Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 133: When Blood Weeps From The Sky

The blind saw visions they weren’t meant to. And something old, something watching from beyond... smiled.

Back on the battlefield, Ian lowered the blade.

The black scar he carved into reality lingered a heartbeat longer.

Then—faded.

What was once Hollow Spine was now a perfect, gaping absence.

A silence more complete than death.

A message carved into the world:

The Prophet of Death was still living.

———

Far away from scorched ruins and silent death, within the heart of Esgard, life thundered on.

The coliseum—Esgard’s legendary arena—shook beneath the roar of tens of thousands.

Stone walls lined with golden banners trembled from the impact of the crowd’s cheers, and the sky blazed with the deep reds of sunset, painting a molten hue over the sand-strewn pit.

Two figures faced each other beneath that burning sky, framed in the coliseum’s great circle.

Both of them dripped power.

On the left: Kaelor Vaelt, known in the northern steppes as the Thundering Executioner, clad in rough blackened armor etched with lightning runes.

Blue arcs crackled across his gauntlets, dancing along the massive battle-axe gripped in his hands.

On the right: Vireya of the Embers, a flame-dancer of the Solari Caldera, her lithe form sheathed in crimson and gold, twin sickles humming with solar fire at her hips.

Her breath misted, despite the heat, and her eyes burned like twin suns.

The crowd screamed as the two warriors charged, feet hammering sand, spells already forming at their fingertips.

Kaelor struck first, hurling his axe in a wide arc—lightning exploded from the weapon, racing toward Vireya like a pack of howling beasts.

But she was faster, spinning with a dancer’s grace, her sickles cutting through the arcs with trails of fire that hissed and hissed until the magic dispersed.

"COME ON!" someone in the stands roared, punching the air. "TEAR HIM IN HALF, VIREYA!"

"CRUSH HER, THUNDER KING!" another screamed back, spitting wine from their chalice.

The clamor never stopped.

A thousand tongues shouting for blood.

A thousand hearts beating to the rhythm of violence.

Vireya leapt high, her body igniting mid-air, becoming a blazing spiral of flame. Kaelor answered with a ground-shaking stomp that summoned spears of lightning from below, forcing her to dodge mid-descent.

When she landed, it was in a blur of radiant slashes, twin blades carving arcs of sunfire.

Sparks exploded.

Magic collided.

And the crowd was in ecstasy.

From the outer edge of the stands, a man newly arrived in Esgard leaned forward, eyes wide with wonder. He was dressed in the dark leathers of a traveler, his face weatherworn and tan, and his voice breathless as he laughed.

"By the gods," he muttered to no one in particular. "How have I missed this kind of entertainment all my life?"

A woman beside him, older, more reserved, chuckled. "This?" she said, taking a sip from a crystal flask. "Child, this is just a common brawl. You should have been here when he fought."

The man raised a brow. "He?"

She looked at him, then out toward the bloodstained sand.

"The Demonblade," she whispered. "Ian. The man that can not die."

The man blinked. "Ah. That one. I’ve heard the name in taverns. Thought it was just a tale."

"No tale," she said. "I saw his last battle. One punch, and half the arena shattered. The other half cried blood. All of us did."

The man opened his mouth to ask more.

But never spoke the words.

Because then—it began again.

At first, it was subtle. A ripple in the air. A breath held too long. A stillness that had no place in the chaos of the arena.

Then a scream.

Then another.

And another.

The thunder of the crowd died in an instant.

Down in the arena, Kaelor and Vireya froze mid-clash, their weapons inches apart, eyes wide with confusion.

Their magic flickered.

A child in the front rows cried out, clutching her mother’s hand. "Mama, it hurts! My eyes!"

Blood leaked from her cheeks.

From everyone’s cheeks.

From every eye in the stands.

Thick, warm, unnatural.

A priest shouted a prayer. A drunk man threw his wine and sobbed. Another vomited and fell to his knees. People clutched their faces, shrieking, trembling, blood pouring like tears of judgment.

Someone shouted from the stands: "IT’S HIM! IT’S HIM! IT’S DEATH! HE’S COME BACK!"

"THE PROPHET OF DEATH!"

Panic spread like fire across dry grass. People tried to flee but stumbled into each other. Others fell to the ground, overcome by the pressure, the presence.

Because it was here.

That same ancient weight, that same soul-breaking silence that came before oblivion. They all felt it—not in their skin, but in their bones, in their blood.

It didn’t matter if they’d seen Ian before.

Every living thing knew.

He was close, he was coming.

Up in the noble section, high above the rabble, Velrosa Lionarde sat still in her velvet seat. Her silver hair gleamed in the sunset, and her sapphire eyes, though rimmed in blood, held no surprise.

Only a soft, knowing smile.

She lifted a gloved hand and wiped the blood from her cheeks, inspecting it with mild disdain.

"Look at you," she murmured. "Causing trouble again."

She stood, gazing out over the weeping coliseum, and tilted her head ever so slightly.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, she felt it.

That severed line in the world. That tear in the fabric of space. That echo of a swing that had unwritten a place.

The Hollow Spine Ruins... were no more.

And a few would have sensed it.

As the sun dipped lower, bleeding across the sky like an open wound, all of Esgard cried blood. Mage and noble, child and beggar, priest and prisoner.

None were spared.

The weeping had begun.

And across the lands, from desert wastes to mountain holds, they felt it too.

A terror without form.

A voice without sound.

And a prophecy born from silence:

The Prophet of Death was coming.

And Esgard wept crimson in preparation for his arrival.