Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 100: Man’s Best Friend

The wind changed.

It was not a thing one could hear, or see, or even name. But they all felt it.

The world seemed to inhale—then forget to exhale.

Leaves stilled mid-tremble. Shadows stretched without a source. The air thickened, taking on weight, as though the sky itself had dropped just a little lower.

The mist heavier—not like fog, but like a breath exhaled from the mouth of something old.

Cold seeped into bones that had once burned with confidence.

Into joints. Into the marrow.

Something was coming.

Then—

It padded forward, soundless.

Black fur like smoke stitched with stars. Eyes like split amethysts glowing in the dark. Its maw dragged low, and from it hung the scent of grave-earth and ash.

Ashvaleth had come.

The assassins didn’t flinch. Not yet.

But their silence had a different texture now. Not stoic, but watchful.

Measured.

The glaive-wielder clicked his teeth. "Finally summoned your dog, have you?"

He rolled his neck. Voice sharpened by nerves, not bravado.

"Good. I was getting bored. Maybe now we’ll be entertained."

Another spat on the dirt, trying to reclaim courage. "Cute trick. A summoned mutt. We’ve killed worse."

But Ian... Ian said nothing to them.

He merely tilted his head, shoulders slumped in mock laziness—as though a corpse had begun to stretch, bones knitting under his skin, flesh crawling back into place like it remembered its shape only begrudgingly.

His spine crackled.

Shoulders popped.

The cuts across his ribs hissed and closed, threads of necrotic magic sewing themselves through torn muscle, binding sinew in a web of corrupted light.

Ashvaleth stepped beside him.

No leash. No chain. No command.

A shadow with teeth.

A being of death—and more than that.

Far more.

There had been a time, perhaps, when Ashvaleth alone would not have been enough. A beast of terror, yes, but limited by what Ian had been able to offer.

Limited by it’s level from a lack of NE to upgrade.

But not now.

Not after what Ian had done to him.

The slaughters. The soul-binding. The forbidden cores consumed beneath blood-moon light. The engravings carved into bone and soul both, each one a defiance of nature’s laws.

Ashvaleth was no longer a summoned hound.

He was a true weapon.

A curse.

His growl rolled across the clearing like thunder caught in earth. Then his eyes flared—and [Fear Paralysis] was activated.

It wasn’t instant. Not like with most prey.

These were killers, after all. Hardened by mana-forged training, bodies tempered by years of murder.

But even among warriors—fear has a taste.

And they tasted it now.

A tremor in their footing.

A too-tight grip on a weapon. A breath held just a second too long. A glance—just a glance—at the tree line, as if measuring the distance it would take to run.

Hesitation.

That was all Ian needed.

He rolled his shoulders, spinning Vowbreaker in a lazy arc. The twin blades gleamed, forged from the bones of a Hazard-class predator, their violet-black edges alight with pulsing Soul Flame.

"Let’s try this again," he murmured.

And the world blurred.

Ian moved first.

A shadow flash—his dagger plunged into the woman’s stomach before she could scream.

She was slower now, fear paralysis done it’s job.

Ashvaleth followed—a blur of smoke and fang—ripping into the fire mage’s throat with a gurgling snarl.

They were not fighting a man and his beast.

They were drowning in symphony.

Blade and shadow. Flesh and horror.

Each opening Ian carved, Ashvaleth exploited. Each enemy who turned to the beast found a dagger silently sliding beneath their ribs.

One assassin screamed as his ankles were ripped from under him—before Ian buried Vowbreaker in his open mouth with a sickening crunch.

The glaive met Ian again.

But this time, Ian didn’t dance.

He absorbed the first swing on his vambrace, sparks flying, then slammed his forehead into the man’s nose.

Bone shattered. Blood sprayed.

Before the glaive-wielder could even curse, Ashvaleth crashed into his side—pinning him, gnashing, dragging him to the dirt.

Blood painted the grass like wine spilled by uncaring gods.

Another tried to run.

A mistake.

Ashvaleth vanished. Reappeared behind him, silent as death. His fangs closed around the man’s spine—then twisted.

Snap.

And then there was silence.

Ian stood among the corpses, breath calm. Not heaving. Not strained.

The quiet that followed was not peace. It was aftermath.

His daggers hissed with residual flame. Ashvaleth exhaled, smoke curling from his maw.

Then—

Clap.

Two slow, deliberate claps echoed through the trees.

Ian turned.

The quiet one had stepped forward.

The hood was gone now. His face was pale and unremarkable. Thin lips. Medium height. Hands too clean for this much death.

He looked like a clerk, not a killer.

But his eyes... his eyes were off.

They were not alive. They were remembering.

"So..." Ian said. "You’re the one. The rest were fodder."

The man didn’t deny it.

"At first, I was disappointed," he said softly. "The Prophet of Death, they called you. I expected more than a second-rate killer and his snarling pet."

He stepped closer.

"But I see it now. That... stillness. That thing beneath the violence. It’s not your lack of power that limits you, demonblade."

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"It’s fear. Your fear."

Ian’s eyes narrowed.

The man’s voice dropped, silk over razors. "Why do you keep holding back? Why suppress it—the storm inside you? Could it be... that you terrify even yourself?"

A beat.

"That fear... I want to taste it. Make me feel it."

Ian scoffed.

"You guys really don’t shut up."

He raised a hand.

"Ashvaleth. Kill—"

The words never finished.

The man twitched a finger.

That was all.

A flick.

And from above—red rods fell like divine punishment. Dozens. Hundreds.

They shimmered as they fell, glowing with a liquid sheen, like molten blood cooled in a holy chalice.

Ashvaleth’s eyes widened.

One rod struck.

Then three.

Then seven.

Each impact locked him mid-leap, crucified in the air, limbs jerking, maw frozen open in a howl.

Then—

He burst.

A soundless explosion of violet-black mist, howling through the soul tether as it snapped like a harp string in a funeral dirge.

Ian stood still.

Not afraid.

But changed.

The realization came cold.

That wasn’t a normal spell. That was a rite. An execution.

The rods glowed in the mist, vibrating faintly, humming like they were still tasting what they had destroyed.

The man lowered his hand.

"Now," he said gently. "Let’s see what you’re really made of."