From the point where Ludwig’s hand pressed into rotting flesh, a surge of black and violet energy erupted outward—unseen wind without sound, a force felt more than heard. It rippled like lightning under skin, sigils flaring to life in quick succession across the Drowned Lord’s bloated belly and chest. They pulsed once, twice—then locked into a steady glow, embedding themselves like cursed tattoos beneath the skin.
The air above the corpse vibrated as necrotic essence bled into it, the very swamp around them recoiling from the unnatural magic. Even the approaching Reavers hesitated, a few of them letting out uncertain, twitching growls, their instincts resisting whatever dark ritual was now unfolding before them.
Ludwig felt the strain in his mind, a pressure behind the eyes—a test of will as the spell linked him to the ancient cadaver.
[Your current Charisma level is barely enough to fully control [Drowned Lord – Level 95].]
[Your Wisdom Level is too low to bring back the [Drowned Lord] in a more perfect form.]
[Your understanding of Necromancy is lacking. Current possible Revival option for [Drowned Lord]: [Zombie Drowned Lord]]
[Due to your allegiance to Deus Necros, the Revival Option for the Drowned Lord has been eased. The quality has been slightly increased.]
[You have successfully revived: Ghoulish Drowned Lord.]
{Congratulations. You have summoned your first {Ghoul}-type Undead.}
{Your Necromancy proficiency has slightly improved. You are now able to summon Ghouls from corpses that were once carnivorous.}
The Link formed, and Ludwi now felt closer to controlling and commanding what should have once been an enemy.
Ludwig didn’t even blink as the notifications fired across his vision—he felt the change happening beneath him.
The corpse twitched.
Once. A single, slow convulsion. Then another, more violent. The entire frame of the Drowned Lord shifted, bones cracking like dry sticks under pressure. Its stomach—still half-split—began to ripple, the wounds along its belly drawing closed in jagged, unnatural stitches of blackened sinew. The entrails slithered back inside, not with the grace of healing but the grotesque efficiency of something being forcibly reeled in.
The flesh turned dark—not just blackened, but sickly, losing its natural hue. Patches of the slime-covered skin sloughed off in wet clumps, revealing the meat underneath—rubbery, dense, necrotically swollen. Pustules across its chest and arms began to swell, then pop with a revolting plop, spraying yellow rot that hissed where it landed on bone and mud alike. The fog around the creature thickened, an oily vapor rolling off its body, foul and eye-stinging.
Its face twisted next.
The jaw, already half-unhinged, snapped with a sickening crack, bones realigning—no, dislocating further—to allow the maw to widen into something impossible. Its teeth, once jagged and uneven, stretched and splintered into long, needle-like fangs that protruded even with its mouth shut.
The eyes collapsed inward—caving in like spoiled fruit. Then, from the sockets, two embers ignited. Cold blue. Smoldering. Piercing.
The Drowned Lord’s legs kicked once, spasming violently. The double joints popped, bones grinding, as they reset into even more grotesque angles. Now they looked like springs coiled backward—more frog than man, more monster than corpse.
Then, with a shudder that sent ripples through the swamp, it rose.
The Ghoulish Drowned Lord pushed up from the ground like a mountain breaking free of the earth, its massive shoulders hunched forward, swampwater and black rot dripping from every pore. Mud and brackish water poured down its arms and sides like a living waterfall, as it found its balance, hunched and twitching.
Ludwig climbed quickly, gripping one of the creature’s bony dorsal ridges as he ascended to the shoulder. The skin was rubbery and cold beneath his fingers, but firm enough for footing.
Below, the swamp erupted in sound.
Reavers hissed and shrieked in protest, snarling curses in tongues they barely remembered. Even they recognized this thing—knew, perhaps through instinct or ancestral memory, that the Drowned Lord was not meant to rise again.
And now they’d have to kill it twice.
A flicker of ghostly light shimmered beside Ludwig. Thomas, his spectral form, emerged with an expression halfway between dread and amusement.
“What in the hell is this?” he asked, eyes flicking from the massive frog-thing to Ludwig.
Ludwig grinned without looking. “A cute pet.”
He reached down to steady his footing on the creature’s rising bulk, then cracked his knuckles. “Now let’s see what you can—”
He never finished the sentence.
The Drowned Lord’s throat began to bulge—swelling unnaturally, as though it were inflating with something wet and noxious. The neck expanded to the size of a barrel. Then, with the violent twitch of its massive head, it fired.
A solid ball of black water and mud shot forward like a cannon, erupting from its mouth with seismic force. The projectile struck the oncoming Reavers dead-on. Though it was made of nothing more than mud and water, it exploded with a sound like thunder. The impact cratered the swamp in front of it, sending a wall of slop and sludge into the air in a massive cone.
Reavers went flying.
Dozens of them were thrown backward, limbs flailing as they hit trees, boulders, and each other. Muck filled the air in clumps, falling like dirty rain as the swamp groaned from the sheer pressure.
Ludwig’s eyes snapped wide.
“Godamn!” he shouted, watching as the Reaver chained to his scythe was caught in the blast.
The force yanked the chain hard, snapping it taut. The scythe tore out of the Reaver’s back with a violent shhhlick, dragging flesh and blood with it. A chunk of its wing was ripped clean off. The Reaver itself was flung into the air, lost in the wave of mud and broken bodies.
The blade was free—but so was the beast.
And the Wrath Core inside it was vanishing fast.
“Damn it,” Ludwig spat, tugging the chain back to him as the scythe skated across the mud, carving a long trench before snapping back to his hand. He gave it a quick twirl, flushing the majority of the mud on it out.
All around him, Reavers howled. Not just pain. Not just rage.
Fear.
They’d already killed this monster once.
Now they had to do it again.
The newly arrived swarm—those who had just made it to the edge of the swamp—broke into scattered formations, some launching into the air, others circling cautiously. The wet ground beneath their feet was no longer an advantage. It was a graveyard in the making.
Wings burst into motion.
Several Reavers took to the skies, their feathery appendages beating the air with panicked desperation, trying to rise above the chaos, away from the muck, away from the thing Ludwig had unleashed.
From his perch, Ludwig scoffed. “Shit. They finally figured out they could fly.”
He spun the chain again, letting it wrap once around his wrist, the blade at its end now a pendulum of imminent death. “Thomas,” he called over his shoulder, “I can’t look for the Wrath Core while I’m dealing with all this.”
Thomas’s ghostly form darted up beside him. “Got it. I’ll search for it while you’re busy.” He vanished like mist on the wind.
Ludwig didn’t even nod. His attention was back on the sky, tracking the approaching Reavers as they circled, probing for an opening.
Two dove.
Screeching, claws outstretched.
Ludwig hurled the scythe at the closer one—perfect aim, perfect speed—but it didn’t matter.
Because the Drowned Lord moved first.
Its mouth gaped again—but this time something far worse emerged.
A long, grayish membrane—barbed, thick, and slick with rot—snapped forward like a bolt loosed from a ballista. It uncoiled midair, lengthening, thickening—then lashed onto the incoming Reaver with a wet, slapping crack.
Ludwig blinked.
Only then did it register.
The tongue.
The frog’s tongue.
Of course…
He almost laughed, despite himself.
“You shouldn’t fly,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “otherwise you’ll be a fly.”
And flies… well, flies were the frog’s favorite meal.
The Reaver shrieked in surprise as the membrane wrapped around its torso, squeezing tight enough to crush ribs. Then it was yanked back—dragged screaming into the waiting jaws of the Drowned Lord.
The mouth closed.
Crunch.
The sound was final. Merciless.
Bones snapped like twigs. Black ichorous blood sprayed from the sides of the maw as the undead beast chewed with lazy, methodical indifference. The Drowned Lord didn’t even seem hungry—just efficient.
Its smoldering blue eyes were already tracking the next target.
Ludwig spun his scythe once, the weight now comfortably familiar again. His grin widened.
“This,” he said, cracking his neck to one side, “might actually be more interesting than I thought.”