Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 84: The Price of Sin II

*

"You asked me what way there was to save yourselves,"

Thalia had said, the night wind lashing at the ruined stones around them.

She hadn’t hesitated. She never hesitated.

"You must become a sworn demon subjugator."

Ian had frowned then — not in fear, but in the sharp, wary way a man does when sensing the edge of a knife he doesn’t yet see.

Thalia’s voice had been a low, merciless thing:

"Unlike a common subjugator who may renounce the path at any time... a sworn subjugator binds themselves by blood oath. Forever. Until the tenth reach of the Hellscape is cleared."

Her gray eyes had glinted like the sea under stormlight.

"Every reach must be faced. Every demon slain. You may not remain away from the Hellscape for longer than fifteen months before you must descend again — or the gods themselves will tear you apart."

Ian had said nothing. But the truth of it cut deeper than iron.

"It is not a vow," Thalia had said. "It is a slow execution. A death written in blood and time."

Her hand had found his shoulder — not gentle, not cruel, simply certain.

"But it is an oath no demon can swear. The gods would never accept the blood of one tainted. If you swear... if they accept... the court will have no choice but to recognize you as human—all charges will be made irrelevant."

The crooked spire had groaned under the weight of the coming storm.

"And when you are asked in whose name you offer your slaughter," Thalia had said, her voice a whisper, a warning, "do not say the Sanctum. That is what they hunger for. Choose the emperor represented by the first counselor. The ceremony requires a living witness to drink of your blood in their name."

She had paused then — a pause heavy as a noose.

"Velrosa assured me you are no demon," she said. "I choose to believe her."

---

Boots struck stone in a grim, warlike cadence. Shields locked with a heavy, metallic crack.

The Hall itself seemed to shudder under the growing force gathering within it. Sanctified murals, those vast paintings of holy wars and divine victories, wavered in the sacred light as if recoiling from what was about to unfold.

Dust rained softly from the vaulted ceilings, each mote catching the pale gold glow like dying embers falling from a sky about to collapse.

The Light Crusaders advanced in formation, the sacred symbols on their platinum armor burning with power, their eyes hidden behind the visors of executioners.

From among them, Eltharion Vale stood unmoved — serene, almost pitying, as though he mourned the necessity of slaughter.

His fingers traced invisible symbols in the air, already preparing rites of binding and fire.

And at the eye of the coming storm stood Eli.

Cloaked in tattered black and gold, he was stillness itself — the moment before the predator lunges, the breath before the blade falls.

His golden eyes burned with a furious, wild light.

He turned his head slightly toward Ian, his voice low and ragged, breaking the silence:

"Run."

"I’ll hold them."

For the briefest of heartbeats, Ian almost obeyed.

Raw instinct for survival hammered at his bones — screaming at him to flee, to escape, to fight another day.

But something else rustled in him.

Something absolute.

Something furious.

Not survival.

Not surrender.

Refusal.

Dark and pure.

Ian’s boot struck the edge of the private stand. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward — out into the open floor of the Great Hall.

Gasps fluttered through the crowd like dying birds.

His cloak billowed behind him, caught in invisible currents, shadows coiling at his heels as if reluctant to leave him.

His bare hands, stained from previous battles, curled into fists.

Ian’s gray eyes — once deadened, once shackled — now burned with a brutal clarity.

A thousand gazes locked onto him.

The demon.

The undying.

The judged.

And Ian met them all without flinching.

He shrugged off his cloak, letting it fall to the stones like a slain animal.

The scarred, brutal map of his body was bared to the world — every cut, every wound, every victory written in flesh and blood. Silver brands from days he could not recall engraved into the pale of his skin.

Without hesitation, Ian drew a dagger.

It sang a thin, mournful sound as it tasted the air — and then bit into his palm.

Thick blood welled immediately, dark and viscous, splattering onto the polished floor with soft, wet sounds.

The Hall held still.

And Ian spoke — voice raw, voice broken and true — the first lines of a vow far older than any seated noble:

"By blade, by bone, by blood unmade..."

Another slice — his other palm.

"I cast my soul upon the pyre..."

Blood now dripped freely from both hands, a steady rain painting crimson rivers across the black stone.

Nobles leaned forward, expressions twisted in horror and fascination.

The Crusaders paused, uncertain.

Ian pressed the blade against his own chest — just above his heart — and carved a shallow line.

"In the name of light unbroken and shadows chained..."

He staggered, gasping — but stayed upright, determination holding his spine straight.

"I bind my breath to the ancient fire."

The blood pooled around his feet now — thick enough that it reflected the vast murals of gods and monsters above.

He tore open fresh wounds along his shoulders, his arms, his sides — each line deliberate, ritualistic, the movements of a man offering himself to something greater.

"Let my flesh be the vessel, my blood the sword..."

His voice cracked, but he forced the words out, spitting them into the sacred air.

"Let my wounds be the price the heavens demand."

Blood streamed from him now, flowing in ragged trails across the Hall’s flawless surface.

Velrosa watched — standing rigid, lips parted, a tremor barely visible in her hands.

Eli watched — teeth bared in something between a snarl and a prayer to gods he knew he longer believed in.

The High Priest Eltharion simply waited, that same knowing smile lingering at the corner of his lips.

Ian’s breath hitched — but he didn’t stop.

He howled the next lines into the vaulted abyss above:

"I vow to hunt the horned and the hidden,

To tear root and seed from the loam of the wicked."

"Old gods, forgotten gods, new gods crowned —

Hear this offering, drink of my vow!"

The Hall trembled.

The very air turned heavy, vibrating with unseen power.

From the dizzying heights of the cathedral ceiling, shafts of golden light broke forth — slicing through the gloom like holy spears.

Ancient sigils, long thought ornamental, flared to life across the walls and pillars — perfect designs of suns devouring serpents, swords piercing darkness, crowns weeping blood.

At the apex of the Hall, something shimmered into existence.

A Cup.

Not made by mortal hands.

It was gold — no, not gold — something divine, deeper, burning with a luster that hurt the eyes.

The Cup descended slowly, as if the weight of a thousand forgotten prayers pulled it toward the bloody offering below.

Ian, panting, bleeding, stood unmoving as the Cup hovered over him.

His blood, still streaming from his broken body, lifted into the air — spiraling upward in tendrils of crimson mist.

The Cup drank.

Ian’s blood flowing into it generously.

The nobles began to scream and shout.

"The gods have accepted him!"

"It cannot be!"

"He is no demon!"

Panic rippled through the Great Hall — fear sharper and more infectious than any plague.

Eltharion’s calm face darkened for the first time.

And then, from the Cup itself — from some place beyond mortal comprehension — a voice spoke.

It was not loud.

It was not angry.

It was a simple, terrible inquiry:

"In whose name do you offer your slaughter of demons?"

The Hall fell so silent the heartbeat of every soul could be heard.

Ian lifted his head.

Blood matted his hair to his skull.

Crimson coated his face, his chest, his arms — he was a statue of sacrifice, a creature reborn in agony.

His gray eyes locked onto Velrosa across the distance.

She stood frozen — a thing of moonlight and shadow — her silver hair catching the golden beams, her blue eyes wide and unblinking.

Ian’s voice, when it came, was not broken.

It was not weak.

It was the roaring of a hundred thousand dead, the sound of chains shattering, the defiance of a man who had died a thousand times already and would die a thousand more if needed.

He declared:

"In the name of Princess Velrosa Lionarde."

The Great Hall exploded into chaos.

Some nobles screamed blasphemy.

Others stumbled backward as if burned.

The Light Crusaders faltered, their advance broken, unsure whether to strike or fall to their knees.

Eltharion’s face twisted — no longer serene, but incandescent with rage.

Velrosa did not move at first.

She simply stared — trembling, caught between terror and awe.

Then, slowly, a smile cracked across her lips — savage and glorious.

Without hesitation, without faltering, Velrosa Lionarde stepped forward.

She crossed the blood-slicked stones barefoot, her midnight blue gown soaking crimson as she moved.

The nobles shrieked warnings — but none dared touch her.

She approached the Cup.

Ian sagged slightly, barely able to keep standing.

Velrosa reached up, seizing the Cup with both hands.

Her fingers wrapped around the ancient vessel — and in one smooth, decisive motion, she drank. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Blood spilled from the corners of her mouth, streaking down her throat and onto her gown.

The Cup flared with blinding light.

The murals above seemed to weep molten gold.

The air shook with a sound like distant bells cracking.

Velrosa lowered the Cup and turned, facing the assembly with blood still glistening on her lips.

A Queen of Blood.

A Lion unbowed.

And Ian, broken but unbent, fell to one knee before her — not in servitude, but in allegiance.

She gripped his shoulders, lifting him as her hand traced the contours of his face, their skin smeared with his blood.

She whispered, "I am your great and terrible blade, and your judgment would shatter this world."

Gasps and cries filled the Hall.

In that single moment, the world shifted.

The Council fractured.

The old power trembled.

The Price of Demons had been paid in blood and defiance — and nothing would ever be the same again.