Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 148: The Demon Arrives

The Crucible held its breath.

Time thickened, and the world leaned into the silence Veyne had carved with his voice. His arrogance still echoed against stone, still hung in the air like smoke after fire.

But even he, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with victory, felt it.

Something was wrong.

Something had changed.

It began at the edge of perception—a crawling pressure beneath the skin, a tightening of the gut, a low pulse that didn’t match the heartbeat of any man alive. freewёbnoνel.com

The sun seemed dimmer. The air tasted of ash.

Then came the sound.

Not a fanfare, not the roar of horns or the pound of drums.

But a creak.

A slow, groaning thing.

Metal dragging over stone. Ancient hinges yawning open.

The north gate was opening.

Gasps rippled through the stands. Even those who had never been to a match knew that gate. The Gate of Bone.

The one reserved for the condemned. Or the cursed.

Or the damned.

It had been that way since Ian walked through it those many months ago.

It opened slowly, shadows pooling outward like spilled ink. No trumpets. No announcements.

Only darkness.

Then he stepped through.

A man—or something that wore the shape of one.

Tall. Broad.

His body wrapped in dark leathers and a simple cloak that had seen better days. Twin blades hung at his sides, cruel things shaped for tearing, not cleaving.

His armor was inscribed with pale sigils that pulsed faintly like dying embers, and his steps left behind faint traces of frost and soot.

But it was his presence that shattered the Crucible.

The aura came first—a pressure that flattened lesser men, that sent even the guards staggering.

It whispered of old graves and stillborn gods, of things that slithered beneath time.

His face was bare.

Hair wild and dark, eyes like chipped slate—cold, lifeless, unreadable. As if he saw the world through the eyes of something long dead.

Ian.

The Demon of House Elarin.

The Demonblade.

Death’s Prophet.

He didn’t look at the crowd.

Didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t acknowledge the sea of faces leaning over the rails, breath caught in their throats.

He simply walked forward.

Step by steady step. Into the arena he had once bathed in blood.

And the Crucible, for a full ten seconds, remained absolutely silent.

Then, like a tremor through the bones of the world—

The screaming began.

Not cheers. Not yet.

The screams of recognition. Of awe. Of terror.

Of memory.

"It’s him."

"Gods... he looks colder than the stories say."

"I saw him almost a year ago—when he shattered that champion’s magic with a whisper. I never thought—by the light—I never thought I’d see him again..."

"The Demon’s real. That’s not a man, that’s curse wearing skin."

The nobles leaned forward in their silk-canopied seats.

Lady Alurelle’s hand trembled around her untouched goblet.

Velmira Saan let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

The prince of House Xavier only smiled. A small, secret thing.

And across the arena, Velrosa Lionarde’s eyes gleamed beneath the silver veil.

Not surprise.

Satisfaction.

"Sufficient entry," Eli muttered behind her, lips twitching.

But not all in the crowd reacted the same.

In the outer rows, among cloaked travelers and veiled pilgrims, a group huddled together, white-robed and tattooed with pale sun markings.

Sanctum devotees—heretics exiled to the city’s gutters.

One of them shivered violently as Ian stepped further into the light.

"This devil is our greatest enemy, the gods will i would go now and impale his heart," she whispered.

"No," another rasped. "He will meet Judgement in time. The priest now speak of the false man wrapped in death... the one who drinks the breath of the slain. Soon gods chosen shall end his evil."

Across the Crucible, in the champion’s quarters hidden behind the southern walls, other fighters watched through slits in the stone.

That includes the Blood League.

Murderers. Sorcerers. Pit legends.

Even they felt their skin prickle.

"Is that... what we have to fight eventually?" one asked.

"Hope not," came the reply.

"Tsk, I can take him," came another.

In the center of the arena, Veyne stood frozen.

His grin was gone.

Ian hadn’t so much as looked at him.

But already, he felt small.

He shook it off.

"You took your time," Veyne called, voice louder than he felt. "Was starting to think you’d died in your sleep."

Ian stopped.

Finally, he looked up.

His gaze met Veyne’s.

A silence passed between them like a blade sliding into flesh.

"You...are a man as brave as you are foolish," Ian said, voice low and rasped like rust peeling off old chains. "But if you so openly seek death, i have no choice but to grant it unto you."

Veyne blinked.

The crowd howled.

Roars. Cheers. Gasps.

It was the first thing Ian had said in months.

And it was enough.

Veyne’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, fists curling. "You think you can scare me with silence and a few old stories? I’m not like the others. I don’t fear you."

Ian tilted his head slightly.

"A mistake many have made, none of which still breathing."

That was all.

No threat. No roar. Just a statement. Flat. Honest.

However it was just as he was instructed—each word was the spectacle the crowd so desperately needed.

The Crucible reacted like struck flint.

The stands erupted.

They screamed his name.

Ian! Ian! Ian!

Not as a hero.

As a storm.

As a force of nature returned.

Velrosa leaned forward now, resting her hand on the rail.

"She’ll be watching," she murmured to Eli.

"She’ll see him," Eli replied. "Everyone will."

From the topmost balcony, Lady Caldrein Morravel, First Chair of the Council, watched with a calculating eye.

She whispered to her page, "Begin preparations for the writ of exemption."

Her page hesitated. "You believe he’ll survive?"

Lady Morravel smiled faintly.

"Veyne? No. He’s been dead since the moment that demons foot touched the Crucible’s sand."

Back in the arena, the two men stood across from one another.

Ian’s shadow stretched long across the sand, its edges flickering unnaturally.

Veyne gritted his teeth.

"I don’t care what you’ve done before," he growled. "I’ll break you in front of this whole city."

Ian’s eyes gleamed, just slightly.

"You’ll try. Im certain you will."

The gates behind them sealed with a thundering slam.

A signal flare burst into the sky above, trailing crimson smoke.

From the announcer’s tower, a voice rang out—grand, booming, ceremonial.

"By decree of the Council of Esgard, and by wager of blood sworn before the Thrones, let the match between Champion Veyne of House Vaelhold, and Ian, Demon of House Elarin... begin!"

The Crucible exploded.

Roars. Chants. Madness.

The crowd rose to their feet, the nobles leaned forward in rapture, and a thousand breathless eyes locked onto the sand below.

Veyne stepped forward, a war cry forming in his chest.

Ian didn’t move.

He simply lowered his stance.

And smiled.