Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 145: Drumbeat of Dread

Two days.

Two days until the Crucible opened and blood was cast like wine across its sands.

Esgard felt it.

The entire city throbbed like wound, raw and exposed beneath a sky ablaze with tension. Every breath carried weight.

Every glance lingered too long.

The capital of spectacle was holding its breath—not in mourning, nor joy—but fear.

Because something old was coming back.

And this time, it wasn’t returning quietly.

By morning, the main gates of the Arena were already flanked by dozens of makeshift tents.

Vendors set up ramshackle stalls painted in ash and crimson, offering hand-carved bone effigies of Ian, wooden replicas of Veyne’s sword, and spiced meat roasted over hellfire coals they claimed were blessed by battle priests.

The air outside the Crucible district buzzed like a hive.

Laughter. Gambling. Arguing. Prayers.

More prayers than there should have been.

But beneath it all—expectation.

Old men with coin-stained fingers clutched books of odds, their eyes bloodshot and darting. Women in silks whispered legends to street urchins, retelling the tale of the man who raised a beast from bone and grey flame.

Bards composed songs not yet ended, knowing they might have to rewrite the final verse depending on whose blood colored the sand.

In the back alleys, Blackrat’s spies whispered rumors designed to stir frenzy.

They said Ian’s daggers had tasted the blood of champions at the reach.

That his undead companions had been spotted prowling rooftops. That Velrosa had wagered her entire estate on the outcome.

True or not—it didn’t matter.

Belief did the work for them.

And it sold fast.

In the shadow markets beneath Hollow Street, underground stalls brimmed with cursed charms and fake relics said to be pieces of Ian’s armor, dried blood from his first kill, or stolen fingernails from Veyne’s training pit.

Prices soared.

Theft soared higher.

Bodies occasionally turned up near the sewers, stripped of valuables, faces carved into grins.

---

The Council of Nine met in a quiet side chamber beneath the Grand Palace.

No ceremony. No guards. Just tension.

Lady Morravel was first to speak, fingers clinking against her jeweled goblet.

"If he wins, Elarin rises. That girl’s influence grows. And the betting syndicates shift overnight."

Lord Durnhal gave a snort, leaning back with a clatter of chainmail. "So what? One win against won’t change a thing, we’ll put thw dog down eventually."

"You didn’t put him down last time," said Prince Liam Xavier softly. His voice was calm, but cold. "Nor did any of us. He vanished after turning House Lugard’s champion into dust and swearing a cursed oath if blood."

"He’s a weapon," murmured Archmage Serel Vaunt, her silver eyes unreadable. "But weapons are not wielded easily. I’ve read the threads—what follows him is not mere skill. If he fights we may watch for infringements...things to hold against him."

Lord Kaelthorn, steward of the Arena and keeper of beasts, allowed himself a crooked smile. "Anyhow he returns to my domain. Good."

Even the Grand Priest Eltharion Vale of the Sanctum remained uncharacteristically quiet.

But his golden ring, marked with the Eye of Illumination, was turned inward on his hand.

A sign of watching.

---

In the barracks scattered across the outer rings, the mood soured.

Contenders who had traveled across kingdoms to prove their worth now found themselves ignored.

No names were being sung save two: Ian, the Demon of the Crucible, and Veyne, the upstart firebrand who dared challenge him.

It stung.

For gladiators like Fenna the Red Widow, a spell-scarred battlemage from the Eastern Havens, it was infuriating.

She cracked her staff against stone pillars, screaming at handlers who dared call her "second-tier."

For the twin brothers of House Drast, known as The Bleeding Blades, it bred plotting.

They spoke in low tones about sabotaging Elarin’s equipment, hiring cutpurses, poisoning couriers.

A lesser man might have laughed it off.

But the Arena had no rules until the gates were sealed.

And hate was a currency spent freely.

In the private training chamber given to him by House Briarhymn, Veyne Trask struck his blade again and again into the obsidian effigy of a beast.

Each blow rang like a bell toll.

His body gleamed with sweat. His breath came in sharp snarls.

But his mind... wandered.

Flames. Screams.

The desert winds of the Wastes howling across dead cities. The moment he killed his own master for the right to escape the pits of Galveston.

The children they left behind.

The promise he made to never be overshadowed again.

He snarled and struck harder.

Again.

And again.

Ian.

He hadn’t seen him.

Not once. Not even a silhouette.

The bastard hadn’t showed his face, hadn’t spoken a word.

But the city burned for him.

Veyne punched the effigy so hard it cracked. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

"Show yourself," he growled under his breath. "Bleed for me."

But even he, continued to wonder:

Could he win?

---

Beneath the estate of House Elarin, the only ones who saw Ian in those two days were Velrosa and Eli.

Eli watched in silence beside him.

No words passed between them. Just the hum of daggers, the pulse of necrotic mana, the subtle shimmer of corruption held tightly at bay.

The air around Ian sometimes shimmered. His very presence left condensation on the walls.

Velrosa watched from the corridor, arms folded.

She didn’t speak either. She didn’t need to.

When Ian meditated, bones stirred in the dark corners of the chamber, clattering softly.

When he exhaled, it smelled faintly of iron and grave-soil.

This was not the same man who had entered Esgard all those months ago.

She wondered if Veyne knew what he had summoned.

If the city did.

---

Midnight.

A figure slipped past the outer wards of the estate.

They wore the black robes of a servant from House Saan. A sigil ring marked with the rose-and-vine crest. But their steps were too precise.

Their scent too still.

Sanctum-trained.

The spy reached the third floor of the estate, bypassing guards, shadows pooling around him as if welcoming.

He was seeking a door.

Ian’s door.

He found it.

Reached for the handle—

It opened before he touched it.

And Ian stood there.

No armor. No weapon.

Just a linen shirt, dark trousers.

And eyes like dead winter.

The spy froze.

Ian didn’t speak for a full breath.

Then:

"Looking for me?"

The spy began to reach for a dagger.

Ian moved.

One step. One blur. One sound like bone tearing silk.

And then the spy was hanging—by the throat—above the stone floor.

Ian didn’t squeeze.

He leaned in, voice a whisper of knives.

"Go back and tell them I’m real. Tell them to send someone better next time."

The man gasped.

Ian dropped him.

He hit the floor with a wet thud.

Began crawling away.

"Matter of fact, just die" Ian turned away.

Behind him a shadow appeared, impaled the man with a great sword and disappeared again.

The spy was dead.