Death loomed in the air as Oathcarver was creating a downward arc.
But the Herald roared.
Not from the throat.
From the chest.
From deep within the ribcage Ludwig had once split open.
The rune-inscribed cavity shone, pulsing as it twisted violently—reaching for the chain and yanking Ludwig toward it. The undead warrior flew forward, off balance.
And the Herald caught him.
Massive claws wrapped around Ludwig’s chest, hoisting him like a sack of meat, then slamming him into the ground with enough force to crater the earth.
[-3,229 HP]
Ludwig gasped—not out of pain, but momentum, black sludge bursting from his mouth. He saw stars—cold ones, drifting in the corners of his vision.
But he didn’t stop.
Even as the Herald loomed over him, he kicked.
Straight into the creature’s shin.
With all the undead strength he could muster.
Crunch.
The Herald howled in real pain for the first time, staggering.
Ludwig rolled backward in the sludge, pressing a palm to the earth for leverage. The Soul Shackle still connected.
He yanked—hard—activating the third charge of Limit Breaker.
His body surged with energy, the sigils along his arm igniting in violent purple streaks.
“Try again!” Ludwig roared, pulling the Herald bodily toward him, its frame ripping through the swamp like a meteor dragged on chains.
He jumped.
Met the flayed wolf mid-air.
And drove his knee straight into its snout.
[-4,115 HP]
Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
The Flayed Herald staggered back, momentarily stunned by the sheer impact. Its body twisted mid-air, trying to realign itself, but the force of Ludwig’s knee to its jaw sent it spiraling into the swampwater. It hit the mud like a stone dropped into flesh, and the splash was drowned out by the roar of approaching Reavers.
Ludwig landed hard, rolling once through the mire before springing up again. Black slime clung to his armor, gore staining his chain, Oathcarver humming with residual violence in his grip.
The battlefield shifted.
The Reavers—dozens of them, maybe a hundred—finally decided the time for waiting was over. Watching their Herald get manhandled, their grotesque leader injured, triggered some primal command in their fractured minds. A wave of hunger surged through their ranks.
They roared as one.
And they charged.
From the skies. From the water. From the mud.
All angles.
It was a mass of twisted limbs and jagged teeth, a stampede of creatures that should never have flown or crawled. Their silhouettes cut through the mist like a thousand falling blades.
And behind Ludwig, something else moved.
The Drowned Lord—who had been passively watching this entire time like a bored gargoyle—finally stirred.
With a gurgling, deep-throated growl, the grotesque behemoth rose, straightened, and snapped into action. Its huge webbed fists crashed into the nearest Reavers with earth-shaking force, pulping them like overripe fruit. Bones shattered, wings tore, blood splashed upward in sheets.
Another Reaver lunged—too close.
The Drowned Lord’s throat bulged, and with a sickening squelch, its tongue lashed out again, wrapping the creature mid-leap and dragging it back screaming. Its jaws opened wide and bit down, snapping the Reaver’s torso in half, the remains swallowed with an almost lazy gulp.
It didn’t care.
It wasn’t protecting Ludwig.
It was just annoyed.
But even the Drowned Lord couldn’t cover all directions. The swarm was too wide, too fast. The sky was thick with incoming Reavers, and several were already bypassing the frog-giant’s range, slipping through blind spots in the frenzy.
Ludwig’s eye twitched. “Fine.”
He reached behind his back and unclasped the Soul Chain from the Herald, letting it fall free for a moment. In the same motion, he twirled Oathcarver around, this time holding it not by the edge but reverse-gripped—like a club.
The Flayed Herald, still recovering from the blow, raised both arms in an X.
Ludwig slammed the side of Oathcarver into it with a brutal, sideways swing.
The impact launched the Herald.
Dozens of meters through the air.
It crashed into a thick patch of mud, rolled, then lay still—momentarily out of the fight.
That was the window Ludwig needed.
Breathing hard—not out of exhaustion, but adrenaline—he pulled a Bastos Wine Potion from his belt, uncorked it with his thumb, and chugged it. The potion burned down his throat, warm like blood, and instantly his health and mana bars began to tick upward.
Not fast enough.
He dropped to one knee, slammed his hand to the ground, and poured the gathered mana into the mire around him. Purple sparks leapt from his palm into the swamp, veins of necrotic energy spreading in wild, branching lines across the terrain like lightning webbing through a black sky.
The ground answered.
“If you want numbers—” Ludwig growled, eyes glowing with intensity.
“I got them too.”
He screamed the next words into the storm of oncoming death.
“RISE, UNDEAD!”
The sigils exploded outward.
[You have bound to undeath 31 Drowned Fiends.]
[Summoning 31 Zombie Fiends…]
The earth bubbled.
All across the quagmire, the thick swamp mud began to churn. Bodies—long forgotten, half-rotted, buried in muck for years or decades—moved. Broken helmets. Torn leather. Sunken eye sockets filled with green slime. Hands with no nails. Half-skulls with broken jawbones.
The Drowned Lord’s dead were coming back to life.
Soldiers. Villagers. Hunters. And things in-between.
Some of the Reavers never saw it coming. One stepped forward—and the mud exploded beneath its feet. Rotting hands burst from the swamp, clawed fingers dragging the Reaver downward, sinking it into the mire like a pebble thrown into quicksand.
Another hissed, turning too late as a half-decayed undead soldier lunged upward and bit into its leg. Another. Then another.
Screams.
Panic.
Confusion.
The Reavers faltered. For every one that flew above, three were being dragged beneath.
The swamp became a graveyard battlefield—animated by will, wrath, and dark divine favor.
Ludwig stood tall as his chest snapped itself back into place with a sickening series of crunches. His bones reknit, posture returning to full strength. He rolled his shoulders once, tested the weight of Oathcarver again.
“Now this,” he muttered, voice cold.
He cracked his neck to the side.
“This should level the playing field.”
He kicked a Reaver corpse aside and stepped toward the Herald, who was now standing again, its spines arched high, its claws twitching with feral rhythm. The Core fragment still glowed in its hand.
The moon burned above them, full and cruel.
Ludwig pointed his scythe.
“You still breathing, freak?”
He grinned.
“Round two, bitch.”