Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 143: The New Crucible

The heavy doors of the study creaked open as Caelen and Lyra stepped inside, the flickering candlelight stretching their shadows across the floor.

Caelen moved with a soldier’s confidence, silver armor gleaming beneath a black surcoat.

Lyra, by contrast, was fluid and quiet, her lean frame wrapped in deep crimson leather and her hair tied in a high messy bun.

Her eyes scanned the room—calculating, wary—as if assessing potential threats even among allies.

Velrosa gave a nod of welcome, then gestured toward the long table in the center of the study.

"Sit. You’ve both earned your place here. What you’ll learn tonight could change the course of your lives—or end them."

Caelen grunted and pulled out a chair, sitting like a knight before war council. Lyra remained standing until Ian offered her a nod of familiarity.

She gave him a slight smile, then took the seat beside him. Eli leaned casually against the wall near the fire, arms folded, while Elise sat with her usual clinical detachment.

And in the far corner, nearly lost in shadow, was Blackrat—his tattered cloak flickering like smoke, one eye hidden behind a leather patch, the other glinting with sharp intelligence.

Velrosa looked to him. "Blackrat. Tell them."

The rogue stepped forward, cracked fingers steepled. "Where do I begin? Ah—yes, with the monster’s heart."

He threw a scroll onto the table.

It unrolled itself with a faint hiss, revealing a detailed sketch of the arena: The Crucible.

"At the heart of Esgard sits the colosseum. Not just any arena—no, this one is carved from stone soaked in the blood of a thousand years. They say it predates even the Council. It’s more temple than battleground. A monument to violence."

Blackrat tapped the parchment. "Seventy thousand seats. Runes along the arches. Smoke towers that burn incense laced with narcotics to stir the crowd. You can feel it in your bones when you’re near. It wants blood."

"Sounds charming," Lyra murmured.

"Oh, it is," he grinned, showing a few gold teeth. "The Crucible isn’t just where battles are fought—it’s where reputations are forged and dynasties are broken."

Caelen leaned in. "What are the rules?"

"That depends on the league," Blackrat said. He gestured toward a separate portion of the map marked in red ink.

"There are two main circuits within the arena: The Blood League, and The League of Champions."

---

"The Blood League," he began, "is chaos offered as ceremony."

"Every gladiator, like you two," he nodded at Caelen and Lyra, "is bound to a noble house—either by contract, debt, or blood pact. You fight to elevate their name or die trying. Matches include one-on-one duels, house-versus-house team fights, and the infamous Hazard Rounds—"

"Hazard rounds?" Lyra asked, eyes narrowing.

"Picture this," Blackrat said, "a pit filled with shifting stone platforms, fire-spewing runes, or beasts released mid-fight.

Sometimes, the very ground you stand on tries to kill you. I’ve seen fighters swallowed by the earth or impaled by falling spears of ice. It’s theater—and execution."

Lyra smirked. "So... fun."

Blackrat continued. "Out of the bloodbath, only twenty fighters ascend—these are the elite, chosen for The League of Champions. That’s where the real games begin."

---

"The League of Champions is no longer about survival. It’s about legacy," he said, his tone sharpening.

"Every match is announced weeks ahead. The whole city prepares. Custom armor, arcane enchantments, sigils, fanfare—hell, the arena itself is reshaped to suit each match."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Reshaped?"

"Aye—that’s what they do now," Blackrat nodded. "One week, it’s a swamp. The next, a ruin of frozen stone. Each battle becomes myth. And the Arena Champion? The one who survives them all? That title holds weight enough to make the Council blink."

Velrosa interjected, voice calm but steely.

"That title is our goal. When we defeats the current Champion, we’ll invoke the Champion’s Right. A forgotten clause buried in the city’s founding laws. It will force the Council to acknowledge House Elarin—publicly. And politically. Even they can’t ignore the Champion’s Word."

Blackrat nodded in agreement. "But to get there, you have to survive long enough to matter."

---

"What else happens in this arena?" Caelen asked.

"Plenty," Blackrat said. "Chariot Races—lethal games with sabotage encouraged. Beast Waves—where fighters go in solo and try to outlast increasingly horrific creatures, some twisted by magecraft. Mage Duels, though rare, pit spellcasters in regulated combat. And let’s not forget public executions. Esgard loves a good spectacle—especially if it ends in blood."

Lyra, curious and amused, spoke up. "How involved are the noble houses?"

"Deeply," Blackrat replied. "They rise and fall with their fighters. A string of losses and your house is seen as weak—prey. But win enough, and you can bankrupt a rival overnight. Prestige, contracts, marriages, land—all are wagered on the outcome of blood."

He pointed toward the top of the scroll, where golden thrones hovered in an arc above the colosseum.

"The Sky Thrones. Reserved for the ruling houses. They watch from above, quite literally playing gods as gladiators kill for their entertainment."

"And the common folk?" Lyra asked.

"Arena days are holy to them," Blackrat chuckled. "Shops close. Streets flood with banners. Children play mock battles, chanting the names of champions. Merchants sell enchanted trinkets—blood-charmed scrolls, masks, mini-statues. The Crucible is Esgard."

"Then there’s the betting," he added, his voice darkening. "Officially, it’s now regulated by The House of Scales, a vaulted gambling hall beneath the arena. But that’s just surface-level. The real wealth flows through the Underground Wagers. It’s a criminal empire."

He looked at Velrosa meaningfully.

"One we may soon control."

Ian leaned forward with a smile. "So we commit old sins."

Velrosa gave a faint nod. "Yes. If the nobles play with loaded dice, so shall we. Rat’s already mapping the key players."

"I’ve cracked two nodes already," Rat said. "Three more and we can start bankrupting specific houses. Bleed their resources dry."

Caelen frowned. "And when they notice?"

"They’ll be too busy losing honor in the arena to act," Velrosa replied. "That’s the beauty of this. Each loss you three delivers is both literal and symbolic. With the crowd behind us and their coin slipping through their fingers, we break their influence bit by bit."

---

Blackrat walked to the final section of the map and tapped a few key locations:

The Black Gate – "Where fighters enter. Covered in soul-steel. They say it whispers to those marked by death."

The Bone Pits – "A mass grave below the sands. Failed gladiators tossed like trash. Some say their spirits linger."

The Sigil Forge – "Where weapons are blessed, cursed, or both. Mage-smiths work in shifts, day and night." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

The Vault of Names – "Every past Champion’s name carved in obsidian. A place of honor... or warning."

---

The room fell silent. Outside, the distant silence of the Crucible echoed like a thunderclap—calling them.

Velrosa broke the quiet. "Now you understand. We’re not just fighting in the sand. We’re shaping history."

Her eyes swept the room.

"Ian will lead the charge. Caelen, Lyra—you will follow. Every match is a message. Every death a declaration. The arena is not only a battlefield. It’s a throne. And we mean to claim it."

Lyra grinned. "I’m getting excited just thinking about it,"

Caelen cleared his throat. "When do we start?"

Velrosa’s voice was ice.

"soon."