Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 149: The Sound of Breaking Pride

Sand scattered beneath Veyne’s boots as he surged forward, blade flashing.

"RAAAAH!"

He moved like a champion should—quick, brutal, practiced. His longsword sang through the air with a whisper of polished steel, guided by months of training and years of blood. Muscles rippled, eyes locked on his target. Every step was precise. Every strike aimed to maim.

And Ian—Ian didn’t move.

Not until the blade was nearly at his throat.

Shift.

A sidestep. Smooth. Lazy.

Veyne’s strike cut through empty air, dragging him forward off-balance. He snarled and spun, twisting the arc of his blade into a wide backswing aimed at Ian’s ribs.

Clang!

Ian blocked it—barehanded.

The flat of Veyne’s blade met the side of one of Ian’s twin daggers. Vowbreaker. The dagger hadn’t even been drawn properly. It was half-sheathed, gripped in a reverse hold, like Ian had only bothered to raise it out of politeness.

Veyne recoiled. His arms throbbed.

’What... what kind of strength was that?’ He thought.

He jumped back, circling, trying to find an angle. The Crucible roared above him, but their noise faded beneath the drumming in his ears.

Ian stood still. Completely.

Motionless as a statue. Shadowed eyes half-lidded. Chest rising slowly. Like he wasn’t in a fight.

Like this wasn’t even worth his time.

Veyne hissed.

"MOVE, DAMN YOU!"

He rushed again. Low this time, blade angled for the thigh. Feint left. Lunge center.

Ian stepped aside.

No wasted motion.

No flourish.

Just absence.

He wasn’t there when the blade arrived. Veyne stumbled past, barely catching himself on his boots, sand flying in a wild spray.

Another strike. Another dodge.

And another.

And another.

Minutes passed. Minutes of steel screaming through the air, of sweat dripping into Veyne’s eyes, of his heart pounding harder and harder. The sun burned above. His mouth tasted of copper and bile.

And Ian hadn’t struck back once.

He just... watched.

And moved.

’Gods... what is he?’

Veyne’s sword arm was going numb.

His breath rasped in his throat. But the man across from him—no, the thing—looked as calm as when he’d stepped into the arena.

Not even a bead of sweat.

Just those cold, unreadable gray eyes.

And that stillness. That damned stillness.

"FIGHT ME!" Veyne screamed, voice cracking.

He lunged again, this time with a flurry—a five-strike combo honed in the pits. He came high, low, twisted mid-spin and launched a shoulder bash.

Ian caught it. Just caught it. One hand against Veyne’s chest.

It was like running into a wall of iron.

The force threw Veyne back five paces.

He hit the sand hard.

The crowd roared.

He couldn’t hear what they were yelling anymore. His ears were filled with the sound of his own breathing.

’What the hell is this?’

He climbed to his feet. Blade trembling in his grip.

He’s not dodging like a man avoiding pain. He’s not flinching. There’s no panic. No urgency.

’He’s not afraid of me.’

A sliver of something crept in beneath his ribs.

Doubt.

He tried to shove it down.

He was Veyne the slayer. Fourth-tier Blood League champion. The Duke’s favored sword. He’d carved down mages with more power than this freak could possibly—

’But they bled.’

That thought came unbidden.

’They all bled when I struck. Even the strong ones. Even the mad ones.’

Ian hadn’t even braced.

He circled again, this time slower. Cautious.

Ian tilted his head.

Still hadn’t drawn his second dagger.

"You’re not taking this seriously," Veyne spat.

Silence.

"ARE YOU MOCKING ME?"

Ian didn’t answer.

Didn’t even blink.

Veyne’s face twisted.

Mocked. That’s what it was. This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t some warrior’s cold calculation.

Ian didn’t care.

It was that simple.

This was beneath him.

This entire fight—Veyne—was beneath him.

And suddenly Veyne remembered the stories. Not the ones told in taverns or under moonlight.

The real ones. The whispered rumors.

Of a man who made nobles and beggars cry blood from his presence alone.

Of a soul-walker who bled like ink and moved like shadow.

This isn’t a man.

But something worse.

Another attack. Desperate this time. A downward chop aimed for Ian’s shoulder. He threw his whole weight into it. A gamble.

Ian finally moved.

Just a quarter-turn.

Veyne’s sword hit nothing.

And in that moment—barely a blink—Ian stepped close. Closer than comfort allowed. No dagger raised. No strike made.

He just whispered.

"You’ve already lost."

Veyne’s eyes widened.

The words struck harder than steel.

He flinched back instinctively, heart skipping. His sword came up again in reflex, but Ian had already stepped away.

Back into that maddening stillness.

Lost?

No.

No, he couldn’t have.

He won’t.

He was still standing. Still breathing.

He was Veyne.

He wasn’t broken.

He screamed, not with rage this time, but panic.

And the crowd... they knew.

They could see it.

The turn in his stance.

The shake in his blade.

The hesitation.

They began to cheer not for him, but against him.

"Slaughter him, Ian!"

"End it!"

"Make him crawl!"

Even few nobles jeered. The same ones who had cheered for Veyne moments ago now leaned toward Ian like dogs waiting for a favored bone.

A thousand eyes bore down on him.

Judging.

Veyne’s hand clenched around his sword until his knuckles went white.

"I won’t be humiliated. Not like this. Not in front of them. Not in front of her."

His gaze snapped up to the noble box.

To the silver-haired princess.

And behind her, the golden eyes of the dread warrior Eli, arms folded, watching. Always watching.

And worst of all—

That little smile playing at her lips.

She knew this would happen.

She planned this.

The crowd’s chants were thunder now.

"Ian! Ian! Ian!"

No spell. No sword.

Just fear.

No more.

Veyne shoved his left palm forward, fingers twisted into a runic claw.

Crimson glyphs blazed to life around his forearm, erupting from the flesh with a burst of flame and fury. Mana surged through his blood, burning him from within.

His veins lit up. His eyes glowed.

"BLOODGOUT PIKE!" he screamed.

The ground beneath Ian cracked with a sudden fissure as molten spikes of dark-red energy speared upward in a violent thrust.

Ian vanished.

Just... gone.

Appeared ten paces away. Arms still at his sides.

Unscathed.

Veyne nearly dropped his sword.

How!?

He didn’t think.

He didn’t breathe.

He just reached into himself.

Deeper. Past training. Past safety.

He clawed into his own mana core and ripped power from it.

The skin on his arms split. Blood leaked from his gums.

He didn’t care.

This next spell would hit.

It had to.

He wouldn’t leave this arena remembered as the man who danced for death and failed to draw blood.

"I’m DONE playing!" Veyne screamed, magic blazing like a bonfire around him. "You want fear? I’ll show you what a real monster looks like!"

The spell began to form—one he had sworn never to cast again.

The one that had once scorched an entire dueling square in the pits.

The one that took three healers to stabilize afterward.

The sand began to swirl.

The heat warped the air.

And Ian...

Ian smiled.