Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Six times.

Six times, Ian drove the dull dagger into his opponent's arm.

The blade was crude, its edge chipped and uneven, but it tore through flesh all the same. Each thrust was accompanied by a sickening squelch, nearly drowned out by the guttural screams of the man before him.

Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, staining the sand beneath them. The crowd roared, their jeers and cheers merging into a deafening storm of bloodlust.

At the start, Ian's opponent—hulking, confident, and wielding a spiked club—had moved with brutal precision. Every swing had been calculated, every strike meant to shatter bone.

Now, his right arm was a mangled ruin.

The club lay discarded in the sand, and his face had lost its color, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He swayed on his feet, his strength sapped by Ian's Aura of Decay—and by his own failing body.

Ian stepped forward, dagger clenched tightly in his fist.

He had never killed a man with his own hands.

Not like this. Not so brutally.

But there was no room for hesitation. Not in this pit. Not in this life he had been thrust into.

The man lurched, his remaining good arm swinging in a desperate attempt to fend Ian off. But the blow was weak, sluggish. Ian sidestepped with ease, his movements sharper, more controlled.

Then, he struck.

The dagger plunged into the man's stomach, burying itself deep. Ian twisted the blade, feeling muscle and organs tear beneath his grip.

The man let out a wretched scream.

Blood poured from the wound, dark and glistening, soaking the sand at their feet. He staggered, hands clutching his gut as if he could hold himself together.

Ian didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

With a swift, brutal motion, he drove the dagger into the man's throat.

The blade cut through flesh and cartilage, silencing his screams in a gurgling choke. Blood bubbled from his lips as his body crumpled, lifeless, onto the sand.

The crowd erupted in madness.

Ian stood over the corpse, his chest rising and falling, his mind a maelstrom of exhaustion, pain, and something deeper—something darker.

A notification flickered before his eyes.

[Soul slain. Would you like to bind it? Y/N]

He hesitated only a second.

Yes.

A faint, violet mist seeped from the corpse, curling around Ian before vanishing into nothing. The man's body seemed… emptier now.

A mere husk.

[Obtained soul: Low-Level Human—Pit Brawler]

The announcer's voice boomed across the pit, declaring Ian the victor.

Before he could catch his breath, the brute who had dragged him here earlier stepped forward. Without ceremony, the man locked the chains back onto Ian's wrists.

He didn't resist.

His body was exhausted, his mind still reeling. He allowed himself to be led away, deeper into the underbelly of the pit.

The passage they walked through was lined with corpses.

Bodies discarded like trash, their faces frozen in expressions of agony. Ian's gaze flickered to one in particular—the scarred man who had arrived with him. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, his form twisted, broken.

Ian felt something at that moment.

Not grief. Not regret.

Just a dull, fleeting sense of understanding.

There was no room for sentimentality here.

Not in this place.

The brute led Ian down a winding corridor until they reached a small, dark chamber. Without a word, a rough sack was thrown over his head. He was shoved forward, the chains rattling as he stumbled through the cold, narrow passage.

The air thickened with the stench of decay. The echoes of distant screams, muffled by stone walls, whispered through the tunnels.

Finally, they stopped.

The sack was yanked from Ian's head.

He stood in a cramped cell, the iron bars slamming shut behind him. The brute let out a low chuckle, his voice laced with amusement.

"Rest up, new blood," he said, whistling as he walked away. "You'll need it."

Ian leaned against the damp stone wall, every muscle in his body aching. His clothes were stiff with drying blood—his and his opponent's.

The cell was suffocatingly small. The air reeked of mildew and filth, and somewhere in the darkness, the sound of rats skittering echoed through the silence.

He let his head rest against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to still his breath.

Then—

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate, approaching.

A voice followed.

Smooth. Feminine.

"Hello there."

Ian's eyes snapped open. He scanned the dim corridor beyond the bars, his body tensing. He couldn't see her yet, but he could feel her presence.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice sharp despite his exhaustion.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she took a slow step forward, letting the flickering torchlight reveal her form.

Tall. Slender.

Sharp features, elegant and knowing. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. She wore a simple robe, its fabric too shadowed to make out fully.

"I should have been your physician," she said smoothly. "Sent to patch you up after your fight."

She paused, tilting her head. "But it seems you don't need such assistance."

Ian narrowed his eyes.

She stepped closer, close enough now that the light caught the slight curve of a smirk on her lips and hips.

"So instead," she continued, her voice silky, measured, "I come with a question."

She met his gaze.

"What did you do to find yourself in the pits?"

Ian let the silence stretch before answering.

"Be weak."

The woman chuckled, low and knowing.

"Ah. A common crime."

She took another step forward, fingers ghosting over the iron bars.

"But I doubt that's true." Her eyes flicked down, lingering on his injuries—or rather, the lack of them. "After all, instant healing is far from weakness… don't you think?"

Ian's jaw tightened.

"What do you want?"

Her smirk widened ever so slightly.

"To give you an opportunity."