Reborn as the Last van Ambrose

Dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of yellow and crimson as Grim stood atop the mountain peak, gazing down at the Celestis Empire. The White Castle at its heart gleamed in the early morning light, its walls and towers were taller and stronger. It had been rebuilt after the devastation of that night.

The night his life had ended.

His eyes drifted to the cairn at his feet. Cassius’s sword stood upright at the head of the grave, his white ceremonial robes now weathered and frayed, fluttering from the hilt like a ghost in the mountain breeze.

Grim knelt, his fingers brushing the topmost stone. "Rest well, grandfather," he murmured. "The White Death has earned his peace."

[He was a stubborn old bastard,] the voice in his head commented, a rare note of respect coloring its tone. [Lasted far longer than anyone expected with those injuries.]

"Still not long enough," Grim replied softly.

He felt the approach of footsteps behind him. Twelve years of grueling training had honed his senses to detect the slightest movement around him.

"It’s time," Yongrun said, his voice weathered by the passing years but still commanding. Beside him stood Dongmei.

Grim rose to his feet, turning to face his mentors. At seventeen, he stood taller than Dongmei now, his frame lean but corded with muscle. The scar that bisected the right side of his face from temple to jaw had faded from black to slightly purple. Though faint traces of darkness still lingered beneath the skin, pulsing occasionally.

"The Empire has changed in your absence," Dongmei said, pulling her fur-lined cloak tighter against the mountain breeze. "New alliances, new enemies. The noble houses have grown stronger with their ambitions."

Grim shrugged. "That’s okay. I’m forgotten, but i will make one hell of an entrance." He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small golden pin emblazoned with the imperial crest. "I still have this after all. It shows I’m favored by the Empress."

Yongrun’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the pin. "After the Malaxis incident, it took years to repair the damage Skirmishes along the borders escalated. Eventually, a small war with the Demon Lands erupted."

"Three years of fighting," Dongmei added. "The two tournaments that should have been held during that time were canceled."

"But now the Empress has announced a new tournament," Yongrun continued. "The winner will be granted one request. Anything within the Empress’s power to give."

"This is your time to return, Grim," Dongmei said softly.

Grim turned back toward the Empire spread below, his expression unreadable.

[You’ve been training for this moment for twelve years,] the voice reminded him. [We’ve been patient. Now it’s time to act.]

"I guess it’s time to return," Grim said finally. "And make a name for myself."

He moved to the small bundle he’d left near his grandfather’s grave. From it, he withdrew white robes similar to those adorning Cassius’s sword, though these were new, the fabric crisp and unmarked.

"You’re dawning your grandfather’s colors," Yongrun observed, a hint of approval in his voice.

"The White Death returned from the grave," Grim said with a humorless smile. "Seems fitting." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

[Dramatic,] the voice commented dryly. [But effective. Fear is a powerful tool.]

"Don’t draw attention unnecessarily," Yongrun cautioned. "Enter the tournament, establish yourself. We’ll be watching from the shadows."

Grim nodded, his hand unconsciously rising to his scarred face. "And if I encounter Malaxis?"

A beat of silence passed between them.

"You’re not ready for that confrontation," Yongrun finally said. "Not yet."

"Focus on the tournament," Dongmei added. "One step at a time."

Grim’s jaw tightened briefly, but he nodded again. "One step at a time," he said.

He cast one final glance at his grandfather’s grave before turning away. The past was buried here with Cassius’s bones. Ahead lay the Empire, and the beginning of his return from the dead.

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Chancellor Levenhart’s footsteps echoed through the corridor as he made his way to the Empress’s private council chamber.

Archmage Marcus awaited him outside the ornate doors, his expression grave. The years had been kinder to the mage, whose power seemed only to have grown with time. The two men had been adversaries once, then reluctant allies, and finally friends of a sort as they navigated the increasingly treacherous waters of imperial politics.

"She’s in a mood today," Marcus warned in a low voice.

"When is she not, these days?" Levenhart replied with a sigh. "The tournament?"

Marcus nodded. "Among other things."

The guards opened the doors, and they entered to find Empress Alexia standing at the window, gazing out over the city. At forty-five, she remained a striking figure, though silver now threaded through her dark hair and fine lines framed her eyes—eyes that had seen too much suffering in recent years.

"Chancellor. Archmage." She didn’t turn from the window. "You’re late."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," Levenhart said, bowing despite her back being turned. "The delegation from House Terras required additional... assurances."

"House Terras," Alexia said, her voice cooling. "Always pressing for advantage. What did they want this time?"

"The usual," Marcus replied. "Expanded trade rights along the northern routes. Preferential treatment for their son in the tournament rankings."

"Their son," Alexia repeated, finally turning to face them. "Verin Terras. The one who lost his ear to young Ambrose all those years ago."

A heavy silence fell at the mention of the name. Even after twelve years, the events of that night remained a sensitive subject.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Levenhart confirmed carefully. "He’s quite determined to make a name for himself in the tournament."

"No doubt." Alexia moved to her desk, where maps and documents lay scattered. "The noble houses are circling like vultures. They sense weakness after the war, pushing for concessions, maneuvering their children into positions of influence." She looked up sharply. "How many marriage proposals has Liona received this month alone?"

"Seventeen," Levenhart answered promptly.

"Seventeen," she repeated with disgust. "And the tournament has brought even more ambitious young men to the capital, all hoping to catch her eye—or mine."

"The tournament serves a purpose," Marcus reminded her gently. "It channels their ambitions into competition rather than conspiracy."

"For now," Alexia agreed. "But they see the prize as an opportunity to gain power. The right to ask anything of the Empress..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "It could destabilize everything we’ve worked to rebuild."

"We’ve taken precautions," Levenhart assured her. "The wording of the prize is specific. You retain the right to refuse any request that threatens the Empire’s security or stability."

"And if the victor is someone like Malaxis?" Alexia asked bluntly. "What then?"

Both men stiffened at the name.

"There’s been no sign of him since the border skirmishes," Marcus said. "Our wards would detect his presence in the capital."

"Would they?" Alexia’s gaze was piercing. "They didn’t twelve years ago."

Neither man had an answer for that.

"Double the wards," she ordered. "And the guards. I want every participant in the tournament scrutinized thoroughly." She turned back to the window. "Now leave me. I must speak with my daughter before the opening ceremonies."

They bowed and withdrew, the heavy doors closing behind them.

"She grows more paranoid each year," Levenhart murmured as they walked away.

"Not paranoia if the threat is real," Marcus countered. "Malaxis may be biding his time, but he hasn’t forgotten his vendetta against the Ambrose line or the Empire that sheltered them."

"The Ambrose line is extinct," Levenhart reminded him. "The boy died that night. Rowan vanished. The bloodline ended."

Marcus’s expression remained troubled. "We do not know what haopened to the White Death, if hes still alive. But I’ve learned over the years that death isn’t always as permanent as we might wish."