Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion
Chapter 202: The First Cut

Chapter 202: The First Cut

The arena’s thunder had not yet faded when Ian returned to his seat.

The high seat. The Sovereign’s throne — a chair of onyx and bone, carved from the skull of a fallen Crucible beast and set atop the viewing platform where once the nobles presided.

Now, they bowed.

Ian didn’t sit immediately. He stood behind the chair, gloved hands resting on the backrest as his gaze swept across the Crucible below.

Already, the sands were being swept clean of ritual flame. Charred lines were raked away, and from the eastern gates, the cages rolled in.

Massive iron constructs. Each rattled like a storm, chains trembling, wheels grinding against stone.

The stench of mana-beast breath spilled out ahead of them — rot, fur, and that acrid sharpness that only beasts soaked in corrupted essence carried.

To Ian’s left, Eli sat, arms folded, golden eyes tracking the cages with quiet alertness. His dreadlocks were tied back in gold thread, and though he looked relaxed, Ian could feel his tension — like a bowstring drawn but unloosed.

Beside him lounged Blackrat, already chewing something and muttering into a ledger thick with scribbled odds.

"First match," Blackrat said, "one novice against a predator. Poor bastard’s got a sword made outta cheap steel and hope."

Ian didn’t answer.

"Odds say he gets two minutes. I say he pisses himself in one."

On Ian’s right, Caelen leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. His eyes — cold steel and unblinking — were locked on the gate.

"They didn’t used to start with beasts," he muttered.

"They do now," Ian said softly.

The first gate slammed open.

A roar met it — not from the crowd, but from within the cage.

The mana beast inside was tall as two men, covered in matted white fur, its back studded with crystal-like growths pulsing with corrupted mana. Its face was wrong — too long, too flat, more reptile than beast — and it moved with an awful, deliberate elegance.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the Crucible, arcane amplification casting every syllable like a blow to the ribs.

"Behold! The Shardback Wailer! Claimed from the Eastern crevices of Blackblood! Slayer of fourteen scouts! Now... witness man against monster!"

Another gate opened.

This one quieter.

A boy stepped through.

He was young. No more than seventeen. Dark skin, wild hair, a lean build wrapped in salvaged armor. His eyes were wide, but not panicked. And though his weapon was crude — a jagged sword reforged from scrap and shardbone — he held it steady.

Some in the crowd booed. Others cheered. Many simply waited, eyes sharp, ready to judge.

"He’s light," Caelen murmured.

"Too light," Eli replied.

"He’s got something," Ian said. "He’s not shaking."

Blackrat squinted. "Yeah? Hope it’s a spell and a prayer."

The fight began with a scream — not from the boy, but from the Wailer. Its jaw unhinged, revealing rows of fangs and a shimmering core of mana-light that howled like a cracked bell.

The crowd recoiled at the sound, and a few even clutched their ears.

But the boy didn’t move. Not yet.

He waited.

And when the beast lunged, the boy moved sideways, sliding under the charge and slashing upwards in one smooth motion.

The blade bit deep into fur and crystal. A sliver of corrupted light sprayed out like blood and the beast shrieked, spinning with frightening speed. One claw clipped the boy and sent him sprawling.

The crowd erupted.

"He got first blood!" Blackrat shouted, slapping his palm on the armrest. "Bloody hells, this kid’s not dead yet!"

The beast came again.

The boy dodged. Barely.

A claw ripped the side of his armor. He rolled, came up bleeding, but didn’t back down. He circled now, eyes low, sword twitching in his hand like it were a living thing.

The crowd chanted. A name rose — not his, but something guttural, invented by the moment.

"Rodent! Rodent!"

Ian leaned forward, one elbow resting on the armrest, chin in his palm.

The boy faked left.

The beast took the bait.

Then, with a sudden burst of reckless, stupid courage — the boy leapt, driving his sword deep into the Wailer’s shoulder.

The blade didn’t kill it.

But the weight of his momentum brought them both crashing down.

A second later, a sickening snap echoed across the arena. The beast’s head twisted wrong. One of its claws spasmed. Then silence.

Dead.

A breath passed.

Then the Crucible roared like a dragon unchained.

"He lived," Caelen said, a touch of surprise in his voice.

"Barely," Eli muttered. "But he’s got something."

Ian nodded once. "He’ll come again."

Blackrat scribbled furiously in his ledger. "We make him a novelty. Underdog. Find out if he’s from the gutter, or one of the low-blood Houses. Maybe spin a sob story. Lost brother, maimed dog, something to pull coin."

"Don’t embellish too fast," Ian said.

"Why not?"

"He’s not ours yet."

The next match was worse.

Three prisoners — actual murderers pulled from the city’s deep vaults — were thrown against a hybrid mana-beast: part serpent, part ape, with rot across its lower jaw.

It lasted less than sixty seconds.

One prisoner was swallowed whole.

The other two were shredded in a whirl of claws and snapping bone.

The crowd loved it.

Blackrat didn’t even look impressed. "No bets paid on that one. Waste of coin. Next."

By the fourth match, Ian leaned back into his seat. Eli had grown quiet, and Caelen had stopped watching the matches to instead watch the crowd.

"How long do you think untill they remember what’s coming?" Caelen asked.

Eli answered, "When the blood stops."

Ian said nothing.

Because it wasn’t time yet.

He needed them to cheer.

To bathe in the fantasy that war was still something far away. Believe the Crucible was the greatest danger they’d ever know.

Pretend the horrors in Blackblood weren’t inching closer by the hour.

Let them dream — just a little longer.

The announcer’s voice returned.

"Prepare for the final match of the Beast Games!"

"From the southern cages — the returning champion of the Bastille Pits, Bron of the Scars!"

A giant of a man emerged, shirtless, body covered in ritual cuts and seared runes. He lifted a spiked warhammer with one hand, bellowing a challenge so loud even the nobles flinched.

"And from the northern gate — a beast unclassified, its origins unknown. Found wandering the edge of Blackfall..."

A new cage wheeled forward.

This one hissed.

Its runes burned black.

Eli tensed.

Ian sat forward.

Because this wasn’t one of theirs.

The cage groaned as something moved within.

Caelen reached for his blade, even seated.

"What the hell is that?" he muttered.

Blackrat stood. "That’s not one of the forest captures."

The gate creaked.

The crowd quieted.

From within the cage, something shifted — not beast, not man. A shape in silhouette, wrong and stuttering.

It stared directly up at Ian’s seat.

And smiled.

"We’ve...been infiltrated"