Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 59: Shifting Thrones

The silence held like a breath between worlds.

A silence not born from peace, but from shock. A silence that carved itself into the bones of every noble present, leaving behind the echo of what they had just witnessed.

Edran the Hollow Fang—slayer of beasts, warden of pits, blood-forged in a hundred battles—lay crumpled like a discarded animal at Ian’s feet. A crater carved beneath him, fractured stone radiating out from his body like a death bloom.

The nobles did not speak.

They didn’t know how to speak.

The scene defied sense. It went against everything they knew—against the logic of strength and hierarchy that the Arena, had been built upon.

Because Edran was no amateur.

No drunk brute paraded before the courts. No expendable pawn. He had been—was—one of Duke Lugard’s finest. At the very least equal to Torkas, The Butcher. And yet here he lay.

Broken. Unmoving.

By a single blow.

Not even a blow. A gesture. A movement so fast, so absolute, it left nothing to interpret.

They watched Ian—silent, still—stand above the shattered champion.

And now, their minds raced not with clarity, but with doubt.

What did this mean?

Was Ian truly so strong?

Did he toy with Torkas in the Arena?

Had his duel, the glorious bloodletting the people had so eagerly watched, been nothing but a performance?

And if that were true—if he had been holding back, masking his power—what else was he hiding?

Had the princess managed to find a second Eli?

Could House Elarin truly reclaim power with nothing more than one fighter?

Even Velrosa, her posture tall and expression composed, felt her throat tighten. She rose slowly, as if unwilling to admit to herself she’d done so out of shock, not strategy.

Her voice remained smooth, her smile sharp—but her thoughts churned like storm tides.

She had known Ian was formidable. She had.

But this?

This was something else.

Was he truly this strong?

Was it a ruse? Or had something changed?

No.

Something had changed.

---

[New Skill Unlocked: Soul Assimilation]

The message had appeared before Ian’s eyes only a day before, shimmering in cold silver text upon his inner vision. He had been standing in the aftermath of the arena slaughter, blood still slick on his arms, as Torkas’ soul dissolved into his soldier.

It had appeared then.

He hadn’t even needed to test it to understand its worth.

[—Merge with soulbound and gain its strength and abilities <Consumes 600 Necrotic Energy/sec>]

It was monstrous. And dangerous.

The consumption rate was absurd—600 Necrotic Energy per second? At his current reserves, even at his highest, he could barely maintain that fusion for three seconds.

But he didn’t need three seconds.

He only needed one.

In the brief moment Edran had lunged, axe raised high and footwork like thunder rolling across a battlefield, Ian had activated the skill.

For one second.

Just one.

In that instant, Ian became more than himself. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

His bones carried Torkas’ monstrous weight. His sinew echoed with the power of a berserker who once slaughtered a dozen in a rage-frenzy. His instincts, honed from arena fights and soul binds, sharpened like steel.

And with that power—

Ian grabbed Edran mid-charge.

Lifted.

And drove him down.

There hadn’t even been a scream.

There hadn’t been time for a scream.

Just the snap of bones and the soft exhale of breath as consciousness fled Edran’s shattered body.

Now, as the steward shakily stepped forward and raised a trembling hand, the voice that declared the victor barely seemed to register.

"Victory to House Elarin."

It was only then that the room stirred.

A whisper.

A murmur.

The explosion of murmurs, of speculation, of growing fear.

Ian had returned to his place behind Velrosa without a word.

Still as shadow. Still as death.

He did not bask in the attention or indulge in pride. He simply stood—his gray eyes scanning the nobles as they spoke behind jeweled hands and silk sleeves.

Then Velrosa’s voice rang out, slicing through the noise like a whipcrack.

"It was a good match," she said loudly, smiling wide as her hand reached for her wineglass. "Don’t you think, Lord Councilor?"

All heads turned.

To Lugard.

She didn’t wait for his answer.

"Anyways," she said, raising her glass toward him like a toast, "if you wish to send more of your champions to lose—whether in the Arena or right here—I’d be more than happy to oblige."

A ripple of laughter danced through the room—tight, nervous, hungry.

Lugard smiled.

The kind of smile that did not touch the eyes. The kind born of politics and poison.

"I’ll keep your words in mind, Lady Velrosa."

Velrosa let the moment linger before setting her glass down, her attention drifting to Ian behind her.

He met her eyes briefly.

She gave a small, imperceptible nod.

He returned it, stepping back into place behind her.

Then the real battle began.

The nobles came.

Like wolves who sensed the scent of a rising kill, they gathered with flattery and smiles far too wide for sincerity. Men and women who had spent the last year avoiding House Elarin as though it carried plague now raised glasses in her name.

They offered compliments.

Requested audience.

Made passing remarks about alliances.

Noble sons stepped forward, proposing introductions to sisters, cousins, daughters—lines of blood and coin dangling like bait.

And through it all, Velrosa smiled.

Her eyes flicked from face to face, measuring loyalty like weight on a scale. She laughed at the right moments. Made promises she would never keep. And never once allowed herself to look too eager.

But she knew.

With this single duel, something had changed.

House Elarin had been drifting toward death, decaying beneath the heel of debt and scorn. But now... now there was motion.

Momentum.

Ian had shifted the axis.

Even the Council felt it.

—

From his seat at the crescent table, Duke Lugard clenched his fist so tightly the silver rings on his fingers bit into his skin. His face remained calm. Masked. But the fury that surged behind his eyes was unmistakable.

He leaned slightly to his right.

To the man dressed in ceremonial robes of white and gold, seated with the posture of an unmoved mountain.

"Your Holiness," Lugard whispered through clenched teeth.

High Priest Eltharion Vale did not turn his head. But his silver-glassed eyes flicked to the Duke.

"He’ll have to die," Lugard said. "Before the next full moon. Before they rally to her. That... thing she commands—it is a threat to the sanctity of the city."

There was a long pause.

Then the High Priest’s voice came, as quiet as dying wind.

"Perhaps," he said, "our intervention in this matter is inevitable."

And in the soft shadow of that sentence, the wheels of death began to turn.