Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 91: The Day Before

Smoke curled like thin fingers in the morning air, slow and deliberate, as if savoring its brief freedom before the wind pulled it away.

Ian stood alone on the rise just outside camp, a cigarette burning steadily between his lips.

His shadow stretched long in the brittle dawn light, tapering toward the warped horizon like a wound unraveling.

His eyes, flat and slate-gray, were fixed on the distant tear in the sky — the Black Fall Gate.

Even from here, it beat like a living thing.

It had become a ritual for him, this morning stillness.

A quiet communion with the abyss before he gave himself to it. Every day, he came here and stared at it.

And every day, it stared back.

He took a drag, slow and measured, and let the smoke drift from his nostrils.

The wind caught it, carrying it like incense toward the cursed altar on the horizon. For a moment, nothing moved.

The world was still. Expectant.

Then — footsteps.

He didn’t need to look.

He could feel them: measured, too clean for mercenaries, too heavy for seers. The air shifted with the scent of sanctified oils and sunsteel.

"You just can’t help yourselves," Ian muttered, tapping the ash off the edge of his cigarette with a flick of two fingers.

His voice was flat, not bored — but close.

Three figures approached.

They wore long coats of sand-colored leather, trimmed with white and stitched with symbols older than any nation.

Hoods shadowed their faces, but silver buckles glinted like the teeth of some waiting . They moved careful, unhurried, certain

The same ones from the time he met the siblings.

The same ones Lyra threatened.

The same ones Caelen forced to retreat with nothing more than a smile and a promise.

Church rats.

The man in the center stepped forward and pulled back his hood. His face was lean and sharp, chiseled in the way only suffering could sculpt.

A burn curved from brow to jaw — old, but ugly.

His eyes were pale gold, luminous with the soft, dangerous light of sanctified mana.

The sort of glow that promised absolution — or damnation.

"You might remember us," he said, voice calm, deliberate. "But I want you to remember what I say next."

Ian didn’t respond.

He flicked the last of his cigarette into the dirt and crushed it beneath his heel.

The man stepped closer. Just within reach.

"The moment you step through the Black Fall," he said softly, "we will find you. And we will kill you."

Silence. Nothing but the whispering hum of the Gate far off — like distant screaming heard underwater.

Ian blinked once. Slow.

"Why wait?"

The man offered a smile — a tired, bitter thing — and gestured loosely with his hand.

"Because unlike the church brute’s you’ve spent the last few months carving into meat, we follow divine law. The gods accepted your Oath."

Another stepped forward. Shorter, broader, thick hands clad in prayer-bound steel. "You’re Oathbound now. Marked in the eyes of the Seven. We can’t touch you on this side. Not without punishment."

"But Hellscape," the first said, voice now a quiet threat, "is different. There, the gods do not see. There, the only law is the one we bring in our hands."

A cold wind cut across the rise. The scent of brimstone followed.

Ian sighed and tilted his head. "So what stops me from killing you now?"

As he said it, the air behind them shivered. From the shadow of a broken pillar, something emerged — not fully flesh, not quite smoke.

A half-formed shade, stitched together from bones and ash, its blade of purple soulsteel gleaming like a thought sharpened into hate.

It moved without sound, drifting toward the Church agents. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

The woman among them — tall, with silver-threaded gloves and a distant gaze — didn’t so much as flinch. But the leader stepped forward, one hand raised.

Light bloomed around him, gold and blinding. It twisted, coalesced, then formed into a massive axe made of radiant force, its edge crackling with holy fire.

With a single swing, he cleaved the shadow in half.

It died without a scream — only a faint hiss, like breath drawn through rotting teeth, before vanishing into violet mist.

The axe remained, humming softly. He rested it on his shoulder.

"You think we’re like the Paladins you’ve been slaughtering, Night?" he asked, voice low. "You think this is a game?"

Ian’s eyes narrowed slightly at the name. The way it was said — like a sentence, not a label.

The man stepped closer again, green eyes locked onto him. "Do you even know what it takes to be ordained a Subjugator by the Church?"

Ian remained silent.

The man smiled — grim, reverent. "We walk where saints refuse. We bleed into forgotten altars. We’ve burned offerings in the seventh tongue. We’ve torn the wings from seraphs too proud to kneel. I’ve buried brothers in cursed salt because I had no other choice. And still, we carry the light."

He jabbed a finger at Ian’s chest.

"You’re an Oathbound shade with a cursed lineage and heresy stitched into your soul. You wear death like armor and think it makes you untouchable."

His voice dropped into a whisper, coiled and venomous.

"Prepare to die in the Reach. There, you are ours."

The woman beside him gave a small nod. "Time’s short. We should go."

They turned as one. Cloaks flaring, boots crunching over gravel and ash. Within moments, they were gone — swallowed by mist and murmurs from the restless camps below.

Ian stood alone once more.

"How noisy," he muttered, adjusting his cloak. The breeze tugged at the edges, cold with the scent of blood and burnt incense.

He looked down. A system panel hovered before his eyes, glowing red:

[BY OATH YOU MUST ENTER HELLSCAPE IN: 20:46:21]

The numbers pulsed like a heartbeat. Counting down toward oblivion.

He pulled a fresh cigarette from the folds of his coat, lit it with a flick of soulflame from his thumb.

The ember flared, briefly casting shadows across his face.

The Black Fall cut in the distance, casting its shadow across the land like a blade carved from midnight.

It was calling.

Behind him, the camp shifted and stirred.

Mercenaries laughed too loud. Devoted whispered of omens. Iron rang out as blades were sharpened.

And somewhere, far beyond the Gate, something waited.

Something hungry.

Ian exhaled, smoke curling once more into the wind.

Tomorrow, he would walk into Hell.