Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 98: Thorns Beneath Petals.

Each step Ian took into the darkened grove felt like sinking into something alive.

The air was dense, unnaturally still.

The trees towered overhead like petrified titans, their limbs arching together into a ceiling of twisted black bone and leaves like veins. The soil squelched underfoot, damp and cloying, as if trying to drink his steps.

Somewhere above, light filtered through in threads—scarlet and gold, as if the sun bled instead of shone. Mist coiled low along the forest floor, thick enough to hide the shapes that moved just beyond sight.

Ian’s breath steamed from his mouth. Cold.

Too cold.

[Corruption: 36%]

The system alert pulsed faintly and disappeared.

His hand hovered near Vowbreaker, its bone handle warm against his palm, hissing with a dormant hunger.

Then—noise.

Distant at first. Then sharper. Closer.

Shouts.

A shriek. Inhuman. Violent.

Steel rang against flesh, followed by the thundering growl of something too large for the sound it made. Ian sprinted forward, leaping over a gnarled root, mist parting around him like fabric.

He saw her.

In a clearing—a woman, mid-twenties, agile and wild-eyed, her braid whipping behind her like a serpent as she rolled beneath a monstrous claw.

Her curved blade flashed upward, carving a shallow line across her attacker’s abdomen.

The demon snarled.

It was one of them—mutated imp, but changed even further.

Taller.

Its limbs had doubled and merged in places, like limbs grafted onto limbs. Horns curled out in irregular arcs from its skull, and its chest pulsed with a sickly red core.

Its skin, once patchy and pale, was now a thick blend of plates and rotting sinew, reeking of sulfur and decay.

She was fast—but the creature was faster.

It slammed a twisted forearm into her midsection, sending her tumbling backward into a tree with a hard crack. She groaned, tried to rise.

It moved to finish her.

And then Ian was there.

He launched himself from the trees, twin daggers drawn mid-air, cloak snapping like shadow-torn wings behind him.

Clang!

His left dagger caught the creature’s clawed strike, the force jarring through his arm.

He twisted mid-motion, driving his right dagger into the demon’s shoulder, sliding bone through the seam between its plates.

Black blood spurted and sizzled against his coat.

The demon shrieked in pain—and rage.

It turned with a speed that shouldn’t belong to something that size, lashing a knee upward. Ian caught it with his forearm, absorbing the blow as he gritted his teeth.

Strong.

The mutated imp lunged, slashing with its bladed forearms like twin axes.

Ian ducked low, dirt kicking up in a spiral as he spun beneath the arc and drove his dagger into the creature’s leg, severing a tendon with surgical precision.

It screamed.

Then it slammed a fist into the ground where Ian had just been, carving a small crater.

Ian flipped backward, boots skidding in the soil.

"Come on," he growled. "Let’s see if that body of yours is worth the mess it makes."

The creature roared, charging again. This time, Ian didn’t retreat.

He stepped forward, met the charge—

And vanished into shadow.

He reappeared an instant later behind the creature, breath cold, eyes sharp. His right dagger ignited with Soul Flame, violet fire racing along the edge like a wisp of promised death.

With one clean motion, he plunged the dagger upward into the demon’s neck.

The Soul Flame caught.

The creature writhed, howling. Its entire body seized, then burst outward in a shockwave of dark ash and soul-light.

Its remains sizzled into the dirt, twitching—and then still.

[Corruption: 38%]

Ian exhaled slowly.

Ash and silence.

Then—

"I... gods, you saved me." The woman’s voice trembled.

He turned.

She stood shakily, one hand clutching her side, the other reaching out toward him.

Up close, she was undeniably striking—pale skin smeared with blood and dirt, emerald eyes wide with adrenaline. Her top was torn across the shoulder, revealing a flush of bare skin glistening with sweat.

The way she moved—wounded, but purposeful—was oddly calculated.

"I thought I was done for," she said, stepping closer.

Ian didn’t move. His eyes narrowed.

"I’ve never seen someone move like that," she continued, breathless. "You were like... a ghost."

She reached for his arm.

"You saved me," she whispered again. "Really, I—thank you."

She pressed closer, hips brushing his thigh, breasts rising against his chest as she leaned into him. Her fingers traced lightly along his collarbone.

Ian didn’t flinch. His hands were at his sides. Still.

But his voice was cold as frostbite.

"Saved you?" he said softly. "Are you stupid..."

The color drained from her face.

"...or did you forget where you were?"

Her lips parted to speak.

And then she gasped.

Choked.

Eyes wide.

Looking down.

Ian’s dagger was already in her belly.

The blade had gone clean through—piercing skin, muscle, and whatever mask of gratitude she wore.

She coughed, a thin trail of blood escaping her lips.

"I don’t know what they told you about me," Ian said, his voice low, like a secret being buried. "But you were quite foolish to believe it."

He withdrew the blade.

She let out a sharp exhale and staggered backward, clutching the wound. Her legs gave out as she fell to her knees, blood soaking her tunic in dark waves.

Her eyes pleaded—but not with fear. With disbelief.

As if she hadn’t expected this.

As if the plan wasn’t supposed to fail.

Ian stepped back, letting her slump against a tree, gasping.

His eyes didn’t follow her anymore.

They turned—to the trees.

His voice, when he spoke, rang louder.

Clear.

Commanding.

"And the rest of you..." he said, dragging his blade once across his sleeve to clean it.

"...might as well come out."

Silence. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Then—

Movement.

Shadows shifting.

One by one, figures emerged from the woods, stepping through the mist and branches like ghosts from a graveyard dream.

Six. No—seven of them.

Men and women clad in mismatched armor, cloaks, and war paint. All of them armed. All of them with that same dead look in their eyes.

Not soldiers.

Not adventurers.

Hunters.

Ian’s expression didn’t change.

He rolled his shoulders once.

And smiled—just slightly.

"Good," he whispered, his daggers pulsing in his grip.