Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 180: Prophet Vs Plauge I

The dust had barely settled.

They stood opposite each other in the shadow of Esgard’s crumbling outer wall—no crowd, no arena, no noble eyes.

Only wind, silence, and the ghosts of restraint. The city behind them seemed to breathe with unease, as if sensing that something primal and dangerous had been set in motion.

Eli rolled his shoulders slowly, the leather of his coat creaking faintly.

He unslung the weapon from across his back—an old blade with a hilt worn by war, not ceremony. It gleamed only faintly, kissed by the light of the overcast sky.

His eyes, golden and sharp, locked onto Ian.

"Let’s see how much you’ve grown."

Across from him, Ian didn’t respond.

He reached into the folds of reality —and withdrew Judgement.

The sword of utter black.

There was no light on its surface. No reflection. Just a void that drank the sun, that devoured the eye.

It made the world around it seem less real, like a smear on a painting. Even holding it, Ian seemed heavier, more distant—as though part of him had already stepped into another world.

Wind howled faintly. The grass wilted around them.

Eli grinned. "Bringing out the toys early, are we?"

Ian’s only answer was a slow step forward.

Not just a step—[ Sovereign’s Step. ]

The ground beneath his foot buckled soundlessly. The air folded in on itself like cloth being stitched. He vanished—no sound, no flash, no warning—and appeared behind Eli in the same breath.

A breeze followed him, cold and rotten with the taste of grave soil.

Eli was already turning, sword catching the blow from Judgement with the side of the blade. The impact cracked the earth beneath their feet, forcing both men apart.

Dust flew. Stone split. But Eli only laughed.

"That’s new," he said, flashing his teeth. "But still too slow."

Ian didn’t reply.

The runes across his flesh pulsed dimly, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. They weren’t glowing. Not yet.

But they were waiting—like a pulse beneath the skin of the world.

Eli came forward this time, blade flashing once, twice, then again—a flurry of precise, elegant strikes.

He moved like water—flowing from one angle to the next, dancing around Ian with a swordsman’s grace refined through over a decade of bloodshed.

But Ian didn’t flinch.

Judgement met each blow with brutal finality. He didn’t parry so much as absorb the attacks—his arms unmoving, his stance like a monolith.

When Eli’s blade slid across his skin once, sparks flew—and the steel screeched.

[ Flesh of Suffering ]

Eli frowned. "That’s cheating."

Ian’s body was a fortress now. Hardened by the Prophet state, he didn’t bleed, didn’t flinch. Every nerve dulled to pain, every cell twisted into endurance.

The scars across him didn’t just mark the past—they defied the present.

He retaliated with a single upward cut—Judgement singing through the air like a whisper of death.

Eli barely slid aside in time, the void-edge carving a clean gash in the old stone wall behind them. It didn’t break the wall—it erased it.

The pieces that fell had no edge. No shape. Just void.

Eli’s grin widened despite the danger.

"You really want this," he said, circling. "You’re not playing."

Ian glided forward—he didn’t run. He moved like a shadow caught on wind, a wraith more than a man.

Sovereign’s Step again—this time in rapid succession. One blink—behind Eli. The next—above. Then—downward, blade crashing like a falling god.

Eli caught it mid-spin, sword locking against Judgement, but his boots sank an inch into the earth.

"You’re heavier now," Eli muttered, pushing back. "Not just in the body. Your soul."

"You talk too much."

"And you’re still angry," Eli countered, breath steady. "That’s the difference between us. You hate. I don’t. I just win."

He surged forward again.

This time, his blade hummed with inner force. Not magic. Technique. A swordsman’s soul made steel.

The flurry was different now—each strike aimed not to wound but to test. Measure. Understand.

And for the first time, Ian moved defensively.

Not because he had to—but because he was learning Eli too.

They exchanged thirty-two blows in under three seconds. The grass around them died. Trees leaned away. The skies above dimmed as if afraid to shine on this place.

Eli disengaged and rolled his shoulders.

"Not bad," he said. "Your stance is tighter. You don’t overextend anymore. But you’re still relying too much on Sovereign’s Step to reposition. You’re becoming predictable."

Ian took another step forward—and vanished again.

But Eli didn’t wait this time.

The moment Ian flickered into place behind him, Eli turned with a brutal backhand slash, grazing Ian’s shoulder—sparks erupted, but Ian didn’t flinch. Didn’t stagger.

Flesh of Suffering drank the pain like water.

Eli narrowed his eyes.

"You’re walking into a trap, you know," he said. "You think you’re fighting for revenge. You’re not. You’re fighting because he makes you feel small again. You want to feel in control."

Ian’s voice was quiet. But it cut.

"He’s a parasite. A disease that cloaks itself in light. You don’t know what he is, Eli."

"I know enough," Eli said, eyes hardening. "I know you’re not ready. You’ve got strength now, yes. Power. And a name. But a name’s not enough. This isn’t just the Arena anymore. You’re not swinging to survive. You’re swinging to change the shape of the world."

They circled again. A long pause.

"You once told me," Ian said, voice lower now, "that control isn’t about suppressing the fire. It’s about choosing where it burns."

Eli nodded slowly. "And right now, you’re about to burn down the whole fucking forest."

They clashed again.

This time it was Ian who pressed forward, blade humming with unseen force. Not Soul Flame. Not yet. But his steps had become too silent.

His eyes burned too cold. Sovereign’s Step wasn’t just a movement anymore—it was a pattern. An extension of will.

Eli parried, ducked, slashed—and was forced back three paces.

He grinned again. Not mocking. Not cruel.

Proud.

"You’re getting closer," he said. "Closer to being something terrifying. But not yet. Not yet."

Ian’s eyes flared.

The runes across his skin brightened once, like a heartbeat of dread. Not full power. Not prophecy. But the shadow of something ancient stirred in him—and the world noticed.

Animals in the nearby woods fled. The birds stopped singing. The grass curled inward like it was ashamed to stand.

And still they stood—two titans, one carved from sun and steel, the other from nightmare and memory.

Breathing.

Waiting.

"I won’t stop," Ian said softly.

"Then I won’t hold back," Eli replied.

The sky groaned above them. Thunder rolled in the distance.

The next blow would not be measured.