Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 72: First Whisper of The Fourth

Panic set in.

It did not scream, or roar, or even wail.

No.

It settled?

A silence

Perfectly thick and complete that the breath caught in a thousand throats. The sound of life, of heartbeat and murmur, of laughter and cruelty, died a perfect death.

And in its place?

Dread.

A perfect, suffocating dread.

The arena, prior a coliseum of bloodthirsty celebration, became a temple of fear. Veterans of a hundred battles clutched their chests. Mages recoiled from spells they could no longer hold.

Children cried not from pain, but from some ancestral terror passed down in blood—the fear of oblivion.

It was the feeling of a warrior as the blade kissed his throat.

Of a mage moments too late to deflect the fire.

Of a mother watching her child die and realizing there was nothing left to pray to.

Even among those who had never known death, the instinct struck like lightning: This is where I end.

The sands, painted in crimson and the stands in sweat from matches past, drank in fresh offerings now—blood that trickled from ears, from noses, from the ruptured eyes of nobles and beggars alike.

Women shrieked.

Men wept.

The city that adored carnage now stared into the raw face of death and knew, at last, its truth was far more horrifying than they could comprehend.

[State: Death’s Prophet]

[State Skills Unlocked]

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[Passive] Aura of Annihilation

The boundary between life and death fractures around you. All living beings within a determined radius experience extreme physiological and spiritual pressure. Blood vessels rupture, mana circuits destabilize, and lesser wills shatter.

Effect: Causes spontaneous bleeding (ears, eyes, nose) in mortals and weak mages. The closer they are, the more severe the effect. Animals flee. Spirits tremble.

This is the first whisper of the Final Convergence—when death becomes a tangible thing.

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[Active] Sovereign’s Step

[Passive] Flesh of Suffering

[Ultimate Active] Prophecy

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Across the bloodied arena, Joras Vallent stood—blood streaking down his cheek, twin sabers clenched in white-knuckled fists.

His breath was ragged, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper.

"So you truly were a demon," he said, voice cracking under tension. "Well... if anything, I’m proud to have been the one to force you to show your true colors."

He raised both blades, their hilts burning with radiant blue flame—sacred light, the blessed steel of Teravan’s Grand Smiths, forged for one purpose alone:

To slay the abominable.

"And now," Joras whispered, voice shaking, "I will slay you, demon."

He charged.

A blur of divine steel and fury.

Ian did not move.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

He simply watched.

And when the sabers struck flesh—

They shattered.

Soundless.

Utterly and impossibly soundless.

The blades turned to powder on contact, the particles drifting like ash against the runes now carved into Ian’s skin—glowing with pale gray fire.

[Flesh of Suffering]

Joras skidded back in a panic, kicking up sand, hands trembling.

"No... no, how can th—"

He stopped himself.

Then he screamed an incantation, hastily weaving a layered spell. Twin magic circles, each wide as carts, bloomed above him—crackling with wind, pressure, kinetic devastation.

Ian tilted his head.

One eye glowing, the other hollow.

Then he whispered:

"Be silent."

The circles shattered.

Joras choked—his words, mid-spell, turned to dust in his throat.

And then Ian moved.

[Sovereign’s Step]

He was in front of Joras before the man could flinch, one hand stretched lazily, two fingers pressing gently against the duelist’s chest. The motion looked almost tender.

Almost compassionate...

It wasn’t.

Joras flew backward.

Not dashed. Not thrown. Disintegrated.

Bones fractured mid-air, ribs imploded, lungs collapsed as he screamed blood. He landed hard, coughing out gore, his limbs twitching as he tried to rise.

But Ian was already there.

This time he did not use skills.

This time he did not whisper.

This time, he punished.

Fists slammed into flesh like warhammers. The first blow shattered Joras’ shoulder. The second drove him into the ground. The third ruptured his sternum.

Ian didn’t stop.

Flesh tore. Bones cracked. Skin split open with every hit until the sand around them turned black with blood and viscera.

The crowd, frozen in absolute horror, could only watch as the undefeated champion of House Durnhal was reduced to a broken, gasping figure—begging without words.

But Ian had no mercy left. freёnovelkiss.com

He lifted Joras by the throat. His hand was soaked in red. His chest heaved with silent rage.

And for a moment, something in the air shifted—something sacred and forgotten. A moment older than the new gods, as though the world itself paused to witness what came next.

"Your death means nothing," Ian said, voice like echoing thunder, yet like a child with a burden too much for him to bear. "But your soul..."

His fingers pushed inward, beyond bone, beyond heart.

"...your soul feeds what comes next."

He drove his hand into Joras’ chest. Essence ruptured. A flare of blue—

Then black.

Then silence.

Joras’ body dropped.

Soulless.

Steaming.

The arena, at the start a monument to violence, now lay still.

Nobles vomited. Soldiers drew weapons instinctively, only to drop them moments later. One sanctum heretic fell to his knees, muttering prayers that dissolved into sobs.

And somewhere in the upper stands, a noblewoman began to scream and would not stop.

"Kill the demon! Kill the demon now!"

From the highbox, Velrosa stood unflinching.

Eli beside her, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed, lips tight.

Velrosa’s voice was low, like a prayer laced with poison.

"If they wanted a demon," she whispered. "Now they’ve most certainly got one."

"He’s lost control, it seems" Eli added.

She turned to Eli, regal and cold. "Go. Stop him. Before this looks any worse."

Eli gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

He stepped down from the box, cloak fluttering behind him, the blood in the air beginning to pulse like a heartbeat.

Far below, Ian stood in the sand.

Not a man.

Not even a monster.

A thing—a creature of ash and silence and finality.

His eyes were fixed on nothing...

...or perhaps,

on everything yet to die.