[You have slain one of the three Servants of the Wrathful Death.]
[Reward: 1x Heroic Soul.]
[Urgent Quest Cleared: Core Bearer.]
[You have obtained Advanced Necrotic Rituals. (Summoning Magic.)]
[Necros's Favorability with you has increased significantly.]
[Unique Achievent Unlocked: First Apostle to Slay a Servant.]
[Reward: Title – Pious Apostle.]
[ 10 to all stats. Resistance to Holy Magic increased.]
[New Magic Unlocked: Beginner Necrotic Offerings (Combat Magic).]
More. It kept going.
[Follow-Up Quest: Core Bearer II – Containnt.]
[Celine Bastos is under the influence of the Wrath Core.]
[Warning: If corruption is not halted, she may beco the next Thorn-Wombed Queen.]
[Her ntal state is unstable. Protection is mandatory.]
Ludwig read it all. Then turned his gaze to the cocoon once more.
The last remnants of it pulsed.
A bitter, hateful hiss rolled from its deepest folds.
And behind him, he heard a laugh.
It wasn't loud. It didn't echo off the cave walls like the Queen's wail had, nor strike the ears with malice. It was quieter than it should've been, almost conversational, yet sothing in it was wrong. it ca like a breath caught in a dead man's throat. Dry. Unhurried. And cruel.
The Werewolf was already beside him. No weight in his step. No shadow cast. He was just there, crouching beside the torn cocoon like an old friend inspecting the body of a shared kill.
"You don't even know what it is, do you?"
The voice sounded low and carefree, yet it carried the weight of inevitability.
"I let you play your little ga," the werewolf said, eyes not on Ludwig but on the shredded cocoon. "Kept my claws out of your spine. Kept my nose out of your little business, Divine Tasks and obligations." His hand reached forward, slow and asured, fingers curled just enough to resemble sothing more surgical than violent.
Ludwig didn't move. Not yet. His hand tensed on Oathcarver's grip, but his gaze remained locked on the werewolf's fingers as they dipped inside the remains of the cocoon.
"But this," the werewolf continued, voice low and flat, "this was mine."
He didn't tear, didn't dig. Instead, he gently reached into the deepest folds of what once had been the Queen's heart. And from it, he drew sothing small. Sothing vile. It was twisted and hard to look at, thorned and pulsating with residual magic. It looked like a relic, like a heart that hadn't rembered how to beat, trying and failing all at once. Ichor ran down his fingers in slow drips like venom trailing from a cracked fang.
"She kept it hidden," the werewolf said. He didn't raise his voice. There was no anger, no reverence, only bitter amusent. "Her last favor from the Wrathful Death. Probably ant to bloom inside the girl, but not anymore… in the normal sense that is…"
He sniffed it once. A sharp inhale. Then let out a brief, joyless laugh. It didn't rise past his throat.
"Good enough for , young undead… I suppose we'll part way soon,"
Ludwig's grip tightened. He took one slow breath, shallow and asured. But before he could speak, the cave itself answered.
A voice from the back. A shout. Holy steel behind it.
"INTRUDER! ON YOUR GUARD!"
The Order. Their arrival ca like a rupture of light and righteousness. The throat of the cave flared with gold and silver. Sigils lit beneath boots. Flas of holy fire burned to life with the sudden force of prepared exorcism rites. They ca in formation, blades raised, voices disciplined. Paladins. Clerics. The full might of the Order had arrived, and behind them strode the Cardinal. His eyes took in the sight and blood with sothing between awe and fury.
"There!" soone shouted, a young paladin near the front. "That's the fiend!"
He pointed straight at the werewolf.
The werewolf didn't even bother to blink. His nose twitched once as he sniffed the air. Then, slowly, he turned to face them.
"I was already leaving," he muttered.
They didn't wait. The first spell hit him full in the chest, light flaring in sharp white purity. It singed cloth, cracked air. The second spell ca milliseconds later. But he didn't dodge. He swatted it aside, like soone brushing ash from their sleeve.
Yet there was sothing from the spell still stuck to his arm after swatting it.
"I said," he repeated, annoyed now, "I was leaving." His eyes were staring at the Cardinal who was grasping the stub of his missing elbow.
He smiled, almost provocatively, then, without warning, he ripped off his own arm. Not with hesitation. Not with grimace. He just tore it loose from his shoulder like soone shaking off a tight glove. One of the binding sigils wrapped around the limb dissolved imdiately, nullified.
This made Clentine reveal his teeth from anger. After all this was nothing but a monster than can self mutilate without any concern or worry.
The arm dropped, twitching. Already, muscle tendrils were curling outward from his shoulder, regrowing. Veins ford like ivy. Skin wove itself back together with dark hair sprouting seconds later.
He then reached for the sea walking confidently toward it. No one from the order seed to be too willing to stop him.
And then, just before he fully vanished into the returning sea-mist, he turned again. His gaze lingered on Ludwig now.
"The Wrathful Death had many mistresses, Apostle," the werewolf said. "But that one?" He glanced down at the torn womb. "She was his first and favorite."
A pause.
"And I'm sure he's looking forward to eting the man who killed her."
Then he stepped backward. Not fleeing. Not rushing. Just lting into the fog like sothing made of it. He was gone before the Order could respond.
For a mont, no one moved.
The paladins stood frozen, their weapons still raised but their hands uncertain. The silence that followed was thick. Not with reverence. Not even tension. Just confusion. Dread.
Then they saw Ludwig.
They saw what he held.
"Step away from that cursed being!" one of them commanded. The voice was steady, clipped. A tone born of training. No fear. Only protocol.
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