Ludwig took another glance at the area, inspecting the aftermath.
Only a few Reaver bodies remained—ones that had died before the King's descent. Their corpses rotted quietly, their purpose voided.
Ludwig gripped Oathcarver and pulled it free from the earth, flicking off what ash and gore still clung to its haft.
His shoulder rose and fell with steady breaths—calculated, even if breath itself was no longer necessary.
"That was... pretty good," Thomas's ghostly form shimmered into view, arms crossed over his chest, hair billowing gently in the spiritual breeze.
"I'll admit it," came another voice—lower, richer, older.
The Knight King emerged beside him, spectral armor glinting with faded glory. His eyes were all you could see from the darkened helmet, eyes of cold fire. "Even I never imagined I'd see my blade style mingled with magic. You did well, lad."
Ludwig stared out over the carnage. His gaze was distant—not from exhaustion, but reflection.
