWIG!” Thomas’s voice rang from his side, flickering like a spark of mana beside him.
“What, man?!” Ludwig snapped without looking, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
“What the hell are you even doing?!” Thomas demanded. “You’re running with a death clock ticking and a damn army behind you into god only knows where!”
“I’m not aimlessly running, I’m Looking for the shard,” Ludwig replied sharply. “We’ve got fifteen minutes—no, twelve now.” His eyes flicked briefly to the corner of his vision. The timer was bleeding seconds like an open wound.
“What makes you think it’s here?! Wouldn’t it be with the Flayed King?!” Thomas barked.
“No. Think, Thomas,” Ludwig said. “The Drowned Lord died. That’s what triggered the descent. The King didn’t have the fragment beforehand. And the Reavers next to the manor were there before the Drowned Lord died. The Fragment should still be near the corpse of the Drowned Lord.”
He burst through the last curtain of trees, boots slamming into mud, and came to a sudden halt.
Before him lay the marsh—a wide, sunken basin of stagnant filth and rotting reeds. The scent was foul. The very air felt thick with disease. Bubbling pools of unknown sludge dotted the area. And at its center—
A corpse.
Not just any corpse.
A massive, frog-like humanoid, bloated to the size of a small house. Its skin was grey-blue, stretched and split in several places. It had no eyes, no lips, no grace. Just a grotesque mockery of life. The Drowned Lord.
And around it… Reavers.
At least a dozen of them. Wading knee-deep in the muck. Circling. Feeding. Waiting.
Ludwig clenched his teeth.
“I guess you’re right,” Thomas said, hovering beside him now, eyes narrowed. “I can see it.”
“Wait—you can?” Ludwig asked, blinking.
“Yeah, right there. In the stomach of that one,” Thomas pointed. “Third from the left. Big guy with the hooked wings.”
Ludwig stared, squinting, but couldn’t quite make it out.
“I don’t know how you did that,” he muttered, “but that makes this a hell of a lot easier.”
He stepped forward.
The moment his boot touched the edge of the quagmire, he sank halfway to the ankle.
“…Shit,” Ludwig cursed.
The terrain was sludge. Every movement would be slow. Burdensome. And the Reavers were already starting to notice.
Their heads snapped toward him.
They began trudging closer.
And behind him?
The chase.
The sound of Reavers crashing through the forest behind him returned, louder, angrier, closer.
“We’re running out of time,” Thomas hissed.
“Can’t go in. Not like this,” Ludwig said.
“Summersault Slam?” Thomas offered.
“In mud? I’d sink like an anchor in mud,” Ludwig replied. But then his gaze flicked upward. Toward the jagged spire of stone protruding from the mire’s center—jutting from near the Drowned Lord’s body.
He smiled.
“I have an idea.”
He crouched.
[Steadfast Leap] activated.
The world blurred again.
He rocketed forward in a single bound, smashing down on top of the stone boulder with so much force that it fractured beneath him, cracking like a struck drum.
All the Reavers turned. All of them screamed. Fluttering their wings and brandishing their claws, showing their preparedness for another feast.
But for some reason, they didn’t take to the air. Ludwig was thankful for that fact, otherwise things would have been much, much more messed up.
‘Good.’ He muttered.
Ludwig stood atop the spire, weapon drawn, eyes narrowed. He flicked Durandal’s shard into scythe-form and drove its haft into the end of his Soul Shackles. With his weapon now complete, he tugged on the chain’s end to make sure of its sturdiness.
And with a grunt, he hurled the weapon—
A silver arc of retribution streaked toward the muck-drenched beast.
“Now,” he said, gaze fixed on the Reaver Thomas had pointed at. “Mud fishing.”
