Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 68: Unkillable vs Undefeated I

The sand beneath the arena was crisp and untouched, the faintest traces of blood from earlier battles already washed away by the heat of the midday sun.

In the stands, the air wisped murmurs rippling through the crowd like a wave before a storm.

The noble houses, their gilded banners fluttering in the breeze, were silent for the moment. Even the commoners, packed into their rows beneath the towering stone walls, held their breath.

Two figures stood opposite one another.

Ian, the infamous Demonblade, his gray eyes locked on his opponent, blood-streaked daggers held loosely at his sides.

Old blood, crimson that just never seems to dry.

The shadow of death clung to him, his form like something carved from darkness itself. His clothes—dark and grim—rippled with the faintest, poisonous breeze that seemed to emanate from him.

No cheers from the crowd, no chants of his name.

Only cold, merciless silence, as though the world awaited the outcome of this battle.

Across from him stood Joras Vallent of House Durnhal, a towering figure in silver-plated armor, his eyes the only thing visible beneath the darkness of his helm.

A man of few words, but his presence was all-encompassing. The arena seemed to shrink beneath his gaze, his reputation as one the League of Champions’ undefeated victor preceding him.

The announcer’s voice cut through the stillness, booming over the arena as he gestured to the two fighters.

"The battle... begins!"

The crowd erupted in a single, collective roar—a ripple of energy flooding the stands, both commoner and noble alike eager for what was to come.

They wanted blood, and the gods knew they’d have it.

But for a long moment, neither moved.

Ian’s eyes narrowed, his focus sharp as he took in the man before him.

He had heard of Joras—only whispers, nothing more.

A champion without equal.

That’s what they say about them all—they die all the same.

But it was always easy to underestimate those who didn’t speak, those whose reputation did the talking for them. Ian had seen it a thousand times since coming here—silent men who tried to hide their weakness behind silence, behind their steel.

Not this time.

Joras made no move to approach.

Instead, he stood firm, waiting, like a mountain unmoved by time or wind. The air seemed heavy around him, as though his very presence bent the arena to his will.

Ian shifted his weight, settling into a stance that felt natural to him.

He was not one to charge recklessly.

Never.

Even the mightiest of beasts were felled with precision. His fingers curled around the hilts of his twin daggers—Vowbreaker, the weapons that had become extensions of himself.

The steel hummed with power, their aura of death sharp in the sun.

"Not like Torkas," Ian thought, his mouth a tight line. "Not like Torkas at all."

Joras, though silent, was no fool.

His eyes—those piercing, unyielding eyes—locked onto Ian’s daggers, reading their every twitch, every shift in the air around him. Ian could see the slight tension in his shoulders, the faintest of movements in his arms as if he were adjusting to the weight of his intent.

Then—

A flash of steel.

Joras was on him in an instant, twin sabers dancing through the air with precision, each one guided by his will.

His movement was fluid, deliberate, and terrifying in its speed. The audience gasped as the clash of steel rang through the arena, sparks flying where their blades met.

"So fast." Ian’s mind registered the movement before his body could react. But he was no stranger to speed.

His own reflexes, honed by countless wounds, were sharp as a blade’s edge.

Ian parried the first strike with ease, twisting Vowbreaker in his hand, but Joras was already spinning, the other saber cutting horizontally toward Ian’s midsection.

He was too quick—faster than any man Ian had faced before.

Well, except Eli.

The blow landed.

The force of it struck Ian like a crashing wave, though it glanced off his side as he pivoted. His armor—the silvered plating of his chest and legs—took the blow, but the sting of it reverberated deep within him.

It wasn’t just the physical strike—it was the weight behind it.

The experience.

The certainty of his opponent’s control over the fight.

Ian’s breath quickened, but he didn’t falter.

"That’s what he’s relying on," Ian thought. "Control. Precision."

Joras didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to. His eyes, cold and unblinking, never left Ian as his sabers swung again—each stroke purposeful, aimed at finding weakness.

Ian darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the next slash. His boots scraped against the sand, and the crowd let out a collective sigh of relief.

"Demonblade is fast," a noblewoman whispered in the stands. "But Joras—look at Joras! He’s barely moving. It’s like he already knows what Ian will do."

A murmur rippled through the crowd as they watched the battle unfold.

There was no spectacle here—no flashing pyrotechnics, no mystic elements beyond the fighting itself.

This was a contest of pure will.

Steel against shadow. Speed against strength.

"This is no brawl fight," another nobleman muttered, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "Joras hasn’t even broken a sweat. The Demonblade might have met his match this time, although it might be pretense again."

Ian’s hand tightened around Vowbreaker.

His opponent was no amateur.

Every strike, every motion, was calculated.

As if the man had studied the arena. It was unnerving—this sense of being hunted without even knowing how or when it would come.

Joras’s sabers flashed again, moving in a blur of motion that Ian barely had time to register.

A strike to the shoulder.

A quick cut to his ribs.

Ian twisted his body to avoid both, his daggers becoming a blur as he retaliated—first a quick slash aimed at Joras’s side, then a low strike at his legs.

But Joras was already gone, his sabers raised in a seamless defense.

The strikes were absorbed by his blades—effortlessly, as though Ian’s attacks were nothing more than the wind brushing against his armor.

The crowd had fallen silent.

It was clear now—the fight wasn’t about who could make the flashiest moves, who could unleash the most destructive force.

It was about who could outlast the other.

Who could endure the longest.

But as the battle continued, Ian’s mind hurled.

Joras hadn’t even used his full strength.

Ian had felt the way his movements had been sharp, but controlled. Measured. Joras had been testing him, gauging him like he were nothing but a common animal being hunted.

This wasn’t a wild beast lashing out in desperation.

This was precision. This was skill.

"If I don’t end this soon, I might not have the chance."

Ian took a breath, centering himself.

His body ached from the blows he had already absorbed—small, but cumulative.

His Regeneration was already working, knitting the wounds back together, but it wasn’t without pain.

He still felt the sting of the cuts.

The crowd held its breath as Ian’s mind raced, his gaze flicking from Joras’s sabers to his feet, his movements.

And in that split second, the realization hit.

Joras was stronger than Torkas.

This wasn’t a battle of equal strength.

Joras’s eyes—unblinking, implacable—shifted, reading Ian’s movements before they even happened.