Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 89: Tavern Of The Damned

The tavern sat like a tumor would— at the edge of the gate camp — crooked walls, broken signage, and a roof stitched with rusted metal plates and scavenged bones.

Smoke poured from shattered windows.

The scent: sweat, blood, and sour ale hit Ian like a fist the moment the doors creaked open.

"Welcome," Lyra said with a grin, sweeping her arm theatrically as they stepped in, "to the end of the world."

Inside, the Tavern of the Damned was alive with chaos.

A bard with a shattered lute played nonsense chords in the corner.

Two masked duelists sparred with daggers atop a bar table.

A woman in gilded armor drank from a horn full of flame. And everywhere — packed elbow to elbow — were killers.

Warriors.

The damned and the damned-willing.

All gathered in this liminal space, standing on the edge of Hellscape, daring it to blink first.

Often times, it never did.

"Gods," Caelen muttered, brushing past a man who was painting glyphs on the floor in blood. "Every year this place gets worse."

Ian’s eyes scanned the room with instinctive detachment.

He saw branded slaves beside mercenary captains. Emaciated monks drinking next to horned men from the deep South.

A tall woman with skin the color of smoke wore nothing but bones and a predator’s smile.

"You sure this is still a good spot to find sanity?" Caelen asked.

Lyra snorted. "Please. We left sanity behind three gates ago."

They made their way to a corner booth partially hidden in shadow, where the table was scarred with blade marks and dried blood.

The noise never stopped — laughter, shouting, someone singing an old imperial war chant while another screamed about the sky falling.

A serving girl with blind eyes approached, wordlessly placing three mugs of murky ale on the table. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"Not bad," Caelen said after a sip. "Tastes like rotted barley and guilt."

"Pairs well with prophecy," Lyra added, clinking her mug against Ian’s, who ignored it.

His eyes remained distant, fixed somewhere beyond the walls, toward the black line that hung in the sky like a divine guillotine — the Black Fall.

"You’ll stare a hole through it," Caelen muttered.

"I intend to," Ian replied quietly.

"Then drink," Lyra insisted, pushing the mug closer. "No one should enter Hellscape sober."

But before he could touch the ale, the tavern doors banged open again.

Five figures stepped in — grim, brutal, and covered in patchwork steel. The crowd parted for them, whispers following in their wake.

Varn-Bloods.

A brutal mercenary band. Known for selling their sword to whoever paid in bodies. Infamous for surviving the Second Reach once, barely, and coming back hungrier than before.

One of them — a tall brute with a missing nose and spike-pierced skin — locked eyes with Ian.

"Well, well," he drawled. "Is that the Demonblade?"

The tavern quieted slightly. Heads turned.

Lyra’s smile froze. Caelen’s fingers dipped toward his sideblade.

Ian said nothing.

"Didn’t expect you to look so... clean," the mercenary sneered, stepping closer. "Word is, you slaughtered half a regiment of church dogs. That true?"

Ian’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t respond.

Another Varn-Blood spoke.

This one was a woman with tattoos etched into her face like runes. "They say you’re touched by death. That your shadow moves on its own."

"No way he’s the real thing," said a third. "Probably some ghost-licking faker riding the name."

Ian stood, slow and cold, but Caelen caught his wrist under the table.

"Not now," Caelen muttered. "It’s bait."

But Lyra was already grinning.

"Hey," she called sweetly, rising from her seat. "I’ve got an idea. How about you dogs crawl back to your pile of bones before he decides to add yours to it?"

The Varn-Blood with no nose took a step forward.

Caelen stood next, stepping between them. His tone, quiet as a knife’s whisper: "I’d rethink that."

The tension snapped tight.

Across the tavern, hands went to blades. Chairs shifted. Bloodlust thickened in the air.

Then—

A loud crash as someone overturned a table, laughing.

The spell broke.

The Varn-Bloods glared for a beat longer, then turned and retreated to the other side of the tavern, muttering curses.

"Idiots," Lyra said, sitting back down and sipping from her mug as if nothing happened.

Caelen exhaled. "You’re going to get us killed."

"Meh," she said, shrugging. "It’s about time we let death have her way with us."

Ian sat again, silent.

The rage still simmered in his eyes, but his face was calm — like a statue carved from ash.

"Now that we’ve made a good impression," Caelen said dryly, "we should probably talk about the real reason we’re here."

Lyra leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone.

"There’s a tournament."

Ian glanced up.

"First Descent Tournament," she went on. "Empire’s way of making a spectacle out of suicide missions. Of all allowed through the Black Fall. Whoever reaches the Heart Relic first in the First Reach wins."

"What do they win?" Ian asked.

"Audience with an Imperial Seer," Caelen answered. "And designation as official Hellwalkers — elite status, access to sanctified artifacts, legal immunity across half the Empire."

Ian’s eyes narrowed. "And why do they want the artifact?"

Caelen shrugged. "Rumors say it’s a Sealstone. Maybe tied to the old gods. Maybe not."

"Either way," Lyra added, "that tournament’s happening in two days at a secret gathering in the first reach. And they won’t let you walk in alone. They’ll make you register as a team or not at all."

"I don’t need a team."

"No," Caelen agreed. "But you need access to the deep reach. And for that... you need us."

Ian considered them both.

Lyra raised her mug again. "C’mon. Don’t look so sour. We’re fun."

You’re bait, Ian thought.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he finally lifted the mug and took a sip. It tasted like rot and smoke.

They finished in silence, save for the chaos around them.

Eventually, they took a room upstairs — a cracked-walled chamber with a view of the black horizon. No one spoke as Ian stood at the window, staring out once more toward the gate.

Behind him, Caelen unstrapped his blade and sat against the wall. Lyra kicked her boots off and flopped onto the bed.

"I hope it kills us quickly," she muttered into the pillow.

Ian didn’t reply.

Outside, in the distance, the Black Fall waited — a line of death drawn across the sky. Soon, he would cross it.

But not yet.

Not tonight.