Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion
Chapter 183: Prophet, Plague and A Familiar Stranger?

Chapter 183: Prophet, Plague and A Familiar Stranger?

The rain hissed over broken stone, washing the blood from Ian’s shoulders in thin, trembling rivers. He didn’t look at the newcomer—not at first.

Neither did Eli.

They both stood frozen, weapons still caught in the hands of the man who had stepped into their war like it was a tavern brawl.

Mark.

The name hadn’t been spoken yet, but Ian knew. Every part of him recognized the shape of that face. The crooked smile. The flick of disdain behind eyes that hadn’t dulled since Earth.

Not a wrinkle.

Not a mark of wear. Just that same effortless superiority he’d worn when they were twenty-two and sipping whiskey on rooftops, talking about promotions, travel, and women.

Except now Mark wore it like a crown.

The God’s Chosen.

Ian didn’t say a word.

Neither did Mark.

He simply let go of their blades and took a half-step back, rolling his wrists like he’d been holding something far beneath his strength.

"I’ve been watching for a while," Mark said, voice as casual as memory. "Didn’t expect you to be the Demon Blade."

He gave a low whistle and shook his head.

"I figured you’d have rotted in the pit by now."

Ian didn’t respond.

But Eli took a step forward, blade still low, eyes narrow.

Mark looked over and offered a hand. "Mark Hallow. God’s Chosen. Blessed by the Crown of Ascension. Current Champion of the Imperial Capital. And, if I’m not mistaken, your friend’s old colleague."

Eli didn’t take the hand.

Mark shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Then his eyes drifted back to Ian.

And something changed.

The smile was still there—but his gaze turned colder. Not cruel. Just clinical.

"I always wondered how you survived," Mark said. "You had no Affinity. No strength. When the guards dragged you off, I assumed you were dead within the week."

He looked around the ruined battlefield.

"Clearly, I underestimated you."

Ian finally spoke. Quiet. Dry.

"You always did."

Mark raised a brow. "Still bitter after all this time?"

Ian didn’t move.

But something in the air did.

The wind slowed.

The rain thinned.

Even the earth seemed to listen.

Eli stepped slightly to the side, giving them space.

Mark grinned. "There it is. That look. The one you gave me the day of the Affinity test. Like you were going to kill me with your eyes."

He walked in a slow circle now, boots crunching gravel.

"You were always small, Ian. Fragile. Someone we had to carry. I covered for you more times than I can count—at the office, with the team. You couldn’t even finish your report on time without me cleaning it up."

He turned.

"I gave you everything. Friendship. Support. Even her, when she came crying to me about how cold you’d become. I listened. I cared. And then you... you murdered us."

The air hummed.

Ian’s hand twitched at his side, hovering just above the hilt of Judgement.

But still—he said nothing.

Mark stepped closer.

"You know what’s funny?" he asked. "All that talk about betrayal. About her choosing me. But you never saw what was really happening, did you? You were already dead before she kissed me. You died long before the fire."

Finally, Ian lifted his eyes.

The ash-gray glow returned.

But this time, his voice came with it. Soft. Final.

"I know."

Mark blinked.

"I only made sure you all died with me."

That silenced everything.

Even Eli glanced at Ian.

Ian took a breath.

And when he exhaled, the weight of two hundred thousand ghosts came with it.

"I loved her," Ian said. "And she tore me apart cell by cell. You watched. You laughed. You helped. The night I broke, you were the one who handed her the knife."

Mark didn’t respond.

Ian stepped forward.

"I died in that banquet hall. I welcomed it. I thought maybe it’d all stop then. The shame. The whispers. The way my own name turned against me."

He pointed to the earth, the broken battlefield.

"But when I opened my eyes again... it was here. And you were here. And she was here."

He raised his blade.

"And suddenly, I had a purpose."

Mark’s eyes narrowed. "Revenge?"

Ian nodded. "No. Judgment."

The rain resumed.

Slow. Heavy.

Mark’s grin returned, smaller now.

"I’m not the villain, Ian. You’re the one who snapped. You’re the one who burned us."

"Then why are you here?" Ian asked. "Why now?"

Mark’s expression shifted. For the first time—uncertainty.

Then he laughed once, shaking his head.

"I could lie. Say the gods told me to. Say it’s fate. But truth is..." He looked around again. "You made a mess loud enough to reach the capital. Even the Imperiality is whispering your name. So I thought..."

He tilted his head.

"Maybe it’s time to clean up the past."

Ian didn’t answer.

Mark kept smiling.

"I’ve already killed many enemies since coming to this world, some die begging. Others try to make peace."

He stepped closer.

"I wonder which one you’ll be."

Ian took a single step forward—and the ground groaned beneath it.

The runes on his skin pulsed.

But Eli suddenly stepped between them. Blade lowered. Voice calm.

"Don’t."

Mark raised a brow. "Why not? He’s ready. I’m ready."

Eli glanced back at Ian. Then turned to Mark.

"Because this isn’t your stage."

Mark snorted. "Still playing the knight, are you?"

Eli ignored him. Instead, he turned to Ian.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

One broken man staring into the eyes of another.

Two monsters raised in different hells.

"I told you already," Eli said, voice low. "This is a fight we can’t comeback from. However its one I’ll fight alongside you regardless."

He sheathed his sword.

And took a slow breath.

"I’m still with you. But I need to know, Ian. Right here. Right now."

He locked eyes with him.

"What do you want to do?"

Mark waited.

The wind waited.

And Ian—he stood silent once more, at the edge of the abyss he’d built with his own hands.

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