Just as Ludwig was about to step away, the cracked stone beneath his boot let out a soft, brittle whisper—like something dry and long-forgotten sighing under his weight. The faint chime, of a notification rang in his ears.
The small pale-blue window flickered into existence before him.
[The Bastos March seems to be a fitting place to build a Necropolis. Would you like to claim the right to build one?]
The window hanged there for a while, its content confusing.
Ludwig’s brow creased faintly. He stared at the glowing text, unmoving. The quiet of the landscape felt heavier with the message hanging in the air. A strange one this time, too fickle actually to be of any real or visible tangibility.
He said nothing at first. Only stared.
A necropolis, here. As if the March wasn’t already one—already soaked in the dead, steeped in rot and history that refused to settle. Bones lay buried where the dirt cracked. Ghosts clung to the wind. There was no need to build anything.
What would it change?
Maybe the system—or whatever fragment of Necros’s cold logic birthed this prompt—thought it merciful.
He exhaled through his nose, shoulders rising in a loose shrug.
“Sure,” he muttered, barely above a breath. The word disappeared into the wind.
The window blinked once and vanished. No sound, no light. Gone.
He wasn’t about to start building it, he wasn’t given a task to do it anyway, a Necropolis is a massive graveyard, for now, it seemed like it would hold some meaning so he just delegated this quest to the back of his mind. Something not to worry about for now.
“Davon.”
Melisande’s voice broke the moment—not harsh, but sudden. Quick and close. She had slid up beside him, just off his right flank, light on her feet despite the weight of her leathers and gear.
“Thanks to the mess back there,” she said, motioning vaguely behind them at the manor and the wreckage everywhere with a flick of her wrist, “we didn’t really get to talk.” Her tone was easy, smooth, a little too casual to be accidental. “You seem like a decent guy,” she added, eyes tilted upward toward his with a hint of sheepish charm. “So tell me…”
She smiled—part curiosity, part tease, but not entirely playful.
“…you got anyone waiting for you back home?”
The question hung in the air, feather-light but heavy with suggestion. Her posture was open, angled just enough to seem coincidental. Her amber eyes flicked over his face, gauging, maybe expecting—
A scoff cut through the stillness ahead.
“Oi,” came Timur’s voice—gravel-thick and laced with dismissive amusement. He didn’t bother to turn around, just waved a hand vaguely over his shoulder as he walked. “You’re what—ten years older than him? Get your fangs off the boy already.”
Melisande snapped to attention. “I’m only twenty-four, you jackass!” she shouted, puffing her cheeks in exasperation. “It’s the adventuring! Stress wrinkles! Split ends! And dragging your sorry hide out of death’s door more times than I can count!”
She squinted daggers at Timur’s back. “I should be billing the Guild for emotional labor.”
Unbothered, Timur waved her off again. “Still sounds like cradle-robbing,” he said flatly, without breaking pace.
But Melisande wasn’t so easily dismissed. She turned back to Ludwig, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Anyway,” she said, as if Timur’s interruption hadn’t existed, “So, Davon…”
Ludwig met her gaze calmly. There was no hesitation in his answer, only the quiet finality of truth.
“No,” he said.
His tone didn’t invite elaboration. Yet there was no sharpness to it. Just… stillness.
Then, as if remembering an old reflex, he raised a single finger toward her and muttered, “[Cleanse].”
The light emerged without force—gentle, almost reverent. A ripple of clean magic swept through the party like a soft wind breaking through fog.
In an instant, the soot and grime vanished.
Timur’s armor, battered and dented as it was, gleamed once more with the dull shine of weathered gold and burnished iron. The dried blood at the joints disappeared. His face, half-obscured by dust before, looked freshly unburied.
Gorak, silent and still as always, emerged from the aftermath like a monolith unveiled—his axe catching the star light with a deadly sheen. His dark leathers no longer carried the stench of old blood.
Even Melisande stood stunned. Her hands brushed her arms, then her face.
She reached somewhere—Ludwig didn’t see where—and produced a small, silver-rimmed mirror. She turned it in her hands, inspecting her reflection from every angle. Her eyes grew wide, lips parting slightly.
“It even did my hair,” she breathed. She spun toward a nearby shattered window, examining herself in its jagged glass with something like reverence. “Is this ninth-tier magic?”
She turned again—quick, fluid, close.
Her face was inches from his. Her breath warm. Her eyes brilliant.
“You have to teach me,” she said, nearly vibrating with glee.
Ludwig didn’t flinch. Her closeness meant little. Flirting, proximity, intent—it all passed over him like wind over stone. He offered her a soft smile. Polite. Gentle. Distant.
“You already mentioned that,” he said. “So sure.”
A pause.
“But I don’t know if we’ll be road companions for long.”
Her expression faltered. Just a flicker. A hairline crack in the veneer of her confidence.
“…What do you mean?”
“I need to head to the Dawn Islands,” Ludwig replied. His voice was the same as always. Calm. Even. Weighted. “There are matters I must attend to there.”
Ahead of them, Timur groaned loudly, turning halfway around with a dramatic scowl.
“Davon,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “They say that misery loves company, but do you have to go looking for misery?”
He pointed at the desolate remains of the manor behind them. “Bastos March wasn’t a big enough mess? You ask Gorak about the Solania guardian, and now you want to sail off to the Dawn Islands? Are you suicidal or just enthusiastic about hellholes?”
Ludwig didn’t blink. “It’s a will. From someone dear.”