Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion
Chapter 203: Infiltrated Beast

Chapter 203: Infiltrated Beast

The beast never blinked.

That was the first thing Ian noticed.

The creature inside the cage morphed and stood as still as stone. Human-shaped. Man-sized. Draped in long, blood-dark robes that clung to its frame like wet silk.

Its head tilted slightly, and a smile — too wide, too knowing — was carved across its face.

But its eyes...

They were blank.

Not dull, not dead. Just... empty.

Like windows that opened to a place no sane soul had ever returned from.

The cage’s runes hissed, the containment wards flickering with stress. The crowd, so blood-hungry just moments before, grew uneasy. Even the announcer faltered, voice cracking beneath the strain of the silence.

"...and, uh... challenger... designation unknown. No sponsor...."

Ian rose slowly from his seat.

"Rat," he said, voice low, "where did this one come from?"

"I—I don’t know," Blackrat stammered, scanning his ledger. "Wasn’t in any of the imports. No coin was placed. It’s not... it’s not part of the rotation."

Caelen stepped forward. "Should I go down—?"

"No," Ian said. "Not yet."

Eli remained seated, golden eyes narrowed. "That thing... it’s not a mana beast."

"No," Ian agreed. "That much is clear."

The crowd stirred uneasily as the gate began to rise.

The cage shuddered. The metal warped.

It hadn’t even touched it.

But still... the iron bent.

The crowd didn’t cheer this time. They watched.

Some gripped their seats. Others leaned back, scanning the exits.

There was something wrong with the air.

It felt wet, even under the sun. Dense. Like the world had thickened around them.

And then — step.

The creature moved.

One barefoot step onto the Crucible sand, and everything seemed to shiver.

Across the arena, Bron of the Scars lifted his hammer. "You’re not the first freak I’ve crushed," he said. "You won’t be the last."

The thing smiled wider.

Then spoke.

It shouldn’t have been able to. Its mouth barely moved. But its voice crawled up through the air like smoke under a door:

"You will not remember dying, foolish human."

Bron bellowed and charged.

It was the right move.

Don’t let things like this speak. Don’t let them think. Crush first, question later.

The hammer came down with the weight of a collapsing tower.

But it never landed.

Because the creature simply wasn’t there anymore.

It hadn’t dodged.

It hadn’t blinked.

It had simply ceased to exist in that space — and reappeared behind Bron, hand resting against the man’s bare spine.

Bron turned — too slow.

The creature whispered something.

A soft syllable.

A word in a language no human mouth should shape.

Bron erupted.

Not in blood. Not in gore.

In silence.

Like sound itself was pulled from his body. His mouth opened. No scream came.

His skin flaked off like ash. His bones cracked inward. His shadow twisted as though it wanted to flee.

Then — dust.

Only the hammer remained, humming faintly with mana. The creature stepped over it.

Ian sighed.

He rose, slow and silent. As if the weight of the throne behind him had finally grown dull.

The wind caught his coat as he descended the high steps of the Crucible’s dais — a long, cold breeze sweeping across the stunned arena. It tugged at his black silks, at the iron trim of his collar. From his right hand, a sword kf darkness appeared.

Judgment.

It hadn’t been seen publicly in weeks.

Not since the last cleansing.

And yet here it was again, blooming into his hand like a living sentence — a greatblade of nothing, flame-ribbed and quiet as a grave.

"Whispers on the wind!" a voice from the stands gasped.

"He’s actually going down."

"The Demon Blade..." another breathed. "He’s moving."

"Poor bastard," someone muttered. "Didn’t even last a whole round."

Ian stepped onto the sand, his boots kissing the ground with barely a sound. The arena felt hushed, reverent, dreamlike. As though the world itself had paused to listen.

Caelen stood back, arms folded. Eli didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Blackrat just muttered to himself, scribbling. "Not scheduled. No records. No coin. Just... appeared."

Ian stopped a dozen paces from the thing.

It still wore that same too-wide grin. Still stood barefoot, calm, head tilted, as if it were admiring him.

"Another king," it whispered. "Another throne-bound killer."

Ian’s voice cut through the hush like glass dragged across steel.

"I’ve already cut down dozens of your kind, Oathbreaker."

He rolled his shoulder. Judgment twitched in his hand.

"What’s the point of sending one more?"

The thing cocked its head.

"To prove the Sanctum still has fangs in this city."

Ian smiled, bitter and sharp.

"I doubt that."

"Then how am I here?"

A pause.

Ian exhaled once, slowly.

"You’ll die regardless,"

It moved first.

The ground beneath it cracked as it surged forward — faster than any human should’ve been. Faster than it should’ve looked.

Ian didn’t flinch.

He stepped in. Judgment flashed upward — a single arc, flame-streaked and blinding.

The creature twisted mid-lunge, arms bending backward unnaturally. Judgment carved the air where its throat should’ve been — but it laughed, reshaping in motion, warping like liquid shadow.

A dozen black needles formed in its hands.

They launched.

Ian didn’t dodge.

He raised a hand — flame erupted from his palm, a sphere of bone-white heat that swallowed the darts mid-air and turned them to smoke.

"You burn with stolen fire," it hissed, circling.

"And you talk too much," Ian muttered.

The second clash was harder.

The creature struck with limbs that extended, bones unraveling into spears. It moved like water — ungraspable, slithering around Ian’s blade with sickening grace.

But Ian didn’t tire.

Didn’t panic.

Didn’t even try to keep up.

He just waited.

One step.

Another.

Faint flame trailing behind each movement.

It struck again — arm lancing forward, mouth split open in a shriek that was more light than sound—

And Ian caught it.

One hand.

Clenched.

The limb shattered.

Not just broke — shattered into smoke, essence, soulstuff.

The creature howled and reared back—

But Ian followed.

Judgment sank deep into its side. Flame exploded from the wound, crawling through its frame like wildfire through dry grass.

It screamed — not in pain, but in confusion.

"You—you’re—"

Ian wrenched Judgment free and spoke without heat.

"No. Don’t act surprised, you knew i was the end."

It tried to flee.

But the arena was his.

The moment its feet left the sand, he was already there — behind it, sword reversed, flame pulsing.

He cut it down in a single arc.

No scream.

No resistance.

Just a collapse of form. Like a puppet whose strings had finally snapped.

It disintegrated.

Not into blood, or dust, or ash — but memory.

A pulse of wrongness rippled through the Crucible, and then... silence.

Nothing remained.

No bones.

No name.

Just the faint echo of that wide smile — and the hammer Bron had left behind.

Ian turned.

The arena was silent.

For the first time in years, no one cheered.

Not yet.

Not until he was halfway back to the stairs.

Then, like a wave breaking —

"THE DEMON BLADE!"

"SOVEREIGN!"

"WHISPERER OF DEATH!"

The chants rose like thunder.

Ian didn’t look back.

He just ascended the steps, silent, Judgment dripping flame that vanished before it touched the ground.

When he sat, finally, Caelen gave a quiet nod.

Blackrat swallowed hard. "That was the Oathbreakers you spoke off?" he whispered. "The Sanctum sent it. Slipped it through. Even without their seat, they’re still—"

"They’re still desperate," Eli interrupted. "And desperation makes monsters."

Ian said nothing.

He just looked to the bloodstained sand.

And waited.

The Crucible games had only just begun.

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