Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 69: Unkillable vs Undefeated II

The arena was suffocating in its silence.

A deep, oppressive stillness weighed on Ian’s chest as he stared down Joras, whose stance was poised, every muscle in his body an intricate balance of control and aggression.

For a fleeting moment, Ian felt it—the scrape of doubt clawing at the edges of his confidence.

This man—this champion—was more than he had anticipated.

Stronger, faster, more lethal than the ones before him.

Joras’s sabers gleamed with cold, deadly intent.

He stood there like a storm contained in a man, every fiber of his being preparing to strike with precision.

The crowd’s roar had turned into a low hum of anticipation, their eyes fixed on the center of the arena.

Ian’s breath came slow, measured.

The heat of the battle still clung to him, but now, there was a new tension.

Every muscle in his body screamed for action, for the fight to begin, yet he could not shake the feeling that every step, every move, would be watched, weighed.

Joras made the first move.

A blur of steel—his sabers came in fast, too fast for Ian to fully track.

The air whistled with the force of the strike, and Ian’s reflexes kicked in just in time.

He twisted, just enough to avoid the deadly cut, but the tip of Joras’s saber still grazed his shoulder.

A searing line of pain flared across his skin, but it was nothing his soul essence could not mend.

Foolish.

He’s faster than I imagined.

But Ian had something Joras did not.

A way to slow his speed.

Aura of Decay.

A suffocating pulse rippled out from Ian, a tidal wave of necrotic energy that swept across the arena like a shadow.

The temperature seemed to drop, the air growing hard with unseen weight. Joras flinched, his movement hesitating for the briefest moment, just enough for Ian to press the attack.

The crowd gasped.

Whispers snaked through the stands.

"That’s the Demonblade’s power!"

Joras staggered slightly, his sabers losing the fluidity they once had, the speed of his strikes dropping by a hair.

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Ian lunged, his twin daggers gleaming with dark promise.

He slashed once, twice, his movements smooth and precise, as if the blades were his own hands.

Each strike was a promise of blood, cutting through the air, each movement calculating, ruthless.

But Joras was no ordinary man.

His sabers parried the blows, the clash of steel ringing out, sparks dancing in the air.

He was relentless, his footwork a blur of fluidity as he spun and weaved, each movement an art in itself.

Ian’s heart pounded, the fight unfolding like a delicate, dangerous symphony.

I can’t just match his speed, I need to break his rhythm.

A violent swing came, aiming to cleave through Ian’s defenses.

It was a move Ian knew would overwhelm him if he allowed it to land.

But this time, he had anticipated it.

The tip of Ian’s dagger met Joras’s blade with a sharp, deafening crack, the shockwave reverberating through his arm, but Ian’s reaction was instantaneous.

He twisted his body, his other dagger moving in a swift arc, aimed directly at Joras’s exposed side.

But Joras—damn him—was already there, his sabers a blur.

The sound of bone blade meeting metal echoed in the vastness of the arena, and Ian barely deflected the strike aimed for his chest.

His legs buckled with the force of the blow, but he regained his balance just in time.

They were locked in an exchange—each strike, each parry, each dodge, an carefull balance of life and death.

But as they fought, Ian could feel it.

The toll of the battle.

His body—though still strong—was beginning to slow.

The wounds, the blood, the sweat.

He healed each wound but even then, each strike he endured was a reminder of his mortality.

Joras’s eyes gleamed with something dark, something terrifying—a hunger that mirrored Ian’s own.

He was pushing, testing, probing for weaknesses in Ian’s form.

Then came a move that Ian didn’t see coming.

Joras spun, his sabers flashing like twin streaks of lightning, faster than anything Ian had encountered.

The sabers cut through the air with brutal force, a storm of steel that slashed and raked across Ian’s defenses.

Ian barely managed to retreat, the wind of the blades whipping past him, his cloak torn and shredded.

He could feel the blood seeping through his side.

The pain was sharp, brutal—but he could fight through it.

He had to.

The crowd roared, the sound washing over him like distant tides, but Ian’s mind was a blank slate.

There was no fear. No doubt.

Only the fight.

But Joras wasn’t finished.

He surged forward, his sabers moving faster, more erratically now, like a creature cornered, desperate.

The speed—too fast, the strikes too sharp—Ian barely kept up, his daggers moving in a blur, slashing in the gaps between Joras’s attacks.

But then it came—a blade finding its mark.

A jagged pain tore through Ian’s side as one of Joras’s sabers slipped past his defenses.

The blade dug deep, piercing the gap in his armor, the agony flaring hotter than the last.

Ian gritted his teeth, his breath ragged.

The blood burned, pooling on the sand beneath him.

The wound began to heal.

But it was slow.

His soul essence was getting lower.

The pain—relentless.

Joras’s eyes were cold, calculating.

He stepped back, watching Ian with a predator’s gaze, waiting for him to falter, to show weakness.

Ian couldn’t let that happen.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself forward.

The decision was made.

His body surged with adrenaline, with raw, unstoppable will.

He unleashed his next move.

His final move.

An attack so fast it was always the final move.

[Swift Cut.]

The air bent under the force of the strike.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of fate.

The strike was a blur, a deadly line of silver light aimed directly at Joras’s chest.

But—

Joras moved?

He dodged.

Ian’s strongest attack, a cut at twenty times Ian’s regular speed and this bastard dodged?

Faster than a shadow.

Faster than the blade could touch him.

His sabers flashed, the world rippling with the force of his movement.

Ian’s Swift Cut—his ultimate move—missed.

By a fraction.

Joras stood, eyes locked with his, a grim smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"You almost had me," he murmured.