Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The door creaked shut behind Ian, the cold air slicing skin. For a moment, the room was silent—tense and uncertain.

Then the scrape of chairs.

Shuffling boots.

Steel whispering from sheaths.

"This a sign," one of them muttered. A hunched brute with scarred knuckles and rotted teeth. "Shouldn't have let this bastard walk outta here anyhow…"

He pointed at Ian, thinking the gold has been hidden in his clothing somehow.

"If we all split that there gold he's holding," the brute continued, voice gaining momentum, "we'd all have more money than our entire generations. No more piss jobs. No more sleeping in muck!"

Weapons emerged from beneath cloaks and tattered coats—shortswords, clubs, old axes, broken spears.

Greed had taken them.

That intoxicating promise of coin and a better life clouded all good sense.

Ian didn't even look surprised.

"Nothing wrong with dying ambitious," he muttered.

Then he blurred.

The first man who lunged at him didn't even register the movement. Ian sidestepped, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and drove a dagger up into the man's jaw.

Bone cracked.

Blood geysered.

The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Two more rushed him from the sides. Ian twisted, his cloak flaring. One received a boot to the knee, the joint shattering with a wet pop, sending the attacker screaming to the floor.

The second's neck was seized and crushed against the edge of a table—skull splitting like fruit on impact.

A sword sliced through the air where Ian had been a second earlier. He rolled beneath it, came up behind the wielder, and slit his throat from ear to ear.

Blood spilled in an arc across the wall, painting the betting odds board in wet crimson.

They screamed then—not in fear, but in a frenzied chorus of survival and desperation.

Tables overturned.

Mugs shattered.

The tavern transformed into a blood-soaked dance hall.

Ian moved like smoke.

Like death given flesh.

One came at him with a spear. Ian ducked, caught the haft, and spun it around, driving the blunt end into the man's mouth with enough force to crack teeth and tear through cheek.

Then, using the same weapon, he drove the sharp end into the stomach of a second attacker behind him.

The man wailed, clutching at his guts as they spilled out in steaming ropes.

Ian didn't stop.

He pivoted, slamming a table leg into another man's face, collapsing his skull inward with a sickening crunch. Another swung a chain at Ian's head, but Ian caught it mid-air, yanked the man forward, and buried his dagger into the side of his neck, twisting as he pulled it free.

Blood sprayed across the lanterns, dimming their glow.

A man screamed and charged with a fire poker, only to find Ian already beside him. A sharp elbow shattered his nose, and Ian drove a broken bottle into his throat.

The man fell backward, choking on his own blood.

More came. Always more.

Ian fought without pause, without mercy.

He was tireless. Efficient. Brutal.

One tried to run—Ian threw his dagger, pinning the man's leg to the floor. Another tried to surrender, only to find Ian's blade in his heart, eyes wide with betrayal.

There would be no survivors. No witnesses.

By the time it ended, Ian stood in the center of the tavern. Twenty corpses surrounded him. Some lay in pools of their own blood, others half-slashed and twitching as their final breaths slipped from broken lungs.

The dark wood of the tavern was now painted deep, glistening red.

Ian exhaled.

A long, tired sigh.

His cloak dripped, soaked with blood not his own. The floor was slick beneath his boots, sticky with congealing gore.

And yet… one man still lived.

At the far end of the room, untouched by the chaos, sat the lean newcomer—the man who had emerged earlier with a coin pouch in hand and a grin that never quite faded.

He sat at his table, sipping his liquor, eyes calm, watching Ian with something between curiosity and resignation.

The same pouch of gold placed neatly on the table before him.

Ian stepped over the corpses, boots squelching in the blood.

He pulled out a chair across from the man and sat down, pushing the pouch aside with a finger.

"Apologies," Ian said, glancing around at the carnage. "Sometimes the job tends to get… dirty."

"No," the lean man replied, swirling his glass. "I understand."

Ian chuckled lightly. "Don't you wonder why you're still alive?"

The man's lips twitched. "I presume you're about to tell me, aren't you… Mr. Night?"

Ian tilted his head, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Then he let out a short laugh.

"They did say you were a sharp one."

He leaned forward.

"Let me see your palm."

The man hesitated, brows furrowed, but extended his hand.

Before he could react, Ian's own hand shot out. A dagger pierced the man's palm, pinning it to the table with a crack of splintering wood.

The man didn't scream. But his body trembled, and a guttural grunt of pain escaped his clenched teeth.

"No, don't do that…" Ian whispered, locking eyes with him. "Come on, breathe."

The man stared back in agony.

"Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale."

The man obeyed, ragged breaths steadying under Ian's command. Blood oozed from his impaled hand, trailing across the table.

Ian reached into thin air—his inventory—and pulled a cigarette from a black box, tapping it against the lid before placing it between his lips.

"You know," he said, lighting the cigarette with a flick of flame, "I've been cut and bruised enough to realize pain is a pointless feeling. Only worth as much as you let it be."

He took a long drag, exhaled.

"But for most men, pain is transformative. It strips away bravado. Reduces them to truth."

He leaned down, face inches from the man's.

"However, I know you're no ordinary man. You don't break so easily."

Ian gripped the dagger, yanked it free in one swift motion.

The man hissed, clutching his bleeding palm.

"So where does that leave you?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Ian stood, smoke curling from his lips. "Having to stoop even lower."

He turned, eyes glinting. "After all… what's more perfect a weakness of a man than love?"

The man froze. His breath hitched.

"You… bastard," he muttered.

Ian smiled coldly. "She's a beautiful woman, I must say."

"Stop talking."

"I saw her just before I came here. Fresh from the market. Big smile. So safe… so secure."

"Stop talking!"

"I find what you do admirable, honestly," Ian said. "She lives in peace, in comfort, far from the filth of this place. And you… you make it happen. You suffer, so she doesn't have to."

The man slammed his bleeding fist on the table. "What do you want?!"

"Good," Ian replied, flicking the cigarette away.

"I want you to understand the consequences of squealing about House Elarin involvement in betting and we want money. Lots of it."

"I don't have any. Your payout already ruined this bookie."

Ian shook his head. "We don't want your money."

He leaned in.

"We want the money of other bookies. The ones in the well-off districts."

The man narrowed his eyes. "What are you planning?"

Ian's smile widened. A grin of wicked delight and dangerous purpose.

"I'm planning to burn Esgard's betting empire to the ground…"