Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 115: Patience

From the heretic seats, the figures of the Sanctum of Light rose in fury. The High Censor stood, his voice booming across the gathering like a blade drawn in church.

"BEHOLD! THE DEMONBLADE! THE PROPHECY FULFILLED!"

"HE IS EVIL INCARNATE! A BLADE THAT FEEDS! THE PROPHET OF DEATH!"

"IAN IS THE END!"

-------

The chanting rose like a stormfront, a riot of hatred and fear crashing against the arena walls.

"Demon! Heretic!"

"Burn him!"

"He stole its soul! He commands the dead!"

Ian stood motionless, unmoved by the wave of voices or the hands pointed like daggers.

His gray eyes swept the crowd with the chill of a winter crypt. The beast’s soul still lingered against his palm, a fading ember lingering before it vanished into the ether.

Then, like thunder splitting the vaults of a cathedral, a voice rang out across the coliseum.

"Enough."

The uproar stopped instantly, as if the stones themselves had commanded silence.

Stillness spread like frost. Even the air seemed to yield before the speaker’s presence.

A man stepped forward onto the royal dais, wrapped in layers of black-and-gold steel trimmed with crimson—a robe of office worn over battle-forged armor.

His presence didn’t just carry authority.

It was authority.

Not merely noble. Not simply mage.

A force unto itself. His pale skin caught the mockery of sunlight; his silver-streaked hair swept back from a face carved with experience.

His eyes glowed faintly—marks of divine favor.

Ian’s gaze narrowed. This man wasn’t just strong. He oozed power. Each step he took hit like the echo of war drums.

"Let it be known," the man said, his voice laced with mana that hummed through every bone in the arena, "that the one you scorn... this Ian... is marked by the gods themselves. He is an Oathbound Subjugator."

Murmurs flared like sparks on dry parchment—confusion, disbelief.

The man lifted one hand. Silence again.

"You call him demon?" he said, tone steel-wrapped silk. "Blasphemy. Unless you believe the gods were mistaken." ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Tension thickened. The accusation hovered in the air, a sword waiting to fall.

"No?" he asked, the hint of a smile curling beneath his words. "Then you’ll not call him demon again. You may despise him. You may fear him. But if you want his blood, earn it in the trial stage. That is the law here."

He turned to Ian, gaze firm. "Let the Reach decide. If he’s damned, the Reach will consume him. If he’s chosen, then so be it."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

The crowd shifted, uneasy, but the chants had stopped. Ian said nothing. He simply turned and walked toward the tunnel exit, ignoring the stares, the mutters, the fear now growing in his wake like weeds in poisoned soil.

---

He didn’t bother searching for Selene, Loras, or Dain.

They had seen the soulbinding.

Felt the Aura of Decay. Heard the whispers—demonblade.

He didn’t blame them.

This way was simpler. Let them pull away. Let them save him the stress of having to tell them to get away from him.

The light in the sky seemed to sputter and flare as Ian walked through the tournament camp, making shadows that dragged behind him like chains.

He neared a rock at the end where he planned to sit and rest—only to find two familiar figures blocking the way.

Caelen and Lyra.

"Well, well," Lyra said with a smirk, "if it isn’t the Prophet of Death himself."

Ian’s jaw flexed—not in anger, but faint amusement.

"Didn’t think I’d see you two here." He said sarcastically, this was the one place he expected to meet them.

"Funny," Lyra replied, voice curling like smoke. "We said the same about you. After Blackfall, we figured you vanished into some demon trap. But i guess you were really interested in the tournament afterall."

"I wasn’t planning to return," Ian said, brushing past into the cooler stone ahead. "I’m looking for someone."

Lyra fell in step beside him, hands folded behind her like a child eyeing mischief. "Glad you did. You missed the opening bloodbath. Two heads popped like grapes. Glorious."

"I’m not here for a show. This is a waste of time," Ian muttered. "I don’t care about Seers or Trials. I should be clearing the Reach."

"You are clearing the Reach," Caelen said calmly from behind.

Ian slowed.

"What?"

Caelen’s footsteps echoed softly as he joined them, steady as a marching fortress. "This tournament is how we clear it for greater rewards. Or more precisely—how we survive it."

Ian frowned. "Explain."

Caelen stopped at a stone alcove, folding his arms.

Lyra perched on a crumbled statue like a crow on a grave.

"To be granted a reach gateway—to leave the reach or ascend—you need three relics: Decay. Hunger. Silence. Offer them at the place of Xul’Vek’s domain."

"I know that," Ian snapped. "The trial to prove worth."

Caelen nodded. "Right. But there’s a catch. There are thousands of relics, so everyone can obtain them all. However they are scattered through ruins, demon dens, sunken cities. You’d spend weeks or months tracking even one. Alone? Longer."

Lyra leaned forward, grin sharp. "Guess what the tournament gives us? Clues. Coordinates. Sightings. But not many. Everyone gets the same ones. So..."

"We fight for them," Ian finished, voice going cold.

"Exactly," Caelen said. "The Reach is still hell—demons, traps, corrupted visions. But now the real threat? Each other."

Ian stared. The truth locked into place, one bone at a time.

"And those who don’t claim any relics?" he asked.

"Become victims of their failures," Lyra said, her grin widening. "Tradition. The Supervisors cull the weakest at the end. Blood must spill. Always."

Ian let out a slow breath. "Then maybe coming back wasn’t such a bad idea after all."

He looked ahead as the tents bent toward the barracks, falselight prgecting long, wavering shadows.

"What better way to kill my enemies," he murmured, "than to have them all in one place."

Lyra chuckled—soft and sharp as steel. Caelen nodded once.

Before them—back at the coliseum, the crowd moved on, chanting for the next bloodletting.

The world spun forward, indifferent.

But Ian’s path had narrowed.

Now it had shape.

Now it had blood.