Just as Ludwig was about to step away, the cracked stone beneath his boot let out a soft, brittle whisper—like something dry and long-forgotten sighing under his weight. The faint chime, of a notification rang in his ears.
The small pale-blue window flickered into existence before him.
[The Bastos March seems to be a fitting place to build a Necropolis. Would you like to claim the right to build one?]
The window hanged there for a while, its content confusing.
Ludwig's brow creased faintly. He stared at the glowing text, unmoving. The quiet of the landscape felt heavier with the message hanging in the air. A strange one this time, too fickle actually to be of any real or visible tangibility.
He said nothing at first. Only stared.
A necropolis, here. As if the March wasn't already one—already soaked in the dead, steeped in rot and history that refused to settle. Bones lay buried where the dirt cracked. Ghosts clung to the wind. There was no need to build anything.
