Failing to pay attention to you is a classic and costly blunder, one that has plagued monsters, heretics, and the Iscariot budget department for ages. Ludwig had a compelling reason to look away, sure, but you're not about to let him off the hook.
"Eyes on me, ye horse-faced heathen!"
You're inside Ludwig's reach before he has a chance to respond, lugging a massive club in each hand. The newer one, either asleep or cognizant of the fact that it would be best served not pissing you off at this juncture, makes no effort to stab you in the face. It does, however, do an admirable job of absolutely ruining one of the Holy Blade's surviving legs alongside its older brother.
The sound of bursting bone can't quite drown out Ludwig's scream as he buckles, nearly landing on top of you. You've smashed another one by the time he regains his breath. As the beast struggles to stay upright, surviving knees knocking like a newborn foal's, one of Simon's arrows screams past his head. The other, trailing just behind, lands a grazing blow to the shoulder as Ludwig's great form finally collapses.
The fallen Holy Blade lashes out with awkward, desperate swings that you dodge with ease before slamming both of your clubs into his shoulder. The joint implodes under your blow and the arm hangs limp, dead fingers still gripping the sword. Despite this, he continues to thrash, reaching for you with his surviving arm and lurching forward with attempts to bite.
You've beaten his martial artistry out of him until all that's left is violence. Then the cannon booms and takes that away as well.
The blast tears through his neck and leaves ruin in its wake. Newly-exposed tendons, as big around as your arm where untouched, struggle to keep Ludwig's head attached, a struggle you end with a burst of laser fire.
The overwhelming noise ceases, its exit almost palpable. After that cacophonous struggle, the quiet seems to reassert itself with force, drowning out Steffon's sloshing footsteps from the entryway with the Nightmare's moment of silence for its fallen champion.
Prey Slaughtered
Steffon and Simon reach you at approximately the same time. The former raises his hand, vacillating between handshake and shoulder-pat height, before simply letting it fall to his side. "We won," he says.
"Aye. Fine fightin', the lot o' ye."
The three of you look over Ludwig's ruined form for a moment. Djura staggers in, his arm bound up in an impromptu sling, and joins your unspeaking vigil. You're not sure whether a solemn eulogy or hip-thrusting victory dance is the appropriate course of action.
A nickering sound snaps you all from your trance and you look as one at Ludwig's severed head. A clouded eye slowly opens and regards you, expression inscrutable.
"Oh, dear," says Ludwig, heedless of his nonexistent respiratory system, "I seem to have lost. I congratulate you, good Hunters, on a magnificent fight. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, wherever that may be."
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