He definitely should have collected that money.
Leon’s muscles tenses. The assassin is small but sinewy, her grip unwavering despite the cramped space. A cloth mask conceals her face, leaving only those predatory eyes visible.
She shifts her weight, preparing to deliver the killing blow.
In a sudden movent, Leon jerks his head to the side. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been, carving a shallow line across his jaw. Blood wells imdiately, again!, he should avoid getting knifed every ti.
He kicks off the wall behind his cot, and sends both of them crashing into his wooden shelf. Glass shatters as his water pitcher explodes on the floor, and pain lances through his healing wounds from the tournant.
The assassin lands on him, her knee drives into his chest. The knife descends toward his heart with chilling precision.
Leon catches her wrist with his good hand, surprised by her strength—wiry muscles coiled like steel cables beneath her dark clothing. The blade trembles between them, sharp point aid at his sternum.
"The organizer sends his regards," she hisses.
Leon’s grip slips. Sweat and blood makes his fingers slippery as the knife creeps closer to his chest.
Desperately, he reaches for his manna gun on the floor beside his cot. His fingertips brushes the grip but can not close around it. The assassin slams his head against the warped wooden boards.
Stars explodes behind his eyes, and his vision grayed at the edges.
The blade presses against his cheek, the cold tal warming with his blood. The assassin’s breathing remainssteady and professional. She had done this before.
The air grows cold.
Shadows coils in the corner of the room, writhing like living smoke. The temperature drops ten degrees in an instant.
His Elite Grave Mage materializes without a summoning chant. Spectral bones clicks as it moves with inhuman speed, skeletal fingers wraps around the assassin’s throat from behind.
The woman’s eyes widen in shock. She tries to scream but only manages a strangled gasp as spectral claws tightens around her windpipe.
Leon rolls away as the zombie drags her backward. The assassin twists in its grip, her knife slashing at bones that felt no pain.
"What—" she begins.
The zombie’s other hand thrust through her chest from behind. Spectral fingers erges from her ribs, dripping with blood and viscera. Her knife clatters to the floor.
The assassin’s body convulses once, then goes limp. Blood pools beneath her as she collapses face-down on Leon’s floor.
Leon pulls himself upright, wiping blood from his jaw. His zombie stands over the corpse, blue fire flickering in its eye sockets.
A system window materializes in the air:
[Skill Acquired: Raise the Fallen]
[Convert slain enemies into undead minions]
[Command: "Arouse"]
[mories retained. Complete obedience assured.]
Leon stares at the text. His system has evolved again, triggered by mortal danger. The implications hit him hard—he can turn his enemies into servants.
He rolls the assassin’s corpse over. Her eyes stares blankly, blood trickling from her mouth. She looks young beneath the mask, perhaps twenty-five. Soone’s daughter, now reduced to a tool for coin.
Leon focuses on the body and speaks clearly: "Arouse."
The system pulses with dark energy. Shadows creeps across the assassin’s skin like an infection, and her chest rises with artificial breath.
The woman’s eyes snaps open, no longer brown but empty black, waiting. Her expression holds no personality, fear, or anger—just hollow obedience.
She sits up smoothly, blood still staining her clothes. When she looks at Leon, her head tiltswith chanical precision.
[New Undead: Assassin]
[Skills Acquired: Silent Step, Shadow Strike, Poison Mastery, Knife Mastery, Climbing]
Leon tests her responsiveness. "Stand."
She obeys instantly, rising to her feet without a sound.
"Walk to the window."
Her movents flows like water, each step taken with perfect balance. No floorboard creaks beneath her feet.
"Kneel."
She drops to one knee, head bowed.
Leon nods. The undead assassin retains all her skills but none of her independence—she is a perfect servant shaped from his enemy’s corpse.
"Dismissed."
The assassin dissolves into dark particles, absorbed back into his own essence. His Elite Grave Mage fades similarly, returning to the mysterious space they occupied between summons.
Leon drags himself to the washbasin, scrubbing the blood from his face. The cut on his jaw is shallow but will leave another scar. If he survives this tournant, he will collect quite a few.
Sleep proves elusive after that. Leon sits by his window, watching shadows flicker in the alley below. Every movent can signal another assassin. Every sound might herald death.
Dawn breaks gray and cold over the Shadow Quarters. Leon bandages his new wound and limps toward the tournant grounds.
The underground arena buzzes with an unusual energy. More spectators fills the stone seats than ever before. Word has spread about the F-Rank necromancer who survived the quarterfinals.
Leon descends the familiar steps to the fighter’s area. The tournant organizer waits near the entrance, flanked by his bodyguards. Their eyes widen as they see Leon approach.
The organizer’s confident smile falters. His assassin should have returned hours ago with proof of Leon’s death. Instead, Leon walks toward them with cold determination.
"Gentlen," Leon says, nodding politely.
The organizer’s face goes pale. His bodyguards shifts nervously, their hands drifting toward concealed weapons.
"You look well," the organizer manages. "Did you sleep peacefully?"
"Like the dead."
The crowd’s whispers grows louder as Leon passed through the arena. So spectators points at his fresh bandage, while others lean in to share theories about his survival.
Thematch-master climbs onto his platform, raising his hands for silence.
"Ladies and gentlen! Tonight’s semifinals feature a special announcent!"
The crowd presses forward, eager for details.
"From this round forward, all combatants may use their full abilities! Necromancy is permitted! There are no restrictions on summoning or death magic!"
Excited murmurs ripples through the stands. The rule change transforms everything. Leon’s zombie would be legal now, no longer hidden.
"For the entertainnt of our distinguished guests!"
The organizer’s smile returns, calculating and cruel. This was not about entertainnt but leveling the playing field against Leon.
"Our first semifinalist needs no introduction! The F-Rank survivor who has defied every expectation!"
Scattered applause mingles with nervous laughter.
"His opponent represents the finest practitioners of death magic from the underground! Please welco Valdris the Corpsewalker!"
A figure erges from the opposite gate. Tall and gaunt, he wears black robes adorned with bone charms. His pale skin stretches tightly over sharp features, and dark circles fras his eyes that glows with an unnatural light.
Behind Valdris shuffles three corpses in various states of decay. Their movents are jerky and uncoordinated, typical necromancy animation.
The crowd erupts in cheers. This was the spectacle they had co to see.
Valdris studies Leon with professional interest. "So you’re the pretender embarrassing our craft."
Leon remains silent, walking to the center of the pit, where the sand had been raked smooth for their battle.
"I have been practicing necromancy for fifteen years," Valdris continues. "You’ve had what—a week? This will be educational."
The match-master steps between them, and both necromancers takes their positions at opposite pit ends.
Leon’s system hums with readiness. His Elite Grave Mage waits in the shadows, and his new assassin crouches in the darkness, invisible yet prepared.
Valdris raises his hands, dark energy crackling between his fingers. His three zombies spread out in formation, seeking to surround Leon.
The crowd falls silent. This is not just another fight but a duel between masters of death itself.
The match-master lifts his hand. "Fighters ready?"
Leon shifts his weight, ready to call on his zombies once the bell rings.
Valdris’s zombies tenses, waiting for their master’s command.
"Begin!"
Reviews
All reviews (0)