Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 65: The Blood of Prophets

The chamber was carved from stone older than history, bathed in a pale golden light that did not flicker, yet never seemed warm.

Incense smoke curled lazily in the air, painting divine patterns only the faithful could decipher. The Sanctum of Light called it the Hall of Grace, though nothing about it was graceful tonight.

At the center, a man stood with his arms crossed and a deep scar running across his lips like a stitched insult from the gods.

He bore the armor of the Inquisition, scorched and marked with the insignia of the Demon Subjugation Corps. His eyes were glassy from travel, sleepless nights and things no mortal should see.

Across from him, the woman carved.

She sat upon a raised dais, her legs folded beneath her like a spirit from a forgotten age. A silk-white blindfold wrapped gently across her eyes, covering what once saw too much.

Her robes were nothing more than whispers of cloth, loose, transparent, divine. The body beneath shimmered with a holy glow, though it was unclear if it came from her or the ever-watching lights above.

A curved knife glided through the artwork she created.

Wet, slow strokes.

And yet she hummed. A haunting, gentle lullaby that did not belong in a place of worship.

"You’re late," the woman said softly.

"Forgive me, Great Priestess," the scarred man replied, lowering his gaze as if her voice alone could turn him to ash. "The hellscape grows darker. Reports come every morning, always blood-soaked. We’ve lost contact with three more subjugation squads."

The knife made another stroke. The sound it made was wet and deliberate.

"How many were lost?" she asked, voice light as drifting snow.

"Forty-two," the man replied. "Mostly Silver Hands and Witchsteel Sentinels. We estimate none survived."

The Priestess’s knife did not pause, though her head tilted with faint curiosity.

"Which Reach?"

"The Sixth. None who enter return. Even the gifted ones."

She paused, knife lifted slightly. "So... still no sign of it?"

He lowered his head. "Not yet. But we did find something. A relic. A symbol carved into a monolithic altar. Our mages believe it dates back before the Third Convergence. It called to us."

Her hand extended. The blade still glistened red.

"Show me."

He retrieved the relic from within his robes. A shard of stone. Black as void, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly with inner light.

When she touched it, the chamber dimmed.

And then came the visions.

They hit her all at once—rushing rivers of blood, towers burning as screams echoed through crumbling cities, skies torn by red lightning.

Armies shattered.

Temples in ruin. Holy icons melted.

The banners of the Sanctum drowned in their own righteousness.

The Priestess’s lips parted, breath shallow.

The man stepped forward. "Great Priestess... what do you see?"

She dropped the relic. It cracked the floor where it fell.

"Our time shortens," she whispered. "Esgard will fall... and next, the Empire."

The man clenched his fists. "What falls Esgard?"

"Blood," she said. "Blood flowing like rivers pulled by the tide of the oceans. Cities set ablaze. And from those flames—" she raised her head

"—a demon man shall rise."

The knife moved again. Carving, always carving.

Behind her, obscured by shadows and incense smoke, the source of her work became clearer. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Chains rattled faintly.

A man hung there, crucified in silence.

His eyes were empty sockets, his throat torn and raw. His body was a canvas of agony. He had screamed—oh, how he had screamed—but his voice had long been stolen by pain.

She carved into his chest now, carefully, as if inscribing divine truth into clay.

The Inquisitor turned slightly, staring at the horror. Even he, blooded and calloused as he was, looked away.

"Is it the one they call Ian?" he asked after a long silence. "Is he the demon who shall rise?"

The Priestess let out a sound—not a laugh, nor a sigh. Something colder.

"No," she said.

"Ian is no demon."

She turned her head slightly, blindfold shifting like silk smoke.

"He is something worse."

The inquisitor stiffened. "Worse?"

"He is not born of our world," she continued. "His ancestors are older. A power from a time we buried beneath the bedrock of history. A shadow that should never have awakened. And now he walks... killing, binding, growing."

"And the demon?" the Inquisitor pressed. "If not him... who?"

The Priestess finally smiled.

"The real demon is not the one we watch."

The knife drew a final stroke, deep and deliberate. The body convulsed but did not scream.

"The true demon," she whispered, "was exiled to Esgard."

The inquisitor blinked. "But that would mean—"

She turned toward him. Though blindfolded, he swore her eyes pierced him.

"She wears a noble’s crown. Parades as a princess. But even the Emperor knows what she is. So they buried her in silk and chained her in luxury... and called it exile."

The chamber trembled as if the truth had weight.

"She," the Priestess continued, "will be the flame that lights the world’s end...and he will be her judgement."

—

Elsewhere, in the noble district of Esgard, silence reigned in the moonlit courtyard of House Elarin.

Velrosa sat alone in her private bath, the steam thick, the water reflecting the stars overhead. She was still. Serene.

But her back was exposed to the heavens.

On that skin—flawless, golden-bronzed—there were marks. Ancient runes and circular etchings, burned into her flesh by something older than any man remembered.

They matched the same symbols on the artifact pulled from the Sixth Reach.

The very same carved into demon altars.

Velrosa exhaled slowly, her silver hair wet and clinging to her spine.

She did not look behind her.

She did not need to.

The water stilled, and in that silence, her eyes opened—glowing faintly beneath the surface of the steam.

Not with mana.

Not with magic.

But with memory.

Old, terrible memory.

The kind that outlives empires.

The kind that waits.

"A truth so great the world will crack at the weight of its agony."