Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian's eyes fluttered open, his head throbbing with a pain so deep it felt like his skull had been cracked open.

He winced, his vision blurry and unfocused, the world around him swaying with an unsettling rhythm.

The floor beneath him was rough and unyielding—wood, splintered and worn.

A cart? A caravan? The realization came slowly, his mind sluggish from the brutal beating he had endured. His wrists were still shackled, the metal biting into his skin, and when he shifted, the chains rattled in the dim, enclosed space.

Opposite him, a man sat watching.

Weathered and scarred, his face was a testament to countless battles, a jagged line running from his left temple down to his jaw.

His sharp, knowing eyes studied Ian with something between pity and indifference. Like Ian, he was bound, his posture slumped but resigned.

Ian swallowed, his throat raw.

"Where... am I?" His voice came out cracked, barely more than a whisper.

The scarred man chuckled dryly, the sound devoid of humor.

"You finally wake, boy," he muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Slept through most of the journey."

Ian forced himself to sit upright, the effort sending fresh waves of pain through his ribs.

Through the wooden slats of the caravan, he glimpsed a landscape bathed in the golden hues of sunset. Jagged mountains loomed on either side, their peaks fading into the encroaching night.

The crisp air carried the scent of pine and damp earth.

"Where are they taking us?" he rasped.

The man shrugged, the movement making his chains clink.

"Somewhere in Esgard."

"Esgard?" Ian echoed, unfamiliar with the name.

"A city," the man said. "A thriving one—for some. But for us? It's the end of the line." His voice darkened. "We're being sent to the pits."

A slow dread unfurled in Ian's stomach.

"The pits?"

"The slop of civilization," the man said bitterly. "A place for the condemned. Slaves, criminals, or anyone unlucky enough to be thrown in. They throw men in there like scraps to hungry dogs. You fight, you bleed, and if you're lucky, you die quick."

Before Ian could respond, the caravan lurched to a sudden stop, nearly throwing him forward.

The scarred man sighed. "Ah. Here we go."

The back of the caravan was wrenched open, and a guard stepped inside, his face hidden behind a dull iron helm. He gestured for them to move, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The scarred man grunted as he pushed himself up, moving deliberately.

Ian followed, his legs shaky beneath him. As he stepped down onto the dirt road, another guard dismounted his horse and approached.

The scarred man leaned close, voice barely above a whisper.

"Grit your teeth."

"What do you—"

Before Ian could finish, the guard swung the hilt of his sword with brutal efficiency, striking the scarred man across the head. The man crumpled instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Ian barely had time to react before his own world exploded in pain. The sword pommel crashed into his already battered face, and his vision went black.

---

When Ian awoke again, it was to the sound of screams.

His head throbbed, his face a mask of dried blood and bruises. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, filth, and something metallic—blood. He forced himself upright, his chains clinking as he moved.

He was no longer in the caravan.

Instead, he was in a cage.

The bars were rusted, encrusted with filth, and lined with splinters of old, dried bone. Other prisoners huddled in the corners, hollow-eyed and gaunt. The scarred man lay beside him, still unconscious, while beyond the cage, a nightmare unfolded.

A vast underground arena stretched before him, carved from rough-hewn stone.

The dirt floor was dark and stained, as if it had been drenched in blood for centuries. Rows of crude wooden benches circled the pit, packed with a raucous crowd of degenerates.

Drunken men bellowed and jeered, waving bottles of cheap liquor.

Half-naked women draped themselves over them, laughing, whispering poison into their ears. The scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and death mingled in the heavy air.

At the center of the arena, two men fought.

One was tall and scarred, his muscles thick like corded steel. The other was smaller, leaner, his movements fast and precise.

They tore into each other like wild animals, fists and crude weapons meeting flesh and bone with sickening crunches.

The crowd roared as the smaller man struck—a brutal kick to his opponent's knee. The taller man staggered, his leg buckling. Before he could recover, the smaller man pounced, driving a jagged shard of metal deep into his throat.

A spray of crimson. A gurgling death rattle.

The taller man collapsed, clawing weakly at his own throat as his life drained into the dirt.

The crowd erupted in savage glee.

Ian stared, his stomach turning to lead.

Beside him, the scarred man groaned, pushing himself upright. He took in the scene with a grimace, rubbing the fresh welt on his forehead.

"Welcome to the pits," he muttered.