Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 87: Gates Of Hell

There were few places in the world that even the bravest knew to fear.

Hellscape was one of them.

Born from the Sundering Epoch, when the Veil between worlds was first torn, the Hellscape was not merely a place — it was a thriving wound.

An endless, shifting domain of desolation, nightmare, and blood.

No maps could truly chart it; no memory could safely hold its horrors.

Only one thing was certain: within its bounds, death was a promise, not a possibility.

The Ivorian Empire had long ago recognized the Hellscape as both a blight and an opportunity.

For generations, they had erected massive Gates — entrances forged in desperate, holy rites — to contain and regulate its chaos.

In total, there were eleven gates across the Empire.

Three were held tightly under the watchful dominion of the Church of the Sanctum, whose paladins and inquisitors guarded the sacred thresholds with blade and sermon.

Seven were under direct imperial control, fortified with legions, mage-battalions, and arcane fortresses.

And one, known simply as the Black Fall, was public — open to any who dared.

The Black Fall was the most infamous of the gates, the most "popular" to those mad or desperate enough to enter.

Most who did were both.

It stood isolated in the Wasted Reach, a barren expanse where no birds flew and no grass grew, a place where the sky was forever bruised purple and red.

The gate itself was a wonder and a terror — a pillar of blackness that descended from the heavens, endless and pure, striking the earth like a spear cast by an unseen god.

It made no sound. It emitted no light.

It merely was, a rift that defied reality.

Those who stood near it said they could hear voices whispering from the dark, promising salvation, damnation, or nothing at all.

But entering Hellscape was no simple matter.

Once someone crossed the threshold, there was no leaving until they cleared a Reach.

Hellscape was divided into nine Reaches, each one deeper, more twisted than the last.

Each Reach was a reflection of human sin and divine judgment, populated by abominations that wore flesh like a mockery of life.

The First Reach was called Silence — barren, scorched lands where blood-maddened creatures roamed, and death came on the wind.

Survival alone was a victory.

The Second Reach, Ashspire, was a ceaseless land of blood rain and mutilated forests.

The Third Reach, Citadel of Bone, housed entities whose hatred had become a tangible, living thing.

And so on, each Reach a descent not just into Hellscape — but into the blackness of one’s own soul.

It was here that the Demon Subjugators were bred to slaughter.

To become a Demon Subjugator was to be deemed worthy by the Church or imperiality, one may even become one for a faction.

However, an Oathbound Subjugator was different.

To swear an Oath in the sight of the gods themselves. It was a binding of flesh, blood, and soul, pledging to hunt and destroy the infernal threats that festered within the Reaches.

But the gods were not merciful.

They did not accept oaths lightly.

Only those they deemed "worthy" — those whose strength, hatred, or purity of purpose was sufficient — could bear the title. And even then, most Demon Subjugators never lived to see the Third Reach.

The history books spoke in awe of the few who had — legends clad in heavenly steel and magic who could erase armies with a gesture and slay devils with a whisper. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

It was said that all oathbound Subjugators were forced to swear their service in the name of the Church or the Empire, binding their triumphs to imperial glory or religious sacrifice.

Yet in the new whisperings that now spread through Esgard and beyond, something had changed.

A figure — an aberration — had emerged.

Ian Night.

He had become an Oathbound Subjugator, his oath accepted by the gods.

But he had not sworn it in the name of the Empire.

Nor the church.

He had sworn it in the name of Velrosa Lionarde, a royal cast out from grace, a woman marked as an exile.

It was the first time in history that a non-Emperor, a non-high-priest, had been named the anchor of an Oathbound.

It was heresy made manifest.

It was power redefined.

It was a future the Church could not allow.

They WILL not allow.

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The desolate grounds of blackfall ran endless and dead beneath a brooding sky.

Wind howled across the cracked, blood-dusted soil, carrying the scent of old ash and something fouler — the stink of open graves.

In the distance, the Black Fall Gate stood, no, it simply was.

A perfect line of darkness splitting heaven and earth.

Even from miles away, it felt wrong, like an abscess in the fabric of existence.

And far from it, standing motionless atop a broken rise, was a cloaked figure.

His cloak was torn, the color of old smoke, and his hair was wild — dark, ragged, falling into his lifeless grey eyes. At his back were strapped two daggers of polished bone that gleamed faintly even under the bleak light.

He stared at the Black Fall without blinking, without moving, as if measuring the enormity of the path before him.

Ian Night.

The Demonblade.

The Prophet of Death.

He had many names now—too many too list—but every single one earned.

Bought with blood and slaughter.

Footsteps crunched behind him, drawing nearer.

He heard them before they even tried to speak — five in all, moving lightly but not skillfully.

Travelers. Adventurers, by the sound of their cheap armor and half-hearted attempts at stealth.

Or atleast that’s what they wanted him to believe.

A voice called out, too bright, too eager.

"Hey there, friend!" one of them said, approaching slowly with open hands. "You planning to enter the gate soon?"

Ian did not turn.

He could feel the shape of them behind him — the way they fanned out slightly, trying to encircle him without being obvious.

Another spoke up, laughing nervously. "It’s dangerous to go alone, you know. We’re forming a team. Strength in numbers, right?"

Ian said nothing.

A single line of crimson text blinked to life.

[Holy magic detected in close vicinity.]

A ripple of cold understanding passed through him.

Ian finally turned his head, just slightly, enough to see the "travelers" out of the corner of his eye.

Their smiles were too polished.

Their armor too new. Their boots bore no real wear.

Agents. Infiltrators. Church rats.

Ian’s voice, when he spoke, was soft.

Almost gentle.

"I know you’re from the Church."

The smiles froze on their faces.

He turned fully now, his cloak whispering against the dusty ground, his grey eyes colder than the Hellscape wind.

"Take another step toward me," Ian said, low and deathly calm,

"and I’ll slit your throats."

The wind howled louder around them, carrying away all pretense of civility.

The Black Fall remained in the distance, uncaring and eternal.