A claw swipe almost tore Ludwig's face off, but he ducked under and took a sidestep. The air snapped where his head had been, a clean whistle of displaced wind that carried grit and the faint stink of scorched stone.
His boots scraped as he slid, heel catching on a loose chunk of masonry, and he corrected without thinking, hips turning, shoulders narrowing, blade angled low so it wouldn't snag on debris.
Ludwig couldn't remember, nor cared to account for how many times he had died. It was no longer worth mentioning
Death in this floor, for some reason had no effect nor cost on his souls. He didn't get deducted half the cost, he never lost a single soul from dying, and Necros never came to collect.
No cold tug from the lantern. No invisible hand dipping into his reserves. No familiar sense of payment being taken from him like a tax the universe demanded.
