Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 175: Without Mercy

The Crucible shook with sound—a chaotic, boiling sea of voices that rose and fell with every clash. Stone quaked beneath the blows. Dust drifted in the air, tinged red from the old blood already soaked into the arena floor.

But none of it reached Ian.

Not the cheering. Not the fear. Not even the pain from the shallow wounds he’d allowed to linger on his side and shoulder.

His eyes were locked on Vorgan. His grip on Vowbreaker was steady. The Soulflame still hissed low along the edge of the daggers, hungering.

Vorgan charged again, blood smearing across one eye, his gait slightly off from the last strike—but still dangerous. Still defiant.

His hammer, cracked now near the base, whistled as it cut the air. It was heavier than before. Laden with his own burning mana, a final gamble.

Ian moved through the strike.

Not around it.

Through it.

He stepped inside the arc of Vorgan’s swing like walking through fog, blades low, knees bent. One dagger knocked the hammer wide.

The other found flesh.

A slice across Vorgan’s thigh—deep and clean. Then Ian spun behind him, catching Vorgan’s ribs with a second cut, and vaulted away before the retaliatory backhand could connect.

Vorgan grunted. His body was slowing. The enchantments he had on were dimming. The runes etched into his chest flickered, flickered again—and died.

And still, Ian didn’t finish it.

Not yet.

He looked almost bored now.

Up in the noble stands, silence had crept in. Where once there were cheers and wagers shouted over cups of wine, now there was only a mounting tension. Elise sat stiffly behind the glass-paneled viewing box, her expression blank.

Velrosa, beside her, leaned back with a calm smile. She sipped from a cup, unfazed.

"Almost done," she murmured.

Eli stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tense.

"These matches...," he said, not looking away from the ring, "Won’t they become less exciting for the people if they know Ian can just dominate his opponents?"

"Perhaps," Her voice was quiet. "But this is just the blood Leagues, it was to be expected. Upon ascendance to the League of Champion, i expect him to be more...challenged."

"I See"

She glanced at him briefly. "For Now, this is just the display of power we need."

In the working-class tiers above, the crowd had taken on a different mood. Less celebratory, more awestruck.

For many, this was the first time they’d seen Vorgan bleed this much. Lose ground this much. Some had placed their last silver marks on him. Now they were silent.

A pair of arena sweepers—young men with brooms and tattered cloaks—watched from the tunnel gates.

"Holy hell," one whispered, "he’s not even trying..."

"That’s the Demon Blade," the other muttered. "Told you. Fights like he’s already buried you and forgot your name."

Down in a darker corner of the fighters gate, where shadows hung too persistently, another figure watched.

Renner.

He sat in a chair made too small for his frame, shoulders taut beneath the layers of enchanted cloth.

His skin shimmered with a faint unnatural sheen.

Silver-threaded tattoos ran down his arms like veins. His left hand, bound in obsidian rings, tightened into a fist.

The man beside him, a hooded handler of some kind, leaned in. "He fights with contempt," the handler said, low. "It’s not just that he knows he’ll win. He loathes them for making him try."

Renner didn’t answer. His jaw twitched. His eyes locked on Ian as if memorizing each movement.

Back in the sands, Vorgan let out a yell and surged forward again.

Mana flared. His hammer lifted, glowing one last time with the blood-bound runes that powered his strength. He brought it down in a brutal, overhead arc meant to shatter skull and sand alike.

Ian didn’t dodge.

He stepped into it, one foot pivoting.

The hammer missed—because Ian was already inside the swing again.

SHHK.

Vowbreaker plunged into Vorgan’s shoulder, bone and steel carving straight through muscle. A gout of blood erupted, hot and fast. Vorgan screamed.

Then the second dagger found his gut.

Twist.

Vorgan dropped the hammer.

He stumbled backward, mouth open, blood streaming from his lips. He tried to speak. Maybe beg. Maybe curse.

Ian didn’t wait to find out.

He advanced, merciless.

Another slash—across the chest, right through the flesh like it wasn’t even there.

Another—across the thigh. freēwēbnovel.com

Another.

And another.

It wasn’t a duel now. It was a butchery.

Vorgan dropped to one knee. His vision blurred. His arms failed him.

Ian stood over him, Soulflame curling around his shoulders like a crown of ash.

Vorgan looked up. He tried, once, to raise a hand. Not in defense—but in acceptance.

Ian’s voice was quiet. Flat.

"It’s over."

He plunged both daggers down.

One into the heart.

The other into the throat.

The Soulflame erupted briefly, like a final breath from a dying god.

Then it vanished.

The corpse slumped forward.

Silence fell over the Crucible.

Ian stood there, eyes downcast at the body. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a moment. The daggers dripped with still-warm blood. The scent of soul-death still clung faintly to the air.

And then, as if a decision was made, Ian turned away.

He did not reach for the soul.

Did not absorb it.

Did not even glance at the mist of energy rising from the fallen man’s corpse.

It hung there for a moment—aimless, abandoned.

Then it dissipated into the wind, meaningless.

Unworthy.

The announcer’s voice cracked, as if he had to force it out through his dry throat.

"VICTOR—THE DEMON BLADE!"

The crowd exploded—but it was fractured applause. Some cheered, others looked stunned, or sick. A few remained frozen, unable to process what they’d seen.

In the shadows, Renner’s fist unclenched slowly. His fingers left deep dents in the wood of his chair.

Velrosa set down her cup in the noble box and stood. Her gown shimmered with silk, midnight blue edged in silver.

"Elise."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Send the message," Velrosa said. "To the nobles. To the betting lords and priests alike."

She looked down into the arena, where Ian walked alone through the blood-slicked sand, daggers hanging loosely in his hands like afterthoughts.

"..."