Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 73: The Fall of Restraint

Eli stood beside Ian in an instant, his form almost too still—like even the air feared to move near him.

"You did good," Eli said quietly, his golden eyes watching Ian without emotion. "But stop now. This is already going to cause a mess with the church."

The crowd hadn’t dared breathe since Joras’ body hit the sand, his soul devoured like an offering to something older than death.

The arena—the city—was trembling on the edge of hysteria. Eli’s words, calm and clear, should’ve anchored the moment.

They didn’t.

Ian looked up at him slowly, gaze distant and feral. His gray eyes glowed faintly still, not with magic, but with hunger—a necrotic craving that saw through flesh and into soul.

"You reek of power and demon blood," Ian whispered, voice frayed like an echo clawing out of a pit. "Your soul... will be worth a thousand others."

Eli’s brow twitched. "What did you say?"

And then, in less than a breath, Ian was there—his hand smashing against Eli’s chest.

Not a strike for show.

A direct, violent blow that sent Eli skidding back through the blood-soaked sand like a comet tearing its own trench into the earth.

The stands gasped. Several noble ladies gasped. Someone screamed from the seats above:

"He’s attacking his masters! The Demon has lost control!"

"Get the guards!"

"No—run! RUN!"

A ripple of chaos surged outward as some fled their boxes and commoners tried to press through closed gates.

Eli remained crouched in the sand, looking at the groove Ian had carved with his body.

He glanced up.

"This already looks bad," he muttered. "Stop before it gets worse."

Ian took a single step forward, his voice not raised, yet somehow louder than thunder.

"Your soul... I want your soul."

Eli exhaled long and slow. "Whatever this state is... it’s made you strong. Extremely strong."

He reached behind his back and drew his blade in a single motion.

The dark-gold steel hummed in the air like it was waiting for blood. It had no name—only a reputation.

The blade had cleaved Kings, monsters, and mages of impossible strength. It had once drunk the ichor of a Saint.

"I never thought the day I’d put effort into a fight against you would come so quickly," Eli said, voice soft, sword held with one hand. "I really am proud."

Ian surged forward, snarling.

"Stop the nonsense. Come here and di—"

But he stopped.

A sudden stagger, his legs faltering beneath him like stone pillars cracked through the base. Ian fell to one knee, hands trembling, breath shuddering.

Then—crimson burst.

Blood erupted in perfect synchronicity from his chest, his sides, his shoulders—a hundred cuts blooming at once, red arcing like flower petals over the sand.

His breath hitched.

His eyes widened.

"I’ve already... been cut?" Ian muttered.

Not just once—a hundred times.

His vision blurred as the arena tilted sideways. And for the first time, he truly saw it—Eli had never moved. Not in the way others would understand.

Not with steps. Not with motion.

He’d simply cut.

"Oh..." Ian breathed, a half-frown curling across his face as the glow in his eyes faded. "Seems I lost this time... Kingkiller."

And his body gave out.

But before he could hit the sand, Eli was already there. He caught Ian with one arm, gentle and unhurried.

"Don’t fret," Eli murmured. "Everyone does."

—

Darkness.

Not the kind of sleep darkness, nor the silence of death.

This one irked with heat, with movement, like he was inside something alive.

Ian groaned and opened his eyes.

Ceiling. Marble. Gold inlays.

He sat up too fast and winced. "Where am I?"

A voice nearby. Calm. Familiar.

"You’re awake. That’s good. For a moment I thought you would really die."

Ian blinked at the figure seated beside the bed—Eli, sword leaning against the wall, arms folded.

"What... what happened?"

"You won," Eli said simply. "but lost to me and nearly bled out in front of an entire Council-led arena."

Ian tried to stand but felt something cold to his left.

He looked.

A shard. Deep black with flecks of grey flame inside, pulsating in time with his heartbeat.

"A... soulshard?" Ian muttered. Recognized.

He hadn’t seen one since the Pits. The system had given him one before he’d first killed the Brawler, marking the beginning of his rise.

He looked to Eli. "How did I get this?"

"I put it there," Eli replied. "Had a few tucked away. Took them from the Hellscape years ago. Figured you’d need one, considering the state you were in."

Ian’s gaze narrowed. "How do you know...this is what I’d need to heal?"

"You’re a Voidborne arent you?" Eli said, gaze distant. "But that’s a story for another time."

Ian looked down at the shard, still pulsing.

He exhaled.

Then, "Where’s Velrosa? What happened after?"

Eli’s golden eyes met his. Serious now. He stood and walked to the window, drawing the curtain aside.

From where he stood, Ian could see a city in disarray. Protests. Torches. Palanquins rushing through the streets. Posters torn down. Soldiers marching.

"House Elarin has been put on trial," Eli said. "By the Council. By the Church. By the Sanctum of Light. All of them."

Ian’s fists clenched. "What for?"

"What do you think?" Eli said bitterly. "You turned into a death god in front of a few thousand nobles and melted one of their champions alive. Then attacked your own ally. That makes the entire House look... unstable. Worse. Possessed."

Ian didn’t say anything.

Eli continued, "Velrosa is trying to spin it, of course. Calling it anything she can. But the vultures are already circling."

Ian looked down. "And what about her?"

"She’s still in the noble courts. Gathering allies before the trial. But barely. House Elarin is about to fall to dust..."

Eli turned and met Ian’s eyes again.

"...or rise. There’s no in-between now."

Silence.

Ian stared at the shard.

He remembered the feeling—the death that had crawled out of his bones like it remembered the world better than he ever could.

He remembered wanting Eli’s soul.

And the worst part?

He still did.