Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 113: Trial of Merit

The ground trembled with each distant roar, a jagged rhythm that would echo through the bones of the spectators lining the upper tier of the arena.

Smoke coiled from the great pyres lit along the walls of the coliseum, making flickering shadows over the faces of the gathered crowd—warriors, nobles, watchers, and beasts alike.

They stood shoulder to shoulder beneath banners of desperate factions and rising warlords, eyes locked on the blood-slicked arena below.

The Trial of Merit had begun.

And it was already a massacre.

Ian stood among the unsponsored at the staging zone just beyond the iron gates, his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the battle unfolding below.

A ring of blackened stone encircled the arena floor, scorched with old magic and pitted with claw marks too large to be anything natural.

Blood.

It painted the sand in arcs and splatters. The bodies of the fallen were not removed—only trampled.

The beast at the center of it all was an abomination.

Once a mana beast of Hazard rank—perhaps a storm lion or magma tusker—it had been brought into the Reach by beast tamers.

But that was long ago.

Now, corrupted by demonic influence, it was something else entirely.

Thick, glistening muscles bulged under cracked hide that beat with red runes.

Its eyes glowed like furnace coals, wide and furious, as it thrashed at the current challenger—a man in heavy armor wielding a battle-axe alight with sorcery.

The warrior darted left, then right, hurling spells that seared the air and split the earth.

The beast didn’t flinch.

It charged.

The sound of its impact was like a thunderclap.

The axe shattered against its hide.

A single swipe tore through the man’s armor like parchment, ripping him in half with a wet, explosive spray of gore.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Some cheered. Others turned away.

Ian didn’t blink.

"How many’s that now?" Loras asked beside him, arms folded, brow furrowed. His voice held no fear—only calculation.

"Seven," muttered Selene. "All skilled. All dead."

Dain stood further back, clutching a scroll of binding wards that he hadn’t dared open yet.

"It’s not just powerful. It’s resistant to structured spells. The corruption’s layered like armor."

Ian watched the beast drag the latest corpse through the dirt before tossing it into a wall with a crack of bone.

Its breath steamed like poison, and from its flanks oozed something too dark to be blood.

Ian murmured. Inaudible.

Selene nodded grimly. "There is most definitely Demon mana’s in its core. Its like whoever planned this trial doesn’t want contenders. They want sacrifices."

From the far side of the arena, the next challenger was already being led in—a young man with fire in his eyes and a two-handed sword glowing with runes.

He bowed once to the crowd, then once to the creature.

And then the gate shut behind him.

Ian exhaled slowly.

This was less a test of strength as much as it was a culling. An act of cruelty disguised as ceremony.

The crowd didn’t care. This was the Reach.

Here, spectacle was salvation.

Around the viewing galleries, the factions stood tall and still—robed archmages from the Dominion of Flint, mercenary captains from the Stoneflame League, and a cluster of pale, masked figures from the Bloodcourt.

They judged, whispered, wagered.

Ian felt their eyes now and then—especially the ones veiled behind rune-etched masks. They could sense him.

They knew him, Prophet of Death.

He wasn’t sure what they felt, but he knew it made them uneasy.

Another scream snapped his attention forward.

The young man had landed a blow—cut deep into the beast’s side—but in return, he had lost his leg.

Blood fountained from the stump as he dragged himself backwards, screaming for aid that would not come.

There was no mercy here.

The beast crushed him seconds later.

A silence fell over the arena, pure and final.

Then, the call rang out.

"Next!"

A pause.

Ian felt the others shift subtly away from him.

His name had not been called. Not yet.

But it would be soon.

He stepped forward, resting one hand lightly on the hilt of Vowbreaker.

Ashvaleth stirred in the depths of his soulbond—restless, hungry. The undead predator knew battle was close, and that something foul writhed in the blood of this beast.

It wanted to feed.

But Ian would not call it. Not yet. Not for this.

He would face the corrupted mana beast alone.

Another scream. Another kill.

Nine dead.

The crowd was starting to turn. Some were bored. Others were whispering about how long the creature could be kept chained.

A few murmured about ending the trial altogether—clearly, few would survive, and there were better uses for a monster like that than this.

"Ten," muttered Selene. Her hands trembled slightly. "We’re losing our chances."

Loras said nothing. His eyes were on Ian.

Then the voice came again.

"Ian of No Sponsor. Step forward."

A hush rolled through the crowd.

Demonblade?

Prophet of Death?

You heared what he did in Esgard?

Is he the one that slaughtered the churches Army?

Even the beast seemed to pause, huffing and shifting its weight as if sensing something different.

Ian rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his arms slide away like old skin.

He walked forward.

Every step echoed.

The gate opened.

He entered.

From the far end, the corrupted creature raised its head, black ichor dripping from its fanged jaw.

It bellowed once—thick with rage and hunger.

Ian didn’t flinch from it.

He stood at the center of the ring, his boots sinking slightly into the blood-soaked ground.

The gate clanged shut behind him.

No weapons were drawn yet. No spells cast. Just silence.

The crowd leaned forward.

A strange wind howled faintly through the upper arches. The torches flickered.

Somewhere in the far reaches of the Reach, a chime sounded.

And Ian smiled.

Not because he was happy.

But because he knew—

It was watching again.

The thing in the dark.

The one that had not shown itself during the false night.

And perhaps... now it was interested.

Now, it might come closer.