"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

The Executioner’s Wish

Deep within the underground chambers of the Veyne Estate, the air was thick with the scent of iron and rot. Dim candlelight flickered against stone walls, illuminating an intricate alchemical laboratory—a place where death was not the end, but the beginning.

At the center of the room sat Countess Isolde Veyne, her crimson silk gown draped over the throne-like chair, fingers idly tapping against the armrest.

Her eyes—pale and calculating—were fixed on the vial in her hand.

A vial of deep red liquid.

Blood.

Not just any blood.

The blood of an executioner.

The White Raven.

A legend whispered in dark corners.

A woman who had claimed the heads of kings and nobles alike—an enforcer of judgment, a blade without mercy.

And now, Isolde Veyne wanted her.

Not dead.

She wanted her blood.

For power. For knowledge.

For her collection.

A Laboratory of Death

The laboratory stretched into the depths of the underground manor, its shelves lined with glass jars filled with crimson fluid.

Every jar held a name.

Every name had once been a living, breathing person.

Warriors. Sorcerers. Nobles.

Their blood was preserved, studied, dissected.

Because Countess Isolde Veyne believed in a single truth:

Power lived within blood.

And those who could harness it—truly harness it—could command fate itself.

She rose from her chair, the silk of her gown whispering against the cold stone floor.

A silver tray lay before her, covered in vials, scalpels, and ancient texts.

One book lay open, its pages filled with meticulously detailed notes.

She ran her fingers across a passage, murmuring to herself:

"The executioner’s blood is unlike any other. It carries the weight of a thousand deaths. It is both blade and burden. A relic of mortality itself."

Her lips curled.

"And soon… it will be mine."

The Blood Collector’s Ritual

The air in the laboratory seemed to hum with unseen energy.

Isolde reached for a ceremonial dagger, its edge glistening under the flickering candlelight.

She pressed the blade against her own palm, drawing a thin line of red.

Blood dripped onto an iron sigil carved into the stone.

The reaction was immediate.

The blood sank into the sigil, seeping into its ancient grooves.

The laboratory walls shuddered.

The jars of blood trembled on their shelves.

And from the darkness, whispers began to rise.

The voices of the dead.

The countess exhaled, steadying herself.

"The White Raven’s blood… It must be pure. Untainted by weakness. I will not settle for mere death."

Her eyes gleamed.

"I will carve the blood from her living body. I will take it as she breathes her final breath."

Her fingers tightened around the vial in her hand.

"She is the missing piece in my collection."

A slow, eerie smile stretched across her lips.

"And I always get what I want."

The Hunt Begins

The Countess turned from her altar, gliding toward the far wall.

There, pinned to the stone like a trophy, was a map of the kingdom.

Dozens of red markings dotted its surface.

Each mark represented a target.

A name. A life. A bloodline worth stealing.

And at the very center of it—circled in dark ink—was a single name:

The White Raven.

Isolde’s gaze lingered on the mark, her fingers tracing over it.

"I wonder," she mused, "what secrets lie within your veins?"

She turned sharply, her voice cutting through the silence.

"Prepare the hunters."

From the shadows, figures emerged—cloaked in black, armed with silent blades.

Isolde’s voice was calm, unwavering.

"Find her. Bleed her. Bring me every last drop."

She smiled, stepping back into the candlelight.

"The executioner will soon learn… that even she is not above the blade."

And with that, the hunt began.