Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion - Chapter 7: The Whisper of Death

How does a half-grown mountain village boy like me end up bizarrely becoming the grandmaster out of nowhere?Source: Web...

I am a vampire, possessing the body of the villainess in the novel.

I want to live quietly so I can live peacefully.

When I saw the Duke of Esteban, I lost all my reason and bit his neck.

Duke of Esteban just so happens to be the greatest figure in the empire.

I didn’t have enough strength to fight the desire, so I slept with him…

I’m in trouble. Let’s erase his memory and run.

“Your Excellency asked me to convey a message ‘I let you have my neck and body, but you threw it all away and ran.’”

What are you saying?

Does he remember?

Later, there was a strange declaration of war after we met.

“Don’t avoid me and let’s continue to meet. Also, when you need blood, come find me.”

Duke, would you please stay away from me?

It’s hard to breathe because of your taste.

He lived from BC to the Middle Ages, from the Renaissance to the Industrial Revolution, and from Cyberpunk to the Interstellar Age. He has been a king and a prophet, a knight and a nobleman, a versatile artist, a genius inventor…
This is a four-thousand-year human epic——
“To us four thousand years from now:
“Is the world at peace? Is famine extinct? Can people touch the stars? How long is the human lifespan? How far is the boundary of the earth? Human…do you remember us?”
——Excavated from Earth Age Tenth Century BC, Solomon Prayer Book.

- Description from novelbuddy

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”