Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 129: Fang vs Prophet I

The wind, like a mournful beast, howled its dirge across the hollowed expanse of the battlefield.

It was a landscape ravaged, scarred by powers that had torn the land asunder, leaving behind a graveyard of ambition and might.

The air, cloying, dragged the scent of ash, burnt ozone, and the metallic tang of spilled blood like a trailing funeral hymn, a constant reminder of the devastation.

Where once proud fortifications might have stood, now only the skeletal fingers of shattered siege engines and the jagged teeth of broken ramparts clawed at the bruised sky.

The dead, scattered like fallen leaves after an autumn storm, were mercifully silent, their struggles over.

And at the very heart of this maelstrom of carnage, amidst the lingering echoes of destruction, two figures stood unmoving.

They were as still as statues, graven images of impending doom, while the wounded world around them seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting.

Ian’s fingers, slowly, deliberately, curled around the hilt of Judgement.

The necrotic blade, a sliver of darkness made sword, seemed to awaken at his touch, hissing a soft, sibilant whisper against the wind, a hungry sound, as if it could already taste the soul it had been promised, the life it was forged to sever.

His gray eyes, the color of a winter storm, burned with a cold, unwavering certainty.

There was no flicker of madness in their depths, no chaotic rage, only a profound and chilling purpose that radiated from him like aura.

The wind, for all its bluster, seemed to hesitate as it rippled through his dark, blood-streaked garments, the air reluctant to pass too close to the menace he exuded.

Each slow breath he took seemed to draw in the desolation around him, fueling the dark fire within.

Opposite him, a stark contrast in hue yet an equal in presence, stood Cardinal Fang.

His robes, the crimson of freshly spilled arterial blood, were layered like the petals of some grotesque, blooming flower, intricate and flowing.

Long, ebon rods, held with a reverence that spoke of deadly familiarity, glinted with arcane symbols that shimmered with an internal light—runes older than any mortal scripture, whispering of forgotten things and forbidden pacts.

His face, half-shrouded by the fall of his mantle, held the stoic, unreadable calm of a high priest preparing to meet his executioner, or perhaps to deliver a final, damning sermon.

There was no trace of fear in his posture, no tremor in his grip.

Only a profound, solemn understanding, an acceptance of the violent clash about to erupt.

An invisible current began to roll and swell in the space between them, like rising tide gathering its inexorable strength before crashing against the shore.

It was the pressure before a lightning strike, the stillness before an earthquake, a silent promise of imminent, cataclysmic release.

The dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of fake sunlight seemed to vibrate with it, the ground itself humming a low, resonant thrum.

And then—

They moved.

Not a sound preceded their motion.

No battle cry tore through the charged silence, no challenging roar.

Just movement—terrible in its speed, sudden in its eruption, a blur that the eye could barely follow.

The shockwave of their collision was a physical entity, a brutal fist that tore the already tortured ground open beneath them.

Earth and stone vomited upwards as raw power met raw power.

Steel, the dark hunger of Judgement, rang out with a piercing shriek as it met the crimson-hued, faith-forged force of Fang’s ancient rods.

Mana, raw and untamed, clashed with conviction of darkness and red, the sky above seemed to crack like flawed glass, spiderweb fissures of light briefly illuminating the churning chaos.

Lyra, her senses honed by countless skirmishes and the instinct of a survivor, was the first of the two to react.

Her breath caught in her throat, not from caution alone, but from the sheer, overwhelming scale of the forces unleashed.

"Move!" she hissed, her voice tight and urgent, her hand shooting out to grab Caelen’s arm, her grip like a vise.

They dove, scrambling with desperate haste, behind the fractured, colossal remains of an ancient golem statue – a forgotten guardian now offering their only meager sanctuary.

The shockwave roared past them, a physical wave of pressure that slammed into their temporary shield, peeling bark from shattered, petrified trees as if it were mere paper and uprooting the blackened stumps of long-dead sentinels.

Dust, thick as a shroud, and a suffocating darkness spiraled around them, choking their lungs, searing their eyes, as the battlefield was devoured by a vortex of elemental fury.

The ground bucked beneath them, threatening to swallow them whole.

In the eye of this self-made storm, Ian ducked low, his movements a fluid dance of deadly grace, driving Judgement upward in a vicious, silver-black arc aimed to cleave his opponent in two.

Fang, preternaturally swift, twisted his body with an impossible agility, one of his rods intercepting the blade mid-swing, the impact a shower of angry sparks.

The strike was deflected, but only by inches, the air itself screaming from the near miss.

The second rod, held ready in his off-hand, struck forward like a venomous serpent, a blur of motion aiming for the vulnerable space beneath Ian’s ribs.

Ian didn’t try to evade.

He stepped into it.

The hardened tip of the rod pierced his side, a sickening thud muffled by cloth and flesh.

Blood, dark as midnight, bloomed instantly, a stark stain against the already grim fabric of his coat.

A lesser man would have crumpled, his breath stolen, his focus shattered.

But Ian’s hand, impossibly fast, was already on Fang’s throat.

A burst of Kaelsythra, terrifying in its silent intensity, erupted from his grip, consuming the air in a vortex of grey and black flame.

For an instant, Fang was wreathed in the unholy light.

Then, with a flicker of displaced air and a shimmer of crimson light, he vanished, only to reappear in a whisper of smoke and ozone directly behind Ian.

He was spinning, both rods now moving like the fangs in a striking serpent’s maw, a stench of deadly intent followd him.

He brought them down in a brutal, crisscrossing hammer-strike, aimed with lethal precision at Ian’s exposed spine.

It failed.