Ludwig hurled Durandal first. Something no sane warrior or fighter would ever do, unless they're Ludwig.
The moment the blade left his hand, it cut through the air with a blunt, hateful whistle, not the clean hiss of a light weapon, but the sound of something too dense moving too fast.
Orcs around him flinched on instinct, not because they feared friendly steel, but because the throw didn't look like a throw. It looked like a decision made by someone who didn't respect normal limits.
Ludwig didn't even watch it fly for long. His eyes were already measuring where his body would go next, what stone tooth he could plant off of, what angle would keep him from being swallowed by a mass of red muscle.
His sword was made of the core of a forged black hole. Though only a shard of the full weapon, it still carried some of its weight. A fraction of a fraction of its weight.
Even suppressed, even dulled by this floor's rules, Durandal still felt wrong to the world.
