Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Renner dropped his hand.

Slow and with intent.

No bow. No smirk. No raised fist to feed the crowd’s addiction.

He simply turned and walked off the sand as if nothing of note had occurred.

As if he hadn’t just murdered a man with a single, ghostly touch.

The arena roared behind him. Thunderous. Mindless.

They didn’t know what they’d witnessed.

Not really.

From the high booth, Ian didn’t blink.

Velrosa broke the silence first.

"He pointed at you."

Ian’s jaw tightened. "I saw."

She studied him sideways, the candlelight flickering across her bronze skin.

Her tone was unreadable. "It seems we have demon interference already, that’s not good."

"It really isn’t," Ian sighed

---

The announcer’s voice surged again, strained against the thunder of the crowd still drunk on Renner’s match.

"And now—next challenger! From House Elarin, no name, no legend—"

The pause was intentional. Weighted.

"A sword from the Reach! Facing his first Blood League match... Caelen!"

A murmur rippled through the arena like a breath drawn in and not yet released.

No noble fanfare. No warhorns. No legend trailing behind his name.

Just a figure stepping through the iron gate as the chains clanked above him, and the sand stirred in his wake.

Ian pushed off the wal he leaned on, the movement smooth and silent. He stepped forward, toward the edge of the booth, his gray eyes catching the torchlight.

Below, Caelen emerged.

Dust curled around his boots.

He wore boiled leather hardened by age and reforged with care, layered over thick, reinforced cloth. Stitched scars and practical cuts—not for beauty, but for survival.

Elarin’s crest. No sigil. Just a sword strapped across his back and the silence of a man who knew death well.

His hair was tied back, exposing a stern brow and a jaw locked with quiet resolve. Eyes like steel.

A man carved from restraint.

From duty and survival.

In the shaded fighters’ box across the arena, Lyra gripped the rusted iron railing, her knuckles bone-white. She was still, but her entire frame hummed with a predator’s tension.

"You better not die, you idiot," she muttered.

Behind her stood Eli.

Arms folded.

Golden eyes narrowed.

His presence was quiet—but weighty. Like a shadowed beast watching through a one-way mirror.

Across the arena, Caelen’s opponent entered.

A man built like a siege engine.

Thick as a fortress wall, taller by half a head. Skin inked with jagged black tattoos, each marking some forgotten kill. His shoulders were plated in steel.

His arms glinted with etched runes that pulsed faintly.

Gauntlets. Fused metal and bone.

No sword. Just fists.

Each knuckle bore hooked blades—curved like a butcher’s smile.

"Grath Bonebreaker!" the announcer declared. "Veteran of fourteen matches! Fourteen kills!"

The crowd erupted. A name they knew.

A killer they feared.

Caelen didn’t move.

---

The horn blew.

Grath surged forward.

Not lumbering. Not heavy.

Fast. Too fast.

A charging wall of plated rage and sheer force. The sand buckled beneath him. His fists came like falling stars—one to kill, the other to erase.

Caelen didn’t flinch.

One breath.

One step.

A pivot. Smooth. Sharp.

He moved like water breaking against stone. Dust twisted in his wake.

His blade sang through the air—horizontal, across the ribs.

Steel struck steel. The sword skidded off the armor with a shriek.

Not enough.

Grath twisted, a backfist whipping out wide.

Caelen ducked—barely.

The edge of the gauntlet scraped his brow. Blood welled instantly, a thin red crescent gleaming on his temple.

Lyra flinched.

"Dumbass," she hissed under her breath. "Stop testing him. Cut him."

Eli didn’t move.

Didn’t even glance her way.

"Eyes are good," he muttered. "But his tempo’s off."

Below, Caelen exhaled. Low. Controlled. Grounding himself.

Grath roared, lunged again. This time, a low feint—then a brutal swing aimed at Caelen’s ribs.

Caelen met the blow.

Steel-on-steel.

His blade angled perfectly, absorbing the strike, letting it roll off.

His knees bent, rolling his shoulder, ducking the follow-up—then striking low. A slash across Grath’s thigh.

Blood sprayed. Not deep. But it slowed him.

"Good," Ian murmured. "Now bleed him."

---

The crowd had shifted.

Not louder for Grath—

Louder against expectation.

The unknown wasn’t dead.

The Reach-born was still standing.

Grath howled and barreled forward again. No finesse. Just fury.

Fists like battering rams. Each swing enough to crumple bone.

Caelen ducked. Rolled. Parried. He moved like someone who knew how to lose—and survive it. One hit landed against his ribs, another clipped his shoulder. He staggered, blood blooming along his side.

Lyra’s grip tightened.

"Don’t fall. Don’t you..."

Then—a shift.

Grath overextended, launching a wide hook.

Caelen stepped in. Too close for the gauntlets to matter.

An elbow to the throat.

A knee to the side of the joint.

Grath grunted, stumbled.

Caelen dropped low.

Pivot. Sweep. Blade rising in a tight, brutal arc.

It slid under the arm, straight into the gap between armor and flesh.

Steel pierced meat.

A burst of blood.

Grath howled.

Caelen didn’t stop.

He twisted the blade, braced a foot on Grath’s thigh, and ripped it free.

Blood fountained.

Grath dropped to a knee, one arm useless, the other trying to rise.

But Caelen was already behind him.

One breath.

One cut.

A clean arc through spine and tendon.

The body fell in two gasping halves.

For a breathless instant, the Crucible was silent.

Then—

Roars. Screams. Thunder.

The crowd erupted.

They screamed a new name.

Lyra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Not relief.

Just release.

Eli gave a low whistle—half impressed, half annoyed.

"Messy," he said. "But he’s got the grit. I’ll grind the rest out of him."

She glanced up. "You think he did good?"

Eli’s golden eyes narrowed. "He’s alive, isn’t he?"

---

Above, Velrosa leaned toward Ian.

Her voice was quiet. Intimate.

"You pick them well."

Ian said nothing.

But his eyes stayed locked on the sand.

On the man who stood there still—blood-soaked, sword low, breath ragged.

Not victorious.

Just... standing.

That was enough.

For now.