Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 171: Demon Fights Again!

Velrosa looked to each of them. "We do not falter now. We strike clean. And we do not warn our enemies—we let them rot from the inside."

———

2 Days till Vote.

Esgard thrived beneath a swollen, ash-gray sky.

However not with rush of markets or the calm routine of merchants, but with something slower. Tighter. Like breath held before a scream.

The city always whispered, but today, it did so louder.

In the butcher’s quarter, cleavers slammed down with rhythm, carving through meat and sinew as apprentices barked bets between swings.

Gory hands pointed at chalk boards with odds hastily scratched beside brandings. Above the din, one name kept rising—Ian.

Or more often, The Demon Blade.

"Fifty silver says he doesn’t last five minutes," grunted a thick-chested man as he carved a flank from a hanging carcass.

"Are you mad?" another replied, skinning a bloodied wolfbeast on the slab. "Five minutes? He’ll toy with that ox-bastard. You seen what he did to the other brute when he returned?"

"I seen it," said a third man, voice low and almost reverent. "And I’m still dreamin’ about that kill. By the gods it was exhilarating."

Down in the Dregwalk, between the alley bars and fog-drenched cobblestones, coin changed hands in silence.

Bookkeepers in fine robes slummed down to dirty taverns, desperate to lock in bets before the odds swayed again. Hushed bribes, coded notes. Even a few sanctified scribes from the Sanctum passed through, feigning indifference while scanning the odds like clergy reading scripture.

And across the city, in a velvet-drenched brothel above the Vein district, the fight was being discussed in the kind of detail that didn’t concern coin—or honor.

The room glowed amber with lanternlight, smoke curling thick in the air.

Silk curtains swayed like slow waves, brushing against oiled skin and half-empty glasses. Moans floated like distant birdsong, background music to breathy laughter and flushed skin.

At the center of it all, sprawled on a mound of cushions, sat Lady Vina—the madame of the Scarlet Chain.

Naked except for jeweled chains hanging over her hips and a herbal stick clutched between two long fingers.

Her laugh cut through the haze like a whip.

"Oh, come now, baby," she purred, nudging the sweaty young noble between her thighs. "You ain’t seriously betting on that ox-headed fucker over Ian, are you?"

The noble panted, lips still glistening. "He’s strong. He’s—he’s got three titles—"

"Titles don’t mean shit in the sands," she drawled, gripping his chin between thumb and forefinger. "And that boy—that demon—he fights like he could bury the gods."

Around the room, other courtesans lounged, laughing or moaning depending on who was paying. But many—too many—had one ear tuned to the ongoing conversation.

"You seen what he does to the corpses after, in his battles before he left the city?" asked a courtesan with braided silver hair, sliding onto a customer’s lap. "The way he moves after he kills. Like he’s drinking something we can’t see."

"It’s not natural," said a courtesan in red, her voice dreamy. "He doesn’t just kill them. He takes them. Breaks something deeper than flesh."

Lady Vina took a long drag from the burning herb and blew it in the noble’s face. "Bet on the bull if you like. But when Ian wins? I’m doubling my prices for anyone who wants to pretend they’re him in here."

Laughter erupted. Then moans.

And more moans.

"I’M-" freёwebnoѵel.com

———

Outside the brothel, the air smelled like wet stone and anticipation. A light drizzle had begun to fall, but no one cared. Esgard didn’t sleep on nights like this.

Even the blacksmiths stayed open late.

Flames burned high in open forges, and hammering rang deep into the dusk. They weren’t taking commissions.

They were reforging old blades—decorating them with black wrappings and bone-handled grips. The "Demon Blade" was becoming a fashion icon among Esgard’s drunk, desperate, and deadly.

In the gambling dens, paintings of the match were already being painted—some amateur, some disturbingly vivid.

They depicted Ian standing over his opponent, wreathed in unnatural flame. Others showed him bleeding, beaten, or dead. No one could agree on how it would end.

But they all agreed on one thing.

This match would change something.

In the higher districts, where lanterns glowed with everfire and the streets were paved with old gold bricks, noble houses met behind iron gates.

They didn’t speak of the match in public—no, too refined for that—but their private parlors echoed with debate.

"He’s too wild," said one lord, swirling a glass of blackwine. "If he wins, it destabilizes the League."

"That’s the point," his wife replied with a smirk. "He’s already become something more than a champion. If he wins, Velrosa gains legitimacy. We can’t afford to be on the wrong side of that."

"What if he loses?"

The question hung in the air like a noose.

Down in the slums, a child drew Ian’s face in the mud using a stick. Just the eyes—cold, sharp. The way the posters showed them. Her brother kicked it over and laughed.

"He’s just another trending fighter."

"Maybe," she said. "But he was a slave first, a nobody just like us, and now—"

And in the Temple District, where marble columns held up golden arches, the Sanctum of Light met in silence.

Seven clerics knelt in a circle of chalk and salt. At the center burned a black candle.

"He fights again tomorrow," the High Templar said, voice like brittle ice.

"He grows," whispered another. "Not in strength. In... fame."

"Then we must prepare."

"No," the Templar said. "Not yet. Let the people crown their butcher."

A pause.

"When we strike... we must strike with god."

And somewhere far below, beneath stone and sewer and silence, something stirred.

A man made demon twitched. A forgotten soul whimpered.

Renner.

Preparing. Waiting.

Because the Demon Blade would fight tomorrow.

And Renner would see the mountain he must climb again.

And Esgard—whether it knew it or not—would eventually bleed alongside whoever stood against him.