Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 151: The Message

What was the point of this?

This battle.

This spectacle.

This opera of blood and silence, of smoke and screams.

What was the point of raising the stakes so high, only for the match to collapse like a gutted beast?

Veyne—killer of the Eastern Wastes, the unbeaten pit-born, the man who forged his name in agony—had been dismantled like an afterthought. As if he were nothing more than a decaying scarecrow tossed into the maw of a hurricane.

His legend snuffed out in minutes.

No. Seconds.

Even now, as the coliseum echoed with the shrieks of triumph and horror, as nobles toasted and gamblers cackled and commoners roared for the blood they’d been promised—

The question lingered. Unspoken. Heavy in the air like smoke after a funeral pyre.

What was the point?

Why fanfare a storm, only to unleash a butcher’s knife?

Why build tension like a playwright, only to have the curtain fall in a single, brutal act?

Some claimed it was overkill.

That Ian had gone too far. That this was not a duel but an execution, staged under moonlight and spectacle.

Others whispered Ian was mocking the League. That he’d made a mockery of all of them.

That he’d shattered the illusion of the arena, broken its unspoken code of honor and escalation.

But in truth, the answer was simple.

To send a message.

A message that didn’t need to be written in banners or spoken from the stands. That didn’t need a herald to scream it through brass horns or a noble to declare it over wine.

It had been carved into bone.

Spilled across the sands in arterial arcs.

Writ in screams and silence alike.

A message not just to the crowd. Not just to the Council.

But to every powerbroker in Esgard.

To the syndicates, to the noble bloodlines, to the arena champions licking their wounds behind velvet masks.

A terrible beast has returned.

And House Elarin controls it.

---

Far from the roaring coliseum, in a quieter part of the city, the rooftops watched in silence.

No cheering. No clamor.

Just the hush of stone and dusk and the occasional flutter of pigeons disturbed by distant thunder.

Perched atop a jagged slate roof, Blackrat crouched, hands buried in the pockets of his ash-gray coat, his frame still as a gargoyle.

His ratlike grin was absent—replaced by tight-lipped calculation. The kind of expression that meant deals were being shaped in the back of his mind, one after another.

The scent of burning oil and incense from a nearby temple reached him as Kessa emerged behind him.

Her silhouette was slim and precise.

Every step she took was careful. No wasted motion.

She wore a charcoal cloak marked with discreet sigils of coin and contract—unassuming to the untrained eye, but unmistakable to those who dealt in shadow.

"Well?" Blackrat asked without turning. "What’s the haul?"

Kessa flipped open a parchment scroll, her voice brisk but clipped.

"We raked in seven million gold across all fronts. Multiple odds spikes, surging bets in the final hour. Even had late-stage wagers from House Vallis insiders who were so sure we’d rigged the fight in Veyne’s favor."

He chuckled, low and raspy. "Poor bastards."

Her face tightened.

"But we also cost three noble houses a combined twelve million. House Berreth alone is down six. Their estate’s holdings won’t survive the quarter without a miracle."

Blackrat’s eyes narrowed. "Berreth, huh?"

Kessa nodded once. "They sold off portions of their blackstone mines for liquid betting capital. They were that sure of Veyne."

The grin crept back, slow and gleaming.

"Then they’re the ones."

He stood, brushing a fleck of soot from his sleeve as if it offended him.

"We gut them. Quietly. Buy up their debt from the lower banks before they even realize they’re bleeding. Then squeeze. Let them think the noose is velvet until they feel the break. And gather the boys. We’ll pay their shops and shipping yards a visit."

His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the last golden flare of sunlight bled behind the coliseum’s towers.

"Ian just handed us a corpse and lit a fire. Let’s make sure the smoke blows the right way."

Kessa gave a sharp nod and melted back into the shadows.

---

The sands were still slick with blood.

Ian didn’t hurry as he walked.

He never did.

Every step carried weight. Measured. Intentional. Like a pendulum cutting seconds from fate itself.

His boots left crimson prints behind him—scars pressed into the arena floor.

A trail of quiet ruin.

The crowd’s roar was fading now. No longer the blinding sound of celebration, but the unsettled murmur of awe.

Of fear. Of disbelief muttering in a thousand voices at once.

He could feel it.

Not their eyes.

Their doubt.

Not in him. But in everything else.

In the illusion of strength. In the champions they’d believed in. In the order of things.

He passed Veyne’s body without a glance. The once-great warrior lay like a crumpled statue, limbs splayed, mouth frozen mid-snarl.

The healers hadn’t moved him.

Some part of them still seemed paralyzed—bound by the gravity of what had happened.

Because this wasn’t just defeat.

This was erasure.

And up in the noble stands, no one dared to mock House Elarin now.

Not a single jeer. Not a single scoff.

They had seen something unholy.

And knew better than to speak.

As Ian reached the tunnel—its rusted steel gates yawning like the mouth of some great beast—he felt the shift in air.

A shape waited just beyond the arch.

A boy.

No... a young man. Perhaps twenty. Broad shoulders. Golden skin. Wild green eyes burning with hunger.

He leaned against the stone wall, fists clenched, breath shallow. A tremor ran through him—not of fear.

Of desire.

He had watched the entire fight from the section reserved for rising League hopefuls. Young fighters. Ambitious. Unblooded.

Now...

He had seen the peak.

He had seen him.

"Ian," the boy murmured under his breath, almost reverently. "They call you a monster. But I see it. You’re the gate."

The threshold to something higher. Something holier. Or something worthy.

As Ian passed, the boy didn’t move.

But his heart thundered in his chest.

He gritted his teeth.

"One day," he whispered, voice low but certain, "I’ll walk out of that sand with your blood on my hands."

But Ian didn’t turn.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t even hear it.

Or maybe...

He did hear.

And simply didn’t care.

Because it didn’t matter who came for him in this Crucible.

They’d die all the same.