The sheer force behind Ludwig’s attack was beyond calculated violence. It was raw convergence—the culmination of rage, ingenuity, and power chained to a burning body. The fusion of [Surging Slam] with the self-destructive propulsion of [Explosive Mines] ignited with apocalyptic consequence. Even as it tore at Ludwig’s undead flesh, ripping muscle from bone and leaving wide scorched gouges along his thighs, back, and arms, it didn’t matter. He was the weapon now. Blade and flame and fury spiraling into a single descending storm.
A flaming whirlwind of Oathcarver and combustion, spinning fast enough to blur into a streak of red-gold ruin across the night sky.
And below him, the Flayed Herald didn’t have time to scream.
The Moon Flayed King, perched not more than a dozen meters away, sensed what was about to unfold. Its hand—more an appendage of curse and shadow than flesh—extended outward in a pathetic, sluggish motion. A gesture of denial. Of desperation. As though it thought it could reach its servant in time.
But for the Herald, that dozen meters may as well have been the distance between the heavens and the grave.
Oathcarver came down.
And with it, sound ceased.
Just for a moment.
Then—
BOOM.
An explosion of white-hot fire and blinding light tore through the clearing, vaporizing air, rattling trees, flattening the weaker trunks outright. The shockwave rippled out in concentric arcs, blowing leaves from branches, turning leaves in flight into tumbling cinders, silencing the forest with pure annihilation.
[You have slain: Flayed Herald – Werewolf (Level 125)]
Ludwig stood at the center of it all, his form cloaked in flames like a burning god returned from some battlefield in hell. The Manticore Regalia, charred in long scorched lines, was already stitching itself together, armor infused with regeneration magic beginning to repair along the ribs and shoulders. The exposed musculature beneath sizzled. Steam rose from his limbs.
But his eyes stayed sharp. Focused.
There was no soul gain.
No echo of victory.
The creature had only been a summon. A vessel. A puppet.
And yet—he had ended it.
Ludwig looked down, the smoke parting around his boots as he stepped forward. All that remained of the Herald were two blackened, shredded halves. Not cleaved—broken. Split not by a clean edge, but by concussive force. Oathcarver’s blunt edge was never meant to slice. It was built to crush and obliterate.
Right at the heart of the remains, between smoldering bones and charred viscera, lay a single pulsing gem—small, red, glowing faintly like a dying coal.
The final Wrath Core fragment.
He reached down and plucked it from the scorched ground, fingers brushing the heat-warped dirt.
[You have obtained the fourth and final Wrath Core Fragment.]
No hesitation.
Not this time.
The Moon Flayed King roared—an otherworldly screech that didn’t shake the air so much as warp it. Its distorted form took one massive step forward, clearing half the distance between it and Ludwig in an instant.
The Reavers screamed behind him—above, around, claws scraping and talons digging into the earth as they advanced, a tide of rage behind their god-thing’s wrath.
But Ludwig didn’t move.
He simply reached into his cloak and retrieved the other three Core fragments.
All four pulsed together in his hand.
A notification appeared in front of Ludwig.
[Would you like to sacrifice the Wrath Core to Deus Necros?]
“Without a question,” Ludwig said, eyes locked on the Moon Flayed King’s misshapen face.
That face—a grotesque mesh of sorrow and fury. A god denied. A lie exposed and a destiny halted.
He watched as the fragments shimmered in unison, the pulses aligning. The red light became one singular, spherical glow, no larger than a marble—and then it simply vanished.
Gone.
The effect was immediate.
The Moon Flayed King’s hand—mere centemeters from Ludwig now—phased through him like smoke. Its body, once almost physical and real, so vast, so impossible to ignore, blurred at the edges.
Its form began unraveling.
A soundless cry erupted from its hollow mouth. The King tried to exist, but its anchor to Bastos Manor—to this plane—had been severed. The Core which served as the axis for its existence was no more.
The scream carved itself into the mind.
Not heard, but felt. The sort of grief only gods knew. The kind that came when reality told them they no longer mattered.
The Reavers wailed in response.
The sound wasn’t rage anymore.
It was mourning.
Dozens of them—blood-caked, fang-mawed, wild-eyed—clawed at their own skulls. Their talons sliced across bone and eye, shredding flesh with mindless desperation. A few impaled themselves on rocks. Others collapsed to their knees, keening toward the sky.
Then—one by one—they began to dissolve.
Their bodies crumbled into ash and light, carried away by some unseen current, leaving only silence and the wet thump of dissipating magic.
The Moon Flayed King made one last reach—
Then it, too, was gone.
[The corruption of the Moon Flayed King is leaving the March.]
[Your Death Point has been updated.]
[You have completed the Quest: Ruler of the March.]
[You have obtained: Title – Ruler of the Land.]
[You have subdued four Beasts touched by the corruption of the Wrathful Death. The entity has been weakened—slightly.]
[The Moon Flayed King was one of the three Servants of the Wrathful Death. As long as one remains, the Wrathful Death cannot be fully defeated.]
[The Treacherous Fanged Apostle is now aware of your presence and the death of its First Sire.]
[Your Soul-Letting Lantern has been upgraded.]
→ Soul-Letting Lantern now prevents Visual and Premonition Tracking of your person.
{You have obtained: Brave Soul ×5}
{You have created a new technique under the Tyrant Blade Style: [Explosive Surging Slam]}
[Your Tyrant Blade Technique has improved significantly.]
[Progress toward Intermediate Level: 90%]
[You are now free to roam outside the Bastos March.]
Even as the system prompts rolled across his vision, Ludwig remained still.
A victory like this needed a moment for him to breath and calm his turbulent mind.