Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 71: Prophet of Death

Darkness.

Not the absence of light, but something thicker, older. A presence that pressed against Ian’s skin, seeping into bone and breath, without temperature, without time.

And yet... he could see.

Shapes moved—shadows that breathed, curled like smoke and refused form. They parted slowly, reverently, like curtains at a cathedral.

Then came the voice.

Not heard, but felt, like breath against the soul.

"You sleep in chains, Prophet."

Ian’s pulse flickered.

Across the blackened plain stood a figure—not a man, not quite.

Tall, robed in threads that bled into the void around him. His face was wrapped in funeral cloth, and from beneath it glowed faint pinpricks of silver light, like dying stars.

The entity lifted a hand. With it, the void shifted.

A thousand whispering tongues echoed behind him—echoes of names that had long been forgotten.

Was he dead? Ian didn’t question it.

Hardly mattered now.

"Why prophet," it said. "Why be a slave in a gilded cage. A pawn in the games of nobles and ghosts."

"You were born to silence worlds, not trade blows in rings of blood and cheers. You were meant to unmake the flame-born. Yet here you play guard dog for a fallen house, scraping mortal souls from flesh like crumbs."

"I stay here," Ian muttered in resignation, "because each arena soul I take strengthens me. I prepare for my revenge."

The figure cocked his head.

"Fool. Mortal souls are cinders. Ash. Their weight is a feather upon the scale of death."

Ian narrowed his eyes. "Then what?"

The void shuddered.

And in its trembling, the world unfolded.

A memory not his own descended like a storm.

---

THE THIRD CONVERGENCE

"When the veil tore for the third time, the sky bled black, and from that wound poured nightmares clothed in fire. But from the abyss rose Sovereigns of silence—wielders of death, heralds of stillness, and the only ones who could unmake the flame-born legions."

Before history—before even myth—there was not one world, but many.

Realities layered like transparent veils.

The First Convergence tore one such veil, and from it came mana—a divine error that birthed the age of mages.

The Second Convergence... a sin.

Mortal arrogance opened the gates to the Demonic Realms. Their warlords marched upon a world too proud to kneel, and kingdoms fell screaming.

But the Third?

The Third was annihilation.

There were no warnings.

No prophets. Only stillness.

Then, on a night stripped of stars, thirteen hellgates opened across the earth. From them came the Demon Kings of the ninth Reach—beings who had slaughtered gods and drank the marrow of worlds.

They did not invade.

They consumed.

Civilizations cracked like dry leaves.

Skies burned. The dead rose just to burn again.

And then, silence.

Not salvation—hunger.

The Voidsovereigns emerged. From the place that is not a place. From the frontier Beyond Death.

They came not to save—but to hunt.

Demons were life corrupted. And Voidsovereigns were death perfected.

For every demon slain, a Sovereign grew. Their essence hardened. Their silence deepened.

The seven greatest Sovereigns descended upon Ael’Drathis, where the last Demon Kings gathered to collapse the boundary between realms.

The sky blackened. The stars were devoured.

Forty-nine nights of war rent the heavens apart.

Only one Sovereign stood at the end—Atherem, the First Silence.

He did not die. He vanished.

Some say he became the void itself.

Some say... he waits.

Some say... he has returned a new thing.

---

Ian stood, breath shallow, heart storming in his chest.

"And what does this have to do with me?"

Yet, he knew exactly what—but terror is a strong deflector.

"You are not a man. You are the echo of a Sovereign long dead. The blood remembers."

A moment passed. Then—

"You are the harbinger of the Fourth Convergence."

Ian staggered. "What the hell is that?"

"Prophecy. The Fourth will not come with flame or corruption... but with silence. Not war, but the erasure of war."

Ian clenched his fists. "it’s too late for any of that, i lost. I was about to die."

"You cling to your humanity. To love. To regret. To hope. These are the fetters that keep your power bound."

"And what should I be?" Ian hissed.

"A weapon. A grave. The final word."

The void trembled.

"Let go of your compassion."

[Corruption: 10%]

"Let go of your regret."

[Corruption: 17%]

"Let go of your pride."

[Corruption: 32%]

"Let go of your hope."

[Corruption: 47%]

"Let go of mortal bonds."

The last word struck Ian like a blade. He saw Velrosa’s face. Elise’s cold eyes. Eli’s watchful silence.

He let them go.

The void welcomed him.

[ENTERED STATE: DEATH’S PROPHET]

---

In the waking world, the crowd held their breath as Joras Vallent’s blade fell in a sweeping arc meant to end all things.

But it struck nothing.

A gust of wind, cold and hollow, parted the air.

Ian was gone.

No sound. No flash.

He stood behind Joras.

Silent. Breathless.

Eyes glowing ash-gray, hair lifted by unseen winds, and across his skin—scars no longer.

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Runes. Ancient. Pulsing.

A living scripture of the end.

The arena did not cheer.

It stilled in it’s terror.

A collective stillness swept the crowd. Children cried without knowing why. Veterans clenched their weapons without thought.

Mages’ hands trembled with instinctual fear.

A priest in the stands whispered a prayer—and forgot the words halfway through.

Joras blinked.

His cheek stung.

He turned.

He saw Ian—not a man, but something far off, something unspoken.

The crowd saw it too.

The demonblade.

No.

Worse.

Joras—undefeated, unbent, forged by wars and battle—felt tears slip from his eyes.

But they were not of sorrow.

Joras touched his cheek and his fingers smeared crimson.

The undefeated champion stared at the unkillable demon.

And he cried tears of blood.

———

Far away, in the hidden hold of the Sanctum, the blindfolded priestess wept crimson tears. Blood traced down her cheeks like mourning ink, staining the silver threads of her veil. The scarred man beside her, mouth carved in silence, leaned close.

"What do you see?" he rasped.

She did not answer at first.

Her lips quivered, then parted with reverence and dread.

"The winds of the Fourth Convergence begin to blow," she whispered. "The demon has not yet awakened... and yet it seems her destruction has."

"What will she do when her greatest of enemies—is her own shadow?"

The candles flickered.

The stone began to bleed.