Leon woke to the cold steel of a blade pressing against his throat. The weapon rested against his skin with surgical precision. A figure loomed over his narrow cot, her features obscured by shadow, except for pale eyes that glinted in the streetlight filtering through the cracked window.
"You should have taken the bribe," a low and menacing woman's voice whispered.
Leon's muscles tensed. The assassin was small but sinewy, her grip unwavering despite the cramped space. A cloth mask concealed her face, leaving only those predatory eyes visible.
She shifted her weight, preparing to deliver the killing blow.
In a sudden movement, Leon jerked his head to the side. The blade sliced through the air where his throat had been, carving a shallow line across his jaw. Blood welled immediately.
He kicked off the wall behind his cot, sending both of them crashing into his wooden table. Glass shattered as his water pitcher exploded on the floor, and pain lanced through his healing wounds from the tournament.
The assassin landed on top of him, her knee driving into his chest. The knife descended toward his heart with chilling precision.
Leon caught her wrist with his good hand, surprised by her strength—wiry muscles coiled like steel cables beneath her dark clothing. The blade trembled between them, point aimed at his sternum.
"The organizer sends his regards," she hissed.
Leon's grip slipped. Sweat and blood made his fingers slippery. The knife crept closer to his chest.
Desperately, he reached for his mana gun on the floor beside his cot. His fingertips brushed the grip but could not close around it. The assassin slammed his head against the warped wooden boards.
Stars exploded behind his eyes, and his vision grayed at the edges.
The blade pressed against his cheek, the cold metal warming with his blood. The assassin's breathing remained steady and professional. She had done this before.
The air grew cold.
Shadows coiled in the corner of the room, writhing like living smoke. The temperature dropped ten degrees in an instant.
His Elite Grave Mage materialized without a summoning chant. Spectral bones clicked as it moved with inhuman speed, skeletal fingers wrapping around the assassin's throat from behind.
The woman's eyes widened in shock. She tried to scream but only managed a strangled gasp as spectral claws tightened around her windpipe.
Leon rolled away as the zombie dragged her backward. The assassin twisted in its grip, her knife slashing at bones that felt no pain.
"What—" she began.
The zombie's other hand thrust through her chest from behind. Spectral fingers emerged from her ribs, dripping with blood and viscera. Her knife clattered to the floor.
The assassin's body convulsed once, then went limp. Blood pooled beneath her as she collapsed face-down on Leon's floor.
Leon pulled himself upright, wiping blood from his jaw. His zombie stood over the corpse, blue fire flickering in its eye sockets.
A system window materialized in the air:
[Skill Acquired: Raise the Fallen]
[Convert slain enemies into undead minions]
[Command: "Arouse"]
[Memories retained. Complete obedience assured.]
Leon stared at the text. His system had evolved again, triggered by mortal danger. The implications hit him hard—he could turn his enemies into servants.
He rolled the assassin's corpse over. Her eyes stared blankly, blood trickling from her mouth. She looked young beneath the mask, perhaps twenty-five. Someone's daughter, now reduced to a tool for coin.
Leon focused on the body and spoke clearly: "Arouse."
The system pulsed with dark energy. Shadows crept across the assassin's skin like an infection, and her chest rose with artificial breath.
The woman's eyes snapped open, no longer brown but empty black, waiting. Her expression held no personality, fear, or anger—just hollow obedience.
She sat up smoothly, blood still staining her clothes. When she looked at Leon, her head tilted with mechanical precision.
[New Undead: Assassin]
[Skills Acquired: Silent Step, Shadow Strike, Poison Mastery, Knife Mastery, Climbing]
Leon tested her responsiveness. "Stand."
She obeyed instantly, rising to her feet without a sound.
"Walk to the window."
Her movements flowed like water, each step taken with perfect balance. No floorboards creaked beneath her feet.
"Kneel."
She dropped to one knee, head bowed.
Leon nodded. The undead assassin retained all her skills but none of her independence—she was a perfect servant shaped from his enemy's corpse.
"Dismissed."
The assassin dissolved into dark particles, absorbed back into his own essence. His Elite Grave Mage faded similarly, returning to the mysterious space they occupied between summons.
Leon dragged himself to the washbasin, scrubbing the blood from his face. The cut on his jaw was shallow but would leave another scar. If he survived this tournament, he would collect quite a few.
Sleep proved elusive after that. Leon sat by his window, watching shadows flicker in the alley below. Every movement could signal another assassin. Every sound might herald death.
Dawn broke gray and cold over the Shadow Quarters. Leon bandaged his new wound and limped toward the tournament grounds.
The underground arena buzzed with an unusual energy. More spectators filled the stone seats than ever before. Word had spread about the F-Rank necromancer who had survived the quarterfinals.
Leon descended the familiar steps to the fighter's area. The tournament organizer waited near the entrance, flanked by his bodyguards. Their eyes as they saw Leon approach.
The organizer's confident smile faltered. His assassin should have returned hours ago with proof of Leon's death. Instead, Leon walked toward them with cold determination.
"Gentlemen," Leon said, nodding politely.
The organizer's face went pale. His bodyguards shifted nervously, their hands drifting toward concealed weapons.
"You look well," the organizer managed. "Did you sleep peacefully?"
"Like the dead."
The crowd's whispers grew louder as Leon passed through the arena. Some spectators pointed at his fresh bandage, while others leaned in to share theories about his survival.
The tournament master climbed onto his platform, raising his hands for silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight's semifinals feature a special announcement!"
The crowd pressed 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 rippled through the stands. The rule change transformed everything. Leon's zombie would be legal now, no longer hidden.
"For the entertainment of our distinguished guests!"
The organizer's smile returned, calculating and cruel. This was not about entertainment but leveling the playing field against Leon.
"Our first semifinalist needs no introduction! The F-Rank survivor who has defied every expectation!"
Scattered applause mingled with nervous laughter.
"His opponent represents the finest practitioners of death magic from the underground! Please welcome Valdris the Corpsewalker!"
A figure emerged from the opposite gate. Tall and gaunt, he wore black robes adorned with bone charms. His pale skin stretched tightly over sharp features, and dark circles framed eyes that glowed with an unnatural light.
Behind Valdris shuffled three corpses in various states of decay. Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, typical necromantic animation.
The crowd erupted in cheers. This was the spectacle they had come to see.
Valdris studied Leon with professional interest. "So you're the pretender embarrassing our craft."
Leon remained 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 continued. "You've had what—a week? This will be educational."
The referee stepped between them, and both necromancers took their positions at opposite pit ends.
Leon's system hummed with readiness. His Elite Grave Mage waited in the shadows, and his new assassin crouched in the darkness, invisible yet prepared.
Valdris raised his hands, dark energy crackling between his fingers. His three zombies spread out in formation, seeking to surround Leon.
The crowd fell silent. This was not just another fight but a duel between masters of death itself.
The tournament master lifted his hand. "Fighters ready?"
Leon flexed his fingers, feeling the solid weight of his mana gun in his grip.
Valdris's zombies tensed, waiting for their master's command.
"Begin!"
Leon stood alone in the center of the pit, staring down his rival as the undead gathered at the edges. The crowd held its breath, tension sharp as broken glass.