Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 146: A Rat’s Game

Meanwhile.

In the veins of Esgard where light dared not tread, where coin ruled louder than law and loyalty, Blackrat moved like smoke.

He wore no branding. No colors.

No title to announce him. But everyone knew.

The man with the shark grin and the night-colored eyes.

The one who made paupers kings and kings beggars.

They called him the Blackrat not for filth or fear, but for his survival. Rats thrive in rot, breed beneath empire, and live long enough to watch giants fall.

And Blackrat intended to live a little longer still.

---

He moved through the betting halls like a whisper dressed in gold thread.

Not all at once—never that.

That was how fools were noticed.

No, Blackrat was method.

Pattern. Patience.

First, he visited The Pale Mare, a lesser-known betting den tucked behind the tannery district.

It reeked of sweat and cheap resin, but its books were tied to House Yvain’s private ledgers. He met with the hall master, an old man with a clouded eye and a penchant for blasphemous jokes.

"Odds still favor Veyne?" Blackrat asked, sliding a sealed scroll onto the man’s table.

"Aye. City’s mad for the lad. Think he’s some kind of chosen. Plus most don’t think Ian will show."

Blackrat smiled faintly.

"Then let them bet their all. Here’s what you do..."

He leaned in. Whispered poison into the old man’s ear.

Promises of shared profits.

Rigged injury reports.

Rumors to be seeded in the gambling stalls before dusk. By the time Blackrat stood and left, The Pale Mare’s ledgers were already adjusting.

Next came The Hanging Coin, a high-class establishment where noble whispers weighed more than coin.

Their odds didn’t move with the wind—they moved with intent. Owned quietly by House Volmir, the Coin had always been hostile to Elarin’s revival.

Blackrat arrived dressed in merchant’s silk, not a trace of dirt on his boots.

"I represent a small trade guild in the east," he lied smoothly to the bookmaker, a man named Galbreth who loved wine and flattery.

They spoke of spice trade and tariffs. Of copper routes and false embargoes.

But eventually, Blackrat leaned close.

"We hear Veyne’s been training with forbidden magic. Tearing himself apart to win."

Galbreth blinked.

"Where’d you hear that?"

"Doesn’t matter. What matters is—if he doesn’t show... or loses ugly? And your odds favored him? The House loses face. And gold. A lot of gold."

Galbreth paled slightly.

Blackrat left behind a forged physician’s letter hinting at Veyne’s deteriorating state. Hours later, The Hanging Coin quietly altered the payout ratio. More favorable to Ian.

More dangerous for House Volmir.

---

Across one day, Blackrat’s agents moved through the city like spiders threading a web no one could see.

They seeded false injuries.

They bribed Arena scribes to report a fake outcome of Ian’s past matches.

They had tavern bards sing songs that made Veyne sound desperate, unstable, overconfident.

Each whisper, each nod, each scrap of rumor—

Pulled odds.

Moved coin.

Until the gambling markets of Esgard—legal and otherwise—were shifting like tectonic plates.

---

At one point, his lieutenant—a wiry woman named Kessa—approached him in the depths of their safehouse beneath Hollow Street.

"We’ve got House Durnhal tied up through proxy bets. They’re too proud to pull out now."

"And the Saan?"

"Hooked. Their priestlings bet fifty thousand gold through Veiled Chalice accounts. All on Veyne."

Blackrat sat back, fingers steepled. His grin was sharp.

"Then it’s done. They can’t pivot now without raising questions."

"And if Veyne actually wins?"

Blackrat’s eyes narrowed.

"He won’t."

Kessa didn’t push further. She knew better.

But in the silence that followed, she realized something unsettling—

Blackrat wasn’t just confident.

He was certain.

It wasn’t just money Blackrat aimed to move. It was power.

He knew how tightly the noble houses clung to their ledgers. Some of the oldest families had survived rebellions, assassinations, and bloodline curses—but they had never survived a full financial collapse.

Gold was the real god in Esgard.

And Blackrat had become its high priest.

By the end of the second day, he had agents embedded in eight betting houses, five merchant guilds, and two noble stewards responsible for wager tallies.

He sent one final message to his oldest contact in House Elarin’s inner circle.

A sealed note. Nothing extravagant.

"Odds bleed. The Rat delivers."

---

Somewhere deep in the marble halls of House Volmir, Lady Alurelle read the morning’s final odds tally and snapped the stem of her wineglass.

"This is madness," she hissed.

Her steward bowed low.

"The people are wagering on Ian at a 2:1 now. It’s... irreversible, my lady. If he wins, we’ll be paying out more than the quarter revenues of our salt mines."

"Who did this?" she growled.

But the question was rhetorical.

Somewhere out there, in the gutters and the crawlspaces and the candle-lit ledgers...

The Rat was laughing.

---

As the sun began to dip on the eve of the match, Blackrat stood atop the crumbling watchtower of Old Vale—a forgotten spire that once guarded Esgard’s southern flank.

He watched as flickering torches lit the approach roads.

He heard the songs. The chants. The chants.

"Ian... Ian... Ian..."

Not screamed.

Chanted.

Like a name carved on the altar of something ancient.

Kessa joined him.

"All’s in place," she said, tossing a ledger at his feet. "If he wins, we make enough to break half the bastards grip."

"And if he dies?" Blackrat asked, his voice calm.

Kessa hesitated.

"We still gain. Just less."

Blackrat smiled faintly.

"But I want more than gold."

He looked to the north—toward the estate of House Elarin.

Toward the man no one had seen... yet everyone feared.

"The princess wants fear to have a name again," he said.

Kessa didn’t reply.

She didn’t have to.

Because far below them, the crowds chanted.

The odds had turned.

The trap was set.

And in the Crucible, blood was waiting.

Tomorrow, the Demon returned.

And soon the Rat would make them rich enough to crown or ruin empires.