Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 66: A Friendly Warning

The sun had barely risen, yet the city already swayed with life. Along the twisting cobblestone streets of the Lower Ring, and even in the bronze-crowned balconies of the middle districts, the same name passed from lip to lip.

The demonblade.

Whispers carried his tale like disease.

A man who could not die.

A shadow who fought with twin daggers made from a beast’s bones.

He bled black, they said.

Drank the essence of every man he killed, they claimed. Even children spoke his name with awe and fear, mimicking his imagined strikes with sticks and broom handles.

But behind the spectacle, behind the myths spun by commoners and drunkards, there was precision.

And behind the precision was Blackrat.

His men worked like insects — small, unnoticed, but devastating when swarming in unison. From the smoky betting taverns in the pit district to the high-stakes lounges where merchant son’s gambled away legacies, Rat’s crew was there. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Each had a tale, a whispered half-truth about Ian’s weaknesses.

"He’s cursed," one of Rat’s informants told a betting broker in a dusky corner of the Obsidian Horn.

"He doesn’t sleep, you know that? It’s the voices. Drives him mad. This next fight, he’s up against someone from the Korran Isles — bladesingers. You know what that means."

Elsewhere, another man in a wine-red coat leaned toward a scribe taking odds and murmured, "Saw him twitchin’ before his last fight. Mana sickness, probably. He’s too far gone to make it past this round."

The goal was simple: to inflate the odds as much as possible without raising suspicion.

Make Ian look vulnerable. Human. Flawed.

But even with all their effort, the system didn’t bite fully. Blackrat returned just past midday, sweat slicked beneath his fur-lined collar.

"They released the odds," he said, a breath of both relief and frustration escaping his lips. "Three to one. Highest we could push it."

Velrosa, seated at her desk surrounded by ledgers and war maps, looked up slowly. Her blue eyes didn’t blink.

"That will do."

Ian, lounging against the wall with arms crossed, arched a brow.

"Three to one? That’s it? Feels way too low."

Rat frowned. "They’re cautious. You’re too visible now. Can’t make you a long shot without looking like they’re fixing the odds."

"And if we dump three million gold on that?" Ian asked, his tone somewhere between amusement and warning.

"It won’t be suspicious," Rat assured. "Everyone’s betting on you. You’re the rising myth. People think you’re a demon wrapped in human flesh. We just spread the bets across enough houses. They’ll never trace it back to us."

Velrosa nodded slowly. "Then do it. Elise—see him out without being seen."

Elise, who stood as still as a marble statue behind her, gave a small nod and turned to Rat.

"Follow me."

Once the door shut behind them, Velrosa leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the polished obsidian desk.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she exhaled slowly, deeply.

Then, something shifted.

It was like the wind itself moved unnaturally—like a breath exhaled by the stone.

She didn’t even hear his steps—only the sensation that something wrong had entered the space.

And when she looked up—

A man stood before her. Entirely clad in black, hood drawn low, not even his eyes visible beneath the layers.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

But he was already dead.

Because Ian stood behind him, Vowbreaker, pressed gently against the side of the man’s neck. A single drop of blood formed at the edge, trembling like dew on a blade of grass.

"Don’t move," Ian said quietly. "Don’t even breathe. Or it’ll be the last one you take."

The man remained utterly still.

A shadow frozen by another.

Velrosa’s gaze fell to the envelope held in the intruder’s gloved hand. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the wax seal — a black iris over a silver flame.

"The Mistress of shadows," she said.

Ian’s eyes flicked to her.

"It’s fine," Velrosa murmured. "Let him go."

Ian hesitated, then eased the blade back with a cold breath against the man’s ear. The figure did not flinch, only stepped forward and placed the envelope neatly upon the desk.

"A message," he said, voice like wind over glass. "From the Ninth Chair."

And then he was gone.

Just as he’d arrived. Vanishing into nothingness.

Velrosa stared at the envelope.

A moment passed before her fingers reached out, breaking the seal with a deliberate crack.

She unfolded the letter and read in silence, her expression unreadable, but the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed the storm that rumbled beneath her skin.

Her eyes moved back and forth across the page.

Once. Twice.

Then she read aloud.

> "Leonard and the Council know you staked on blood you should only provide."

> "The Church knows your slave is a man that wields a long extinct bloodline, and they want him."

> "They have readied to attack—not with blades of steel, but politics and law. So even Eli’s strength will fail to shield you."

> "Prepare... princess of exile. Your downfall seems nearer than ever."

The words hung in the room like smoke after fire.

Ian straightened from the wall. His voice was soft, but sharp as ever.

"So they do know everything."

Velrosa folded the letter slowly, deliberately.

"Yes,"

"They’re saying I’ve violated sacred law," she added. "I’m only meant to provide a fighter to the League. Not bet on him.That would violate the accords."

Eli leaned against the wall, golden eyes unreadable. "And if the Sanctum wants Ian..."

"They won’t come for him with blades," Velrosa murmured. "They’ll come with chains of holy writ. Call it demonic interference. Bloodline perversion. Warlock corruption. They’ll drag him through trials until they can justify a public execution or worse...private cleansing."

Eli sighed.

"If the Ninth Chair is sending veiled warnings, then it’s worse than we thought. If the Council turns political heat on us, the arena won’t protect you anymore."

Velrosa didn’t look up.

Her gaze remained fixed on the now-closed letter.

"It seems it may soon be time..."