Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian reached a town, the only one between Blackblood and Esgard.

The town didn't have a name worth remembering.

It was the kind of place that clung to the edges of the world, not quite Esgard, not quite wilderness—just a cluster of half-rotted buildings crouched beneath the shadow of looming trees.

A place where the gutters ran brown, the taverns stayed open too late, and everyone smelled like ash and regret.

Ian stepped through the main road with slow, steady strides.

His long coat whispered behind him in the wind, dark and worn, heavy with dust. A gray scarf coiled up around his neck and mouth, hiding all but the faint gleam of his eyes—gray, cold, unreadable.

The kind of eyes that made people look away before they even realized why.

He walked without urgency. No destination but the forest. No companions but his own silence.

The town barely looked up.

They were used to travelers passing through—mercenaries, scouts, fugitives. Some stayed. Most didn't. And the ones who did rarely left in one piece.

The tavern sat near the center, sagging against its own frame like a drunkard leaning on an old friend.

Its sign swayed in the breeze—The Mug, painted with a cracked tankard and what might've once been a bear.

Ian ducked inside without a word.

The warmth hit him first.

Not comfort—just heat.

Stale and fire-lit, thick with sweat and pipe smoke. A few dozen heads turned toward the door, out of habit more than curiosity. When they saw him—tall, shadowed, cloaked in dark layers—they looked away again.

The kind of man who wasn't here for ale or song. The kind of man you didn't ask questions about.

He found an empty table near the corner and sat, back to the wall. His eyes scanned the room—twice. Old habit. Always counting exits.

A serving girl approached hesitantly. Maybe sixteen. Tired eyes, calloused fingers.

"Drink?" she asked.

"Water," Ian said.

She blinked, as if surprised.

Then nodded. "Food?"

"No."

The girl hesitated. "You sure?"

"I'm not staying long."

She nodded again and left.

Ian leaned back, slow and careful. The wood beneath him creaked. Every muscle in his body stayed tense—not from fear, but discipline. He hadn't relaxed in years, not truly. And he wouldn't start now. Not here.

Regardless of how easily he could kill every single one of them.

He let the silence wash over him.

Outside, the wind howled across the northern plain, carrying the distant scent of pine and rot.

The first fingers of Blackblood Forest could already be seen if one stood atop the hill—dark, hunched, sprawling like a scar.

They said the forest had always been alive. But lately, it had started to seem even more so.

Something was calling the beasts forward. And the last scouting parties sent to answer that call had vanished without a whisper.

No blood. No tracks. Just silence.

Ian closed his eyes.

Not to sleep. Just to remember.

The way Velrosa had looked at him.

The way her voice cracked—not in fear, but in fury.

She hated this.

Hated that she couldn't stop him.

Hated that he wouldn't let her try.

But deeper than that, beneath the sharpness, beneath the bitterness—there'd been something else.

Understanding.

She knew he had to go. And that's why it hurt.

The serving girl returned and placed the water down with quiet fingers. Ian nodded once. She didn't stay.

He drank.

Let the coolness touch the edge of his throat.

And then he felt it.

A presence.

Not a threat. Not yet. But near.

He didn't look up right away—just tilted his head slightly, enough to catch the reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar.

Three men.

Locals, by the look of it. Hardened. Mud-stained boots, leather jerkins, short blades at their hips. One had a branded cheek—an old Sanctum punishment for thievery.

They were watching him.

Trying not to. But failing.

Ian gave it a minute.

Then another.

Then slowly—very slowly—he reached up and peeled the scarf from his lower face.

The tavern light caught his features—just enough. Just a glimpse of a slight mark under his eye, the way his jaw was too still, too practiced. Something about him screamed danger without ever needing to raise a voice.

Not many knew the demonblade by face, if not, that was enough to send the entire bar running in fear.

The branded man stood.

He walked to the table, careful, casual.

"You headed north?" he asked.

Ian didn't answer.

The man tried again. "I ask 'cause you don't look like a trader. And you sure as hell ain't a pilgrim."

Ian looked up.

The man flinched.

"I'm going to the forest," Ian said, voice flat.

A pause.

The branded man shifted. "That so."

Ian said nothing.

The man chuckled nervously, then nodded. "Well. You're welcome to it. Wouldn't catch me dead past the ridge, but... hey. Brave men keep the world spinning, yeah?"

Ian didn't blink.

He didn't need to speak again. Not when everything about him already said: Leave.

The branded man backed away.

No fight. No bravado.

Just fear.

Real, bone-deep fear.

Ian finished the water. Pushed the glass aside. Stood.

The tavern didn't speak.

No one did.

He stepped into the open air again, letting the door creak shut behind him. The streets outside were still half-shadowed in morning gloom. A pair of children stopped playing as he passed, their laughter caught in their throats.

Ian didn't stop.

Or look back.

He walked through the town the way smoke leaves fire—quiet, choking, and inevitable.

By the time he reached the treeline, the sun had begun to rise.

Blackblood stood before him, ancient and immense. Its trees curved like crooked ribs, thick with moss and secrets. The canopy swallowed the sky.

There were no birds. No insects.

Just the faint hum of something buried beneath the roots. Something old. And angry.

Ian stood at the edge, breath fogging in the cold.

He didn't hesitate.

He stepped into the dark.

And the forest closed behind him.