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

The night stretched endlessly, the moon veiled behind thick storm clouds as Seraphis moved through the wilderness. The scent of rain was heavy in the air, but she had no time to admire the beauty of nature.

Her target was near.

Zepharion Von.

Unlike Orpheus, who lurked in the shadows, Zepharion was a scholar of death. He was not just a vampire lord—he was a necromancer.

His lair was an ancient tower of knowledge, hidden deep within the Blackwood Mire. It was said that the walls of his domain were lined with books bound in human flesh, the pages written in the blood of the scholars he had slain.

Seraphis knew that this battle would be unlike any she had faced before.

She had killed warriors. She had slain assassins.

But Zepharion would bring the dead themselves against her.

And so, she moved with caution, every step calculated as she approached his domain.

The tower loomed before her, twisted and jagged, like the bones of a fallen god. A structure cursed by time.

Strange, glowing symbols pulsed along its surface, ancient magic older than the kingdom itself.

Seraphis could feel the air hum with power.

And yet, she pressed forward.

The massive iron doors creaked as she pushed them open, revealing the catacombs of knowledge within.

Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the darkness. The stench of rotting parchment and dried blood filled the air.

And then—

A whisper.

Soft, like wind through dry leaves.

But it wasn’t the wind.

The books were whispering.

They were alive.

Seraphis clenched her fists, stepping forward.

A single candle burned at the center of the vast chamber, casting long, flickering shadows.

And beyond it—a figure sat in the darkness.

Zepharion Von.

His long silver hair cascaded over his shoulders, his dark robes embroidered with symbols of forgotten gods.

He did not turn to face her.

Instead, he spoke.

"You killed Orpheus."

Seraphis didn’t respond.

"A shame," he mused. "He was my favorite."

She remained silent, eyes scanning the room.

Something was wrong.

Zepharion was not a fighter. He had no sword, no daggers.

And yet, he showed no fear.

That meant he was prepared.

And then—

He raised his hand.

The room came alive.

The bookshelves trembled as the whispers turned to screams.

From the shadows, figures rose—cloaked in tattered robes, their faces hidden beneath hoods of black void.

The dead.

Zepharion had filled his tower with them.

Seraphis moved instantly.

A flick of her wrist—playing cards shot forward, cutting through the nearest undead.

They staggered but did not fall.

No blood. No pain.

They were not bound to life.

Zepharion chuckled. "Did you think I would make this easy for you?"

He flicked his fingers, and the dead surged forward.

Seraphis vanished in a blur of motion.

She flipped over the nearest corpse, slashing downward—her playing cards glowed with magic, carving through them like burning steel.

But the dead did not stay down.

Limbs reattached. Bodies stitched themselves back together.

She was outnumbered.

Surrounded.

And Zepharion was watching.

Seraphis shifted tactics.

Her eyes glowed with illusion magic.

The battlefield twisted.

To the undead, she split into dozens—phantoms of herself weaving through them, striking from every angle.

Confused, the creatures hesitated.

And Seraphis took full advantage.

She struck with fury.

A playing card sliced through the throat of the nearest undead. Another pierced a skull.

Her speed became a storm, cutting down the horde with impossible precision.

And then—

She saw him move.

Zepharion, standing now, his fingertips dripping with violet energy.

He raised his hand—and the room shattered.

Seraphis was thrown back as the tower itself split apart.

Reality bent.

She landed on solid ground—but it was no longer the tower.

She was somewhere else.

A void of swirling shadows.

A place where Zepharion ruled.

"This is my domain," his voice echoed. "And here, you cannot win."

Seraphis gritted her teeth.

He wanted a battle of minds.

Then she would give him one.

Illusions shifted.

Seraphis became a blur, weaving in and out of existence.

Zepharion countered, his magic twisting the void, but she was faster.

Sharper.

She cut through the illusion itself, tearing at the fabric of his magic.

And suddenly—

They were back in the tower.

Zepharion stumbled.

Seraphis did not.

She moved.

A single card.

Thrown faster than lightning.

Zepharion tried to react—tried to summon his magic—

But it was too late.

The card buried itself in his throat.

He staggered.

A gurgling sound escaped his lips, his hands clawing at the wound.

Seraphis walked forward, slow, deliberate.

She reached out, grasping the hilt of the card embedded in his neck.

And with one swift motion—

She decapitated him.

The body collapsed.

The undead fell silent.

Seraphis wiped the blood from her blade, looking down at what was left of Zepharion.

She raised a hand.

Fire erupted.

The tower burned.

The books screamed as they were consumed by the flames, their knowledge lost forever.

And Seraphis?

She walked away.

Three down.

Three remained.