The sharp, metallic hiss of steel clearing its sheath rang out before a word was spoken. The Hunter, without hesitation, drew both weapons, the blades trembling faintly in his still-weakened grasp. Despite the stiffness in his ribs and the lingering tremors in his arm, his stance was steady, his eyes narrow and alert. A breath later, the Knight stepped forward with purposeful weight, planting himself firmly between the approaching figures and Ludwig, who stood silent, Oathcarver undrawn, but visibly ready.
“There are survivors,” the Paladin said, his voice smooth and lightly amused, as though discovering a misplaced relic rather than stumbling upon living souls. His white-gold armor glimmered in patches where sunlight pierced the canopy. “I thought this place wouldn’t have any.”
“I assume you’re members of the Holy Order,” the Knight said, tone even, gaze locked with the man before him.
The Paladin’s expression did not change. “We are. And who might you be?” His eyes swept across the trio, then paused. The fourth figure, wrapped in the ethereal glow of Ludwig’s chains, caught his attention. His head tilted slightly, like a crow regarding a glimmering shard. “Four?” he said, voice trailing with a curious lilt. “You all look… somewhat sane.”
“We’re not alone,” the Hunter replied, speaking up with brittle confidence. “We have companions. Others.” He gestured vaguely, aware that the statement would be taken as a bluff, but hoping it might buy them leverage. “So. What are you doing here? The Vampire Hunter guild already took ownership of this island.”
“That claim has been revoked,” the cleric said, stepping beside the Paladin. Her voice was clipped, pristine, like the edge of fine crystal. “By the Pontiff himself. This land is now designated for Purging.”
A cold spike drove through the air. Silence clung like a second skin.
“Oi, oi,” the Hunter said, suddenly stiff. “Don’t say that word so lightly. We’re still standing here. You’re not saying we’re under the law of purge, are you?”
Ludwig’s face darkened. No words passed his lips, but the tension in his jaw was plain. His grip on Oathcarver tightened. It shimmered into view with a slow, thunderous hum, the massive sword materializing with such weight that the leaves above trembled in its wake. The blade pointed directly at the Paladin’s chest, a simple gesture that carried a world of intent.
Ludwig’s frown was obvious enough that Thomas in his spectral form popped up right next to him, “I guess you don’t know, but it’s basically like martial law, the moment the order deems a place to be Purged no life shall be spared.”
Ludwig didn’t even need more explaining, he pointed Durandal forward, the massive Sword was threatening enough, as it was easily the size of man, “Are you saying, we’ll be under the Purge?” Ludwig asked.
The Paladin lifted one hand in mock reassurance. “No,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “As long as you follow us, we’ll take you to the Cardinal. He is the one who will determine your purity.” He nodded toward Ludwig’s party. “If you’re free of corruption, you’ll be spared.”
Ludwig said nothing, but in his mind, the logic spiraled with silent fury. The moment he stepped into that sanctified place, the holy light pouring from their sacred halls would tear through him. His soul, what fragments remained, would be reduced to dust. His flesh might not even last that long. The idea of willingly entering that sanctum was absurd. Death awaited there.
“Well,” the Paladin added, glancing again at the woman wrapped in chains, “just the three of you, of course. You look fine, at least. That thing you’re carrying, though…” His voice slowed. “Or the people we found at the cave.”
Ludwig’s brow lifted. “What do you mean, the people at the cave?”
The Knight took a step forward, his tone sharpened with alarm. “What happened to them?”
“Calm yourselves,” the Paladin replied, gently tapping the hilt of his mace against his armored thigh. “We found seven… former humans. Recently attacked. Infected by the curse. Their bodies were twisting into something unnatural, trees, vines, flowers.” He raised his mace slightly, casually. “We gave them mercy.”
“Mercy?” Ludwig’s voice turned cold. “The ones who turn… their blood changes. It becomes ichor. Black. Foul. What’s on your mace is red. Very human red.”
The cleric bristled behind the Paladin. “Young man,” she said, her voice hard with conviction, “do not speak of things you do not understand. They were given mercy. Their spirits now rest.” She stepped forward, unfolding her arms with slow theatricality. “And I sense darkness in your heart. Perhaps you need a few sessions of enlightenment.”
A silence settled. Dense. Heavy.
“Did you really kill them?” the Hunter asked, voice cracking beneath its own weight. “All of them?”
“That was their fate,” the cleric said. Her words were calm. Final. “They turned. We guided their spirits to the light.” She looked down at the woman Ludwig carried. “And it seems you’re not so certain of your own.”
“Petrina,” the Paladin muttered, voice chiding, “they are not of the dark. Not yet. At least… not all of them.” His gaze swept again to the limp woman. “But that thing, she reeks of wrongness. I feel it in my stomach.”
“Perhaps it’s guilt souring your gut,” Ludwig said, stepping forward. “And no one is handing you anything.”
“Oi,” the Knight said, low and close, voice meant only for Ludwig’s ears, “Sir Davon, I don’t want to agree with them, but picking a fight with the Holy Order… that’s never ended well.”
“There is a first time for everything,” Ludwig said.
Something in his voice made the Knight step back.
“Young man,” the Paladin said, now clearly agitated, “you seem noble-born. But you speak above your station. The commands of the Order are absolute. Adhere, or die. Give It up. Or join it.”
Ludwig took a slow breath.
“I’d like to see how you’ll make me.”
The Paladin didn’t answer. He lunged.
The motion was fast, blinding to anyone else. The mace rose high, gleaming with brutal purpose, aiming to crush Ludwig’s skull like rotten fruit. The Knight shouted, moving to intervene, “Please, stop this!” but light exploded around him. Golden rings clamped around his limbs like manacles.
“Binding Light!” the cleric shouted, her staff flashing with divine energy. The Knight froze, held in place, his armor groaning beneath the strain of the spell.
“May you find mercy in the embrace of the Four!” the Paladin cried, his mace descending with righteous fury.
But Ludwig did not flinch.
To his eyes, the strike was slow. Insultingly so.
He had faced worse. Much worse.
Bastos March had changed him. In silence, in darkness, through trials, tribulations and solitude, he had reshaped himself. He had left behind the boy who hesitated. The boy who was a student and had friends and companions he trusted. He had learned that no one would carry him to safety. There were no more teachers. No more comrades. Only him. Only death.
The mace came down.
Ludwig raised his arm.
The Paladin grinned, until Ludwig’s hand clamped down around his wrist with crushing force.
Bones shifted beneath gauntlet and skin. A pop sounded, loud and obscene. The Paladin screamed.
“Tito!” the cleric called, eyes wide. “Heal!”
But she was too slow.
Oathcarver was already in the air, catching the light with its vast blade.
And Ludwig brought it down.