Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 67: Blood and Iron

The horns sounded at dawn.

A long, low bellow that rumbled across the city like the growl of an ancient beast stirring in its grave.

The streets of Esgard, already run with life, burst into full bloom at the sound. From the slums of the outer rings to the terraces of the noble towers, all eyes turned toward the coliseum, the eternal heart of the city.

The Games had come again.

It was a ritual.

Not just of blood and sand—but of purpose. A pulsing artery of violence and politics dressed in gold and armor, feeding a city that hungered for spectacle.

Vendors shouted over one another, their voices crashing like waves—offering candied nuts, roasted meats, crimson-stained wine in bulbous flasks.

Children wore crude paper masks shaped like beasts and champions, some baring curved horns or wicked smiles. And over all of it, rumors hissed through the alleys like snakes.

They whispered of the man who couldn’t die.

"The Demonblade returns today."

"Three to one odds."

"I heard his last opponent exploded."

"He fought death and won. You really think a man can beat him?"

But not all believed.

Others scoffed, especially those in House Durnhal’s colors—iron gray and forest green. They stood proud, backs straight with the confidence of old money and older victories.

Today, they had sent their prize into the sands.

Joras Vallent.

A name that brought silence to the taverns when spoken with weight.

A duelist with thirty-two victories in the Arena.

Thirty-two men and women who had faced his twin sabers and fallen before they could blink. His style was not brutish.

He was no butcher. Joras was a craftsman—each strike precise, measured. Cold. freeweɓnovel.cøm

He had never been knocked unconscious.

He had never tasted the dirt of defeat.

—

The early games opened the blood gates.

A pair of gladiators from House Selmor faced off against a chained feral mana beast—half lion, half serpent. Its roar shook the southern stands as its claws raked across steel.

The crowd shrieked in glee as one of the warriors lost an arm and kept swinging.

Then came the Pyromancer from House Merinth, a lean woman with flames dancing in her palms, facing three rogues clad in shadowsteel. The arena turned into a field of flickering fire and smoke. The rogues darted and vanished like ghosts. One collapsed in flame. The others ended her with a blade through the ribs.

By mid-afternoon, the stands were full.

And in the noble tier, behind carved obsidian railings, the lords and ladies of Esgard sat like gods watching mortals tear each other apart.

Velrosa sat still, dressed in deep crimson today, her silver hair wound in a crown braid. Her face held no expression, only sharpness, like a sword waiting to be drawn. Beside her sat Eli, robed and motionless, save for the occasional flex of his jaw as he watched the killing below.

—

Inside the Champion’s hall, the world was quiet.

A long vaulted chamber beneath the arena where only those chosen to fight walked. Here, there were no cheers, no vendors, no chaos.

Only stone. And breath. And death hanging like incense in the air.

Ian stood before the arming pedestal, his bare back slick with oil and pale light. His twin daggers, Vowbreaker, rested across the bone-sheathed leather laid out for him.

The wounds carved into his arms beat faintly beneath his skin, hidden beneath the surface like scars of fate.

He exhaled slowly.

Three to one odds. A good number.

It meant people doubted him just enough.

It meant the death he delivered would taste even sweeter.

Behind him, a door groaned open.

He didn’t need to look to know it was Elise. She had a way of walking without sound, but Ian could feel her presence in the same way one senses a shifting wind.

"Five minutes," she said.

He nodded once. Then picked up the blades.

As he strapped the sheaths to his sides, he caught his reflection in a bronze mirror. Hair dark and damp. Eyes cold. The same eyes he saw in the pit, in the cell, in the place where his chains once rattled.

He wasn’t that man anymore.

No, he was worse.

—

In the waiting gate just above the sand, the two doors remained sealed.

Joras Vallent stood behind one.

He was already armored—though lightly—wearing sleeveless leather lined with reinforced chain. His sabers hung low on either hip, perfectly balanced.

His face was calm, a long scar curling from his ear to the edge of his jaw.

His dark blond hair was tied in a warrior’s knot, and he watched the sliver of light beneath the door with the stillness of a killer.

A squire tried to offer words of encouragement.

Joras held up a hand and the boy fell silent.

"I do not need faith," he said quietly. "Only my steel."

—

And then it was time.

The sand was cleared, the dead dragged away.

The announcer stepped forward, voice booming through an arcane horn that echoed across every row of stone.

"People of Esgard!"

The crowd roared.

"The games have fed your hunger this day—but now, the main feast begins!"

Another wave of cheering.

"From the proud and venerable House Durnhal, a warrior of precision and unmatched record, undefeated in thirty-two battles of the blood—Joras Vallent!"

One of the massive arena gates groaned open.

Joras stepped into the light.

He did not smile.

He did not wave.

He simply walked, sabers sheathed, eyes forward, into the sand that had known more blood than the sea had known salt.

The crowd cheered nonetheless.

His reputation needed no showmanship.

"And from the house of forgotten glory... House Elarin... a name whispered by the brave and feared by the sane... the man who walks through death as if it were a hallway... Ian, the Demonblade!"

The second gate cracked open.

Ian stepped out, dressed in black, his cloak billowing in the breeze.

His twin daggers glinted like fangs. His eyes scanned the crowd—not seeking approval, but studying them like a god pondering which mortals to spare.

The cheers were deafening. Louder than ever.

And scattered among them, gasps.

There he is.

That’s him.

The man who can’t die.

As Ian reached the center of the arena, he looked up once—toward Velrosa.

She sat unmoving, a single finger tapping the side of her chair.

Eli leaned forward in his seat, golden eyes fixed on the man in the sand.

Ian drew both blades with a whispering sound.

Across from him, Joras did the same, sabers sliding out like promises made of silver.

And the wind died.

And silence fell.

The gates sealed behind them.

And the gods of Esgard leaned in to watch.