Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 147: Hollow Before The Storm

The Crucible had never known silence.

It was a living thing—a beast of stone and blood and steel that fed on screams and coin. But today, on the morning of the blood match, it did not roar.

It churned. It waited. It hungered.

In ways it hadn’t done before.

Not until today.

Before the sun had kissed the spires of Esgard, the streets were already swelling.

Thousands pressed through the colonnades and merchant alleys like veins flooding toward a beating heart. Some came to cheer. Others to gamble.

Most simply to witness the return of a myth.

To say they had seen him.

To say they had been there.

To say they had watched him return.

Ian. The Demon of House Elarin.

By midmorning, every gate into the Crucible was clogged with bodies. Vendors bellowed over one another, slinging meat skewers, forged sigils, and bone tokens etched with Ian’s name. Blood-paint stained the air with iron and spice.

Children sprinted between legs, laughing through crude skull-shaped masks.

Old women clutched charms and whispered half-remembered prayers.

And outside the obsidian pillars, pilgrims squatted in ragged circles—too poor to buy passage, too faithful to leave.

Even in the Crucible’s shadow, they waited.

Because rumors had teeth.

And in Esgard, the sharpest fang belonged to a man no one had seen in months.

---

Above the madness, nestled in marble-curved balconies draped in silk and shadow, the nobles gathered.

House Durnhal huddled like vultures, whispering over ledgers and debt scrolls.

Lady Alurelle of House Volmir wore black today, her gaze lidded with disdain as she cradled a goblet of untouched white wine.

To her left, the Sixth Chair—Lady Velmira Saan—fanned herself nervously, eyes darting.

"You think he’ll show?" she murmured.

"Of course," her steward replied without hesitation.

She didn’t look convinced. "He’s one for spectacle," she muttered. "That much is true."

At the far end, the Prince of House Xavier arrived late—cloaked in ivory and gold, a trail of attendants behind him.

He spoke to no one. His gaze wandered over the arena floor like a king surveying a battlefield.

And across from them all, in the balcony wrapped in midnight and silver, Velrosa Lionarde sat like a statue carved from moonlight.

Eli stood just behind her, arms crossed, dreadlocks catching glints of sun. His expression was carved from ice.

Velrosa didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

But her silence was a weapon. And the Council was watching.

---

A fanfare of horns.

The Crucible gates groaned open like the jaws of an old beast.

And through them strode a single figure.

Veyne.

Bare-chested. Crimson bandages wound around his forearms and ribs like warpaint. Gold glinted in his eyes beneath the sun, and the crowd rose for him—cheering, chanting, howling.

He raised one hand.

The Crucible fell quiet.

"I am Veyne of Vaelhold!" he bellowed, voice sharp as steel, loud enough to rattle teeth. "I’ve crossed mountains. I’ve slain beasts with names older than stone. And I’ve come here to face the one they call Demon."

He paused.

Then turned, slowly—theatrically—toward the north gate.

The black gate.

Carved from steel and bone.

"If Ian is as strong as they say," Veyne roared, "then let him come face me. Now!"

The Crucible held its breath.

Thousands of eyes locked onto that gate.

But nothing moved.

No hinges creaked. No shadows stirred.

Only stillness.

Even the wind seemed to quiet.

Seconds stretched.

Whispers spread like rot in damp corners.

"...is he not coming?"

"...maybe it was a trick—"

"...just another ghost story—"

These came from the ones new to the arena.

The ones who hadn’t seen Ian fight.

Veyne lowered his hand. His grin widened like a knife unsheathed.

He turned—deliberate, slow—until he faced the noble balcony of House Elarin.

"You sit there, all silver and grace," he called, eyes locked on Velrosa. "You think shadows and stories can win your wars for you."

He jabbed a finger toward her.

"We know he’s in the city. The betting halls are bleeding his name. The taverns are thick with tales. And yet..."

He spread his arms.

"...he doesn’t come."

Another pause.

The crowd rippled. Confusion. Murmurs. Doubt.

"...is he afraid?"

"...why wouldn’t he show—"

"...maybe he’s injured—"

Veyne stepped forward, voice growing sharper, crueler.

"He fears me! That’s what this is!"

He roared now, lifting both fists.

"I’ve trained under high mages! I’ve crushed skulls in the Crucibles of the Eastern Wastes! I am not some pampered noble’s pet—I am a warrior! And Ian—"

He spat into the dust.

"—is a ghost. A tale for fools."

The Crucible stirred.

Not with cheers.

With noise.

A rising tide of voices.

Confusion. Curiosity.

Hunger.

The kind of hunger that only blood could feed.

Velrosa remained unmoved.

But Eli leaned forward.

And whispered.

Something short. Something quiet.

Veyne walked the ring now, a king with no crown, his arms spread to the sky.

"They called this a blood match!" he screamed. "Where is the blood? Where is the terror?! I was promised war!"

His voice cracked on the edge of fury.

"Let him rot in his manor! Let him drown in his cowardice! I’ll break every fool they send until there’s no one left to stand!"

The Crucible vibrated now. A storm of noise with no name.

Veyne’s chest heaved.

His heart thundered.

Then—

A pause.

Small. Imperceptible.

The kind of pause the body notices before the mind does.

The kind that comes before lightning.

The Crucible began to tilt. Not physically—but in feeling. In weight.

The air grew still.

Too still.

As if even the air had begun to listen.

And then—

They felt it.

Oh, Gods, they felt it.

A pressure.

Like the world had inhaled.

And refused to breathe out.

It wasn’t a sound. Not exactly.

Not a movement.

Just an absence.

Of all that was good.

Veyne frowned.

The crowd stopped mid-chant.

A child dropped her wooden mask.

A wine goblet cracked in a noble’s hand.

And far, far away—behind the black gate carved in steel and bone—something moved.