Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 70: Unkillable vs Undefeated III

The arena had become a blur of pain and blood.

Ian could barely hear the roaring crowd over the pounding of his own heartbeat, the thrum of hope he was so desperately trying to hold onto.

His body was screaming at him, muscles shredded and raw from the brutal exchange.

The air held the stench of sweat, blood, and death, the cries of the spectators vibrating through the ground beneath him.

Yet none of that mattered. Not now.

Joras had cut him, many times.

He could feel the burn of his wounds, searing through him like a fire.

His flesh had already begun to regenerate, but it was slow, agonizing.

"I need more... just a little more," he thought, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his twin daggers.

But his reserves were exhausted.

The brutal dodge of his Swift Cut had drained him, and his Necrotic Energy was spent.

He had no fuel left to use Soul Assimilation.

His Soul Essence, the core of his regeneration, was slipping away, and without it, even his greatest abilities were useless.

He had no choice but to fight with what little he had left.

Joras was no longer playing with him.

His movements were precise, his strikes calculated, aimed to kill.

His sabers flashed through the air, sharp as lightning. Ian barely had time to parry, the clash of metal ringing in his ears as the force of the blow sent him stumbling back, his bones rattling with the impact.

He had no strength left to counterattack.

Every strike he threw was slower than the last, every movement more sluggish.

"What’s happening to him?" a noblewoman’s voice rang out from the stands, filled with disbelief.

"He’s... losing?"

The crowd murmured in agreement, some of them beginning to sense the desperation in Ian’s movements.

The Demonblade, the immortal warrior, was faltering.

Ian’s vision blurred as he staggered backward, blood dripping from the deep gashes on his chest and arms.

Soul Flame flared up around him, the cold grey fire born of his desperation, dancing with a malevolent hunger.

It consumed the air, eating at the fabric of life around him.

He thrust his daggers forward in a desperate attempt to cut Joras down, but the sabers were too fast, too sharp, knocking him back with ease.

He didn’t have the strength for another strike.

"What’s wrong with him?" someone shouted from the crowd. "Is that all his power? Is this the end of the Demonblade?"

Ian’s breaths came in painful gasps, his vision flickering in and out of focus.

The Aura of Decay had failed him—it was far from enough to weaken the beast he faced.

His energy reserves were depleted, his regeneration sluggish.

He had already burned through the last of his Necrotic Energy.

His Soul Flame was a desperate, last-ditch effort, but it was not enough. His wounds were spreading, the blood pooling beneath him like an inescapable tide.

His daggers felt heavier in his hands, like lead weights, each swing slower than the last.

Joras was no longer even breaking a sweat.

"He’s done," a low voice called from the stands.

"The Demonblade’s out of tricks. There’s nothing left for him now."

"No" Another countered "He is to call the beast,"

Yes, the soulboun. Ian contemplated it but found it pointless—if Torkas could defeat Ashvaleth, then Joras would have no problem doing so.

And summoning Torkas would seal his fate with the church, but it didn’t matter now his soul essence was far to low for that.

Joras struck again, his sabers slicing clean through Ian’s side, the blade cutting through muscle and bone with terrifying ease.

Ian screamed, his breath hissing between his teeth as his body staggered from the force of the blow.

The crowd’s screams filled his ears, the blood pouring from his body clouding his vision.

He stumbled back, unable to regain his footing.

His hand reached for the ground, desperate for anything to hold him up. But the sand beneath him felt too soft, too slippery.

He collapsed to one knee, the weight of his body too much, and his daggers fell from his hands, sinking into the arena floor like they were made of stone.

"Is he still alive?" a voice asked, almost disbelieving.

Ian’s eyes were wide with disbelief as he looked down at his chest, watching as his blood pooled around him. His body was starting to feel numb, a coldness creeping into his limbs, as though the world around him was fading away.

"No... no, I’m not finished," he gritted through his teeth, trying to push himself up. But his body refused to listen.

His soul essence was gone, his lifeblood drained.

His regenerative abilities, once his greatest strength, were fading fast.

Joras circled him, his stance calm, controlled.

The crowd, sensing the end, grew louder, their voices rising to a fever pitch.

"Is this it?" someone cried out. "The end of the Demonblade?"

Joras’s eyes locked onto Ian’s, the weight of his gaze as cold and unfeeling as the steel he wielded.

There was no pity in those eyes—only the quiet satisfaction of a hunter who had cornered his prey.

"I’m not done," Ian said, his voice rough and bloodied. But even as he spoke, his hands trembled, and his vision blurred.

He had pushed too far, too fast. He had trusted in his power, in his near immortality, and now he was paying the price.

His Soul Essence was spent.

He could no longer heal.

He looked around, his gaze briefly flicking toward the stands.

His eyes found Velrosa, seated far above him.

She was watching him, her expression unreadable.

But as their eyes met, something flickered—something fleeting, something he couldn’t quite place.

Pity? Confusion? Guilt?

He didn’t know, but the question lingered in his mind as his blood pooled around him, staining the sand.

The world seemed to tilt, and for a brief, painful moment, he thought he might finally understand her.

But there was no time for such thoughts now.

Joras stepped forward, his blade poised to end it all.

Ian tried to lift himself, one last, desperate attempt to stand, to fight. But his body was a broken thing, no longer his own.

He collapsed back to the floor, his blood dripping freely as his strength failed him.

Joras’s voice rang out, cutting through the chaos of the crowd.

"Forfeit, and I may spare your life," he said, the words cold, detached.

Ian’s gaze flickered once more to the stands, his mind swirling with thoughts of vengeance, of power.

He should beg, he should humble himself, and bet that his enemy would actually spare him.

His mouth was bloody, his vision fading, but he managed to lift his head, his words bitter and final.

"Fuck you."

Ian was not that naive, not anymore.

"So be it," Joras said, and without another word, his blade descended.

The last thing Ian saw was the flash of steel as it tore through his vision. The crowd’s roar drowned out all sound as the world went dark.

The Demonblade had fallen.