Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian's consciousness returned in fragments, like shards of glass struggling to reassemble into something whole.

His eyelids fluttered open, heavy and uncooperative, as if they were weighed down by the weight of his last memory—fire, screams, and the searing heat of the explosion.

Then—cold.

His vision blurred before sharpening, revealing a world that made no sense.

The first thing he noticed was the weight. His wrists were bound together by heavy, unpolished chains, the metal rough against his skin. His fingers curled instinctively into fists—calloused, grimy fists that didn't feel like his own.

His clothes were different too. Coarse, scratchy fabric clung to his skin, reeking of sweat and damp earth.

Slowly, reality began to settle.

The air carried a scent of wet soil and woodsmoke. The ground beneath him was uneven, slick with mud.

His boots sank slightly into the muck as he shifted, a sharp pain flaring in his side. His body felt battered—aching, bruised, like he had been through a war and barely survived.

Then came the noise.

The clatter of hooves on stone. The murmur of voices. The occasional bark of a merchant selling. The world buzzed around him, chaotic...unfamiliar.

'Where… am I?'

Ian's mind raced as he forced himself to take in his surroundings.

A bustling market square stretched before him, but it was nothing like anything he had ever seen.

The buildings were crude, squat things of weathered stone and timber. Cobblestone streets stretched out in every direction, slick with rain. People moved in a hurried dance, dressed in rough-spun tunics and cloaks, their faces lined with hardship.

Then he saw them.

Armored guards.

They patrolled the square, their chainmail glinting in pale sunlight, swords strapped to their hips. Horses clomped by, their riders draped in leather and fur, while carts creaked over the uneven stones.

Ian's breath caught in his throat.

This wasn't a reenactment.

This wasn't a movie set.

This was real.

Too real.

His gaze dropped back to the chains on his wrists. Then, slowly, he turned his head, looking at the line of people beside him.

They were bound just like he was.

Dozens of them, their faces hollow, their eyes filled with either fear or resignation. Some muttered prayers under their breath. Others simply stared ahead, unblinking.

Panic tightened in his chest.

This can't be happening. This isn't real. I was in the ballroom. There was an explosion. I should be dead.

I should be—

A memory flickered across his mind.

[Host is dead.]

[Transmigration in progress.]

His heart dropped.

Transmigration?

The idea was ridiculous. Impossible. And yet… here he was.

The cold bite of the chains, the ache in his ribs, the scent of mud and sweat—none of it felt like a dream.

It was too vivid, too sharp.

Ian clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palm.

Had he brought this upon himself?

No.

He shook his head, forcing the thought away.

He had been wronged. Humiliated. Betrayed.

They had deserved it. All of them.

A rustling sound to his left made him glance at the line again. His eyes flicked across the prisoners—until they landed on a face that sent a bolt of shock through his veins.

Mark.

His former friend. His betrayer.

Mark stood just a few feet away, bound in the same chains, his face pale and drawn. His shoulders were slumped, his clothes just as rough and filthy as Ian's. But there was no mistaking him.

Ian barely had time to process that before his gaze drifted further down the line—

And he saw her.

Emily.

Even now, even here, her presence felt like a blade twisting in his ribs.

Her once-pristine appearance was gone, replaced by dirt-streaked skin and tangled hair. But her eyes—cold, calculating—hadn't changed.

Ian's pulse pounded.

What the hell is going on?

Then he saw even more familiar faces.

Three other coworkers. People from his office.

They were all here. Bound in chains.

A low, disbelieving laugh nearly escaped him.

This wasn't just his nightmare.

It was theirs too.

But they hadn't noticed him yet.

Until Mark lifted his head.

Their eyes locked.

Time seemed to slow.

Mark's expression twisted. His lips parted, trembling, before his voice shattered the air—

"You bastard! You killed us all!"

The words rang through the square, cutting through the market's noise like a blade.

Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. The other captives stiffened, chains clanking as they shifted uneasily.

Ian just stared.

Mark's face was twisted with rage, his teeth bared.

"This is your fault!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You did this! You brought us here!"

The weight of the accusation settled over the square like a storm cloud.

Emily turned, her sharp eyes locking onto Ian. Others followed. Their gazes burned into him—fear, confusion, hatred swirling in their depths.

Ian's heart pounded.

Mark was right.

He had done this.

He had killed them all.

And yet—

Guilt never came.

Instead, rage surged through him, dark and unrelenting. It coiled in his chest like a living thing, burning away the last traces of doubt.

He hadn't even realized when the words left his mouth.

"But you're still breathing, aren't you? Bastard."

He stepped forward, his voice dropping to something cold. Dangerous.

"Maybe I should come over there and finish the job."

Mark's face drained of color.

The other captives flinched.

For the first time, Ian saw it—

Fear.

Not just confusion. Not just anger.

Fear.

And in that moment, despite everything, a slow smirk curled on Ian's lips.