Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The bells tolled nine across Esgard.

Nine heavy chimes, slow and deep, rolling through the stone-choked streets like war drums in the dark.

And the city moved.

From every corner of its weathered bones, Esgard woke like a beast rising from slumber. Shadows spilled from alleys as people emerged—thieves, nobles, dreamers, debtors.

They all came, drawn like moths to a flame that promised ruin and glory.

The Crucible’s gates yawned open like the mouth of a dragon—wide, jagged, and ancient. Its breath was hot with anticipation and the stink of too many bodies pressed too close.

Iron groaned. Dust swirled. The scent of sweat, smoke, and something more prevalent—blood baked into stone—hung heavy in the morning air.

They came in waves.

Nobles in silver-plated carriages, guarded by grim-eyed men bearing crested blades.

Commoners elbowing past guards with fists full of stolen coin, clothes damp from sweat or drink or both.

Children on shoulders, their eyes too wide.

Drunkards already singing the name of a man they’d never met. Hawkers screaming above the chaos, fighting for scraps of attention.

The arena was alive long before the fight began.

It breathed through the roar of the crowd, the creak of the tiered stands, the hissing steam from the boiling pipes beneath the sands. Vendors cried over each other, peddling charred meats, blood sausage, and fruit soaked in burnwine.

Painted masks of the Demon Blade sold for thrice their worth. Children wore them proudly, even as others impaled crude dolls of his opponent—Vorgan the Breaker—on sharpened sticks and waved them like skewered pigs.

"THE DEMON WAITS!" cried a masked jester, juggling fake severed heads and dancing near the noble tiers.

"BLOOD FOR GLORY!" howled another, standing on stilts, his skin painted crimson from scalp to toe.

Below, in the sand-slicked underbelly of the Crucible, arena workers swept gore from the last bout into corner drains.

Their brooms slapped wetly, streaking red through the dust. Overseers barked. Blood pooled in old grooves, slow and unwilling. One man whispered a prayer as he worked.

Another laughed.

Above them, spectators leaned over stone railings, spitting and shouting, placing wagers they couldn’t afford.

It wasn’t just any fight.

It was the fight.

Because today, Ian faced Vorgan the Breaker.

A name that needed no title.

Vorgan—who once cracked a giant’s ribcage with a bear hug. Who caught a charging mana-beast by the horns and tore them from its skull.

A colossus of muscle and rage, his body a canvas of rune-scars etched from a dozen battle rites. No grace. No magic. No cleverness.

Just force.

He didn’t dodge. Didn’t feint. He walked forward until everything in his path was silence.

And yet, the Crucible whispered another name.

Ian.

The Demon Blade.

Ian, who had emerged from each arena fights like a ghost born of ash and hunger.

Who bled black fire. Who wore bone and shadow like a second skin. People spoke of him in low voices, mimicked his stride, whispered of the twin daggers forged from the bones of some dead thing not even the beast-tamers could name.

He was myth made flesh.

Even now, in the noble boxes above the sand-soaked pit, cloaked figures leaned close over silver goblets and whispered beneath velvet canopies.

"He’s an enemy still," murmured a woman with rings on every finger. "If he dies today, no great loss."

"He’s not going to die," said the man beside her, voice rough with certainty. "I’ve seen him fight. It’s not natural. He doesn’t just win. He takes something from his opponent."

On the opposite side of the balcony, Lady Velrosa Lionarde sat like a still blade among rusted weapons. Her sapphire gown shimmered like night water, silver filigree coiled around her sleeves.

She did not drink or even speak.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the sand.

Waiting.

Behind her stood Elise. Unmoving. Unsmiling.

The first gate clanked open.

The crowd surged like a wave crashing into stone, voices rising into broken chants and screams.

From the tunnel emerged Vorgan.

No cloak. No theatrics. Just bare-chested brutality.

His skin gleamed with sweat and war oil. Every muscle looked sculpted by rage, his arms thick as tree trunks, his chest a slab of living stone. He dragged a hammer behind him—iron-headed, rune-carved, massive.

It left a long scar in the sand.

He didn’t look at the crowd. Didn’t raise his arms. No need.

He walked to the center of the pit and slammed the hammer down.

BOOM.

The ground trembled. Dust exploded at his feet. A child screamed.

Silence followed.

A long, breathless pause.

Then, the second gate began to open.

Hysteria followed.

"DEMON!"

"DEMON BLADE!"

"HE’S HERE!"

Voices cracked. Some cheered. Others fell silent.

Mist crept through the tunnel—cold, unnatural. Blue fire flickered against the stone. And from the smoke, he stepped forth.

Ian.

He wore black. Always black. Tailored leather traced with silver runes that shimmered faintly. The twin bone daggers—Vowbreaker—sat sheathed across his back like fangs. No crest. No shield. No helmet.

Just those gray eyes.

Eyes like winter storms, calm and merciless.

He walked slow. Measured. Like gravity bowed to him.

No fanfare. No announcement.

Only presence.

Even those who hated him leaned forward. Even those who bet against him could not look away.

Somewhere, a child whispered his little sister, "That’s death."

And he wasn’t wrong.

Ian stopped ten paces from Vorgan. Their eyes locked.

No words. No challenge.

Only promise.

One would walk away.

The other would feed the sand.

A moment later, the announcer’s voice rang out, magically amplified, rumbling across the sky like thunder.

"People of Esgard! Of blood and flame, of sand and shadow—welcome!"

The crowd exploded into frenzy.

"Today, the final match of the Blood League! One victor shall rise to enter the League of Champions!"

A breath.

A cruel, hanging pause.

"In this corner, the Juggernaut! The Wrecking Storm! The Hammer of Gorespire—VORGAN THE BREAKER!"

The colossus raised his hammer high—not for cheers. Not for vanity.

For war.

"And in this corner..."

The voice dipped to reverence.

"Back from the Black Fall. From the Ash of Hellscape. From death, from bone, from void. The Whisperer of Death... the Demon Blade... IAN."

Stillness.

Then chaos.

The Crucible wept, roared, screamed.

Ian did not move.

He breathed. Once.

His fingers curled around air.

The daggers glinted.

And the announcer said—

"Begin."