Deus Necros

The man in question was large, obesely so. Not the kind of largeness that suggested nobility or the stature of a well-fed warrior, but the kind that drew murmured disbelief and quiet discomfort. Flesh spilled from every seam of his too-tight clothing, garments that looked as if they were made for another time, another world. And they were. Strange fabric, coarse in weave but unnaturally smooth, clung to his damp skin, betraying his complete alienness to the dress of Ikos. A foul smell wafted faintly from him, something sour and earthy, like unwashed linens left damp too long.

His arms rested on his knees, fat folding in upon itself like layers of melted wax. Beneath his armpits, dark, wet stains bloomed like battle wounds on his shirt. His face, already puffed and swollen from sheer size, was nearly lost beneath its own folds, triple chins wobbling slightly with each breath, a nose like a malformed bulb planted squarely in the center of his face. He looked up at the Holy Maiden, his lips parting into a wide, glistening grin that stretched awkwardly across acne-dotted cheeks.

The look was all too familiar for the Holy Maiden, but this time, it was extra disgusting. She halted a shudder barely, and held down the wanton will to simply cut this creature down where he stood for simply looking at her like that.

“Your holiness,” the Holy Maiden said, her voice sharp with disbelief as her eyes scanned the… creature before her. “You’re already calling him a hero?”

She did not mask the contempt in her tone. Her gaze dropped over the folds of his frame, the sweat-shimmered skin, the altogether pathetic excuse of a warrior. This was what the summoning produced? This heap of indulgence, this breathing insult?

“Ah… such beauty… you’d make a fine member to my party members,” the man said, breath hitching as he stood, if it could be called that. His movements were sluggish, like pudding attempting to mimic upright posture. He looked directly at the Holy Maiden with eyes magnified behind lenses thick enough to distort the world.

The sight of him speaking to her with that expression, that tone, only reinforced every loathing thought she had catalogued over the centuries. It didn’t matter what world they came from, heroes always revealed their true shape the moment they opened their mouths.

The Pope cleared his throat, shifting slightly on his throne as he spoke. “That is his name. Hiro. His actual given name, apparently. And his occupation, registered upon summoning, is also listed as ‘Hero.'”

The Holy Maiden didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her voice was as cold as obsidian as she asked, “And how do we know that is true? And what does that even mean, registered upon summoning, heroes are revealed by the goddess of victory.”

The Pope’s gaze flicked toward the fat man standing in the center. “He’s told no lies so far. At least, not any we can detect. Which is… odd. And he said he had a System of sorts… I couldn’t figure out heads or tail no matter how much he explained.”

Hiro puffed out his chest, or tried to, though it merely made his shirt stretch tighter. “Can you not see it?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and trembling with a misplaced confidence. “It’s right there.”

The Holy Maiden folded her arms, lips pulled taut. “Speak in proper words,” she snapped. “And finish your sentences. You’re in the presence of sanctity, not in a tavern.”

For a second, Hiro’s eyes twitched behind the glass. His smile faltered. But only for a second.

“Ah… a feisty one,” he murmured, mostly to himself. He quickly caught the glare she gave in response and swallowed his next comment, cheeks jiggling faintly with the movement. “Anyway,” he added with a half-hearted shrug, “I can see my status screen. Yours too. Everyone’s. It’s an Isekai, right? Shouldn’t you all be able to do that too?”

The clerics exchanged confused glances. The word meant nothing to them. The Holy Maiden, however, merely sighed.

“I believe the translation enchantment is malfunctioning again,” the Pope said. His expression remained neutral, but there was something restrained in the furrow of his brow. “He keeps using terms we do not fully comprehend. Still, what we’ve gathered is this: he can perceive the strength and skill of others merely by looking at them. He sees some sort of… display. Numbers. Classifications. All terrifyingly accurate so far.”

“Sounds useful,” the Holy Maiden muttered. Her tone suggested she found it useful in the same way one might find a well-shaped rock: tolerable, but better left where it was. “A shame such a waste possesses it. But I need proof of that..”

Hiro tilted his head, peering at her through his massive lenses. “Titania El’ Dementes,” he said slowly. “Holy Blade of Sulivan the Martyr. Level four hundred and forty-four. Very high combat stats. You’ve got, what, more than twenty unique skills? And three of them are sealed. Wonder why.”

His voice was smug. Too smug. The gleam in his eyes was one she had seen before in a thousand summoned fools who believed knowledge granted them superiority. It didn’t.

Her hand moved faster than thought. A flick to her hip, a whisper of steel, and the dagger hidden beneath her robes leapt into her grasp. As it lifted, it transformed, growing, reshaping into a blade that radiated divine heat, the hilt gleaming with scripture. In a blink, the massive sword hovered at the tip of Hiro’s nose, the blade so close it chilled the sweat beads on his upper lip.

“Those are secrets,” she said. Her voice had lowered to a whisper now. It held the weight of death. “Secrets not even the Pope has asked me to share. Secrets not uttered aloud since I first learned them. And yet you spill them like gossip? Those are things no one should know, especially not a creature like you.”

Her eyes, unblinking and void of warmth, stared into his. His legs trembled. She could feel the faint, sour tang of fear rising from him like spoiled milk.

Hiro raised both hands, palms out. “I just… I just demonstrated how my ability works. That’s all.” He lifted one pudgy finger and pointed across the hall. “Also… that man. The one praying. He’s a Sullied Demon.”

Silence fell like a dropped stone. All eyes turned to the robed man Hiro had indicated, a cleric kneeling with his hands pressed in prayer, face serene. The accused opened his eyes slowly, blinked with confusion, and looked toward the Pope.

“Sir,” he said, his tone soft and calm, “are you well? Surely a corrupted and sullied soul couldn’t enter this sacred chamber, let alone dwell among us? Perhaps the Hero’s abilities are… unstable?”

The Holy Maiden didn’t speak. She moved. Her sword arced once, silent, clean, merciless.

The cleric’s head separated from his body with surgical ease. For a breath, the room was still.

“Holy Maiden!” a paladin cried, stepping forward with a face painted in shock. “What is the meaning of this? He was one of ours! And how would you believe that man over a few words already! Micha has been with us for twenty years!”

“If this man spoke true,” the Holy Maiden said as she walked slowly toward the corpse, “then we have slain a demon in disguise. And if he lied… then he attempted to turn us against each other And that would mean his immediate execution. Either way, the guilty will fall.”

She stood over the corpse, her blade dripping. The blood steamed slightly against the purity of the marble floor. For a moment, it seemed nothing more would happen.

Then the head twitched. The flesh bubbled. Skin popped and melted, turning to black sludge. The body followed, dissolving into a puddle of foul-smelling muck, sizzling as it seeped into the tiles.

Gasps spread like wildfire through the chamber.

The priests and devotees recoiled in horror. The paladins muttered prayers under their breath. Even the Pope leaned forward, his face paled beneath the golden halo of his robes.

She turned toward Hiro once more. Her expression had shifted, uncertainty now laced her glare, though her eyes remained sharp.

“Seems that you may have some use,” she said slowly.

The Pope rose, robes billowing with sacred energy. “Clean this place at once,” he said, for an old man with a foot in the grave, his voice was thunderous. “None of this is to be spoken aloud. The presence of a Sullied among our highest ranks cannot be allowed to reach the ears of the faithful. The people must believe we are incorruptible. Their faith depends on it.”

A powerful spell ignited in the air, symbols of silence and memory binding woven into the fabric of sound itself. It washed over everyone present, anchoring to their souls like a vow etched in fire. It could not be broken.

“Now,” the Pope said, turning back to Hiro. “You, Hiro. Tell us who you are. We have much to discuss.”

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