Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 90: Hellwalkers and Madmen

Ian didn’t let morning, or whatever pale mockery of it that happened here, come before he left the Tavern.

The wind as though a paid actor, only carried dust and the scent of old blood through the outer camp as Ian walked alone, his cloak dragging like shadow across the earth.

Past the crooked tents and makeshift towers of sharpened iron, past the stench of sweat, sulfur, and wet stone, he drifted through the graveyard of ambition.

They called this place Outer Exile, the gathering ring for those bold enough—or mad enough—to face the gate.

For a deadmans gate, it sure was active with life, but not of the kind that smiled or slept easy.

The first camp he passed was a semi-circle of obsidian stones, arranged in a ritualistic crescent.

Figures in bone-laced robes knelt in prayer, unmoving even as flames licked the air around them.

Northerners.

Ian recognized the ceremonial scars carved into their foreheads and the long prayer-spears beside them. They were the Ember Vow — an honor-bound cult that burned offerings of flesh and ash before every battle.

In the center of their camp, a priest chanted over a severed ram’s head.

The fire cracked. None of them looked at Ian, but he knew they had already judged his presence.

He walked on.

Further down, a circle of silence hummed around a man seated in meditation.

Four arms.

Four blades set before him like an altar.

His skin bore brands of a language older than empires.

His aura was calm, but it crackled faintly with killing intent.

Ian paused to observe. The swordsman opened one eye — yellow and catlike — then closed it again.

A warning, or disinterest.

Another camp. This one was quieter.

A single figure, wrapped in a black cloak etched with imperial runes, stood beside a caged beast.

The creature inside resembled a lion made of bone and lightning, its maw constantly steaming with arcane vapor.

It snarled as Ian passed, slamming itself against the cage bars. The man holding its chain didn’t flinch. His hood was low, his presence oddly clean — too polished, too still.

An Imperial sorcerer. Probably sanctioned. Probably insane.

These where things Ian had learned in the months he had to survive alone.

Ian moved on.

Around him, the outer ring pulsed with preparation and superstition. Mercenary bands painted sigils on their skin with ash. Others drilled in formation.

Some simply drank or fought or meditated. Everyone had their way of preparing for Hell.

"You look like you’re about to kill the moon," a voice called behind him.

Ian didn’t turn. "Lyra."

She appeared beside him with her usual grin, her streaked hair catching firelight. Caelen followed, more subdued.

"I’m surprised you left the tavern," Ian said.

"Caelen made me. Something about ’strategic awareness.’" She rolled her eyes. "Anyway. You meet the neighbors yet?"

"They’re all...mad."

"Exactly!" she beamed. "Isn’t it great?"

Caelen stepped between them, more serious. "This place attracts two kinds of people: the condemned and the desperate. Both will kill you for a loaf of bread or less—often less."

"I can handle it."

Caelen nodded. "Good. You’ll need to."

They walked together now, passing more camps. Caelen spoke without looking at Ian.

"Hellscape isn’t just a place. It’s a hierarchy. You survive a Reach, you earn a name. Kill a ranked demon, you earn power. Some even start to change."

Ian arched a brow.

"Demon Subjugators," Caelen explained. "They’re ranked by two things: the highest Reach they’ve survived and the rank of the demon they’ve slain. Seven Reaches. Seven demon ranks."

"Seven ranks?" Ian asked. "How are they measured?"

Lyra jumped in. "Rank One is the lowest—Imp. Rank Seven... well, no one who’s seen one lives long enough to describe it. They’re apex horrors. Gatekeepers of the Reaches—Archdemons. Ancient. Corrupted by pure void essence."

Ian’s jaw tensed. "And what rank were the demons in the First Reach?"

"Mostly Ones," Caelen said. "Some times Twos. Dangerous, but manageable—you will die, just not instantly. The hidden danger is the Reach itself. Terrain shifts. Time folds. The air sometimes screams."

"And the demons aren’t the only threat," Lyra added. "Some of the other teams—well, let’s just say the only difference between a demon and a desperate Hellwalker is one has horns."

Ian didn’t reply.

His eyes turned distant.

—months ago—

The Esgard skyline disappeared behind him many weeks ago, fading into ash and quiet.

The wilderness between cities had no mercy, but Ian had grown accustomed to blood as his companion.

Mana beasts.

Mutated aberrations born from corrupted leylines and old godrot. He had slaughtered them by the dozen. Claws raked his arms, fangs tore at his sides, but his body mended.

His soul drank.

More Church agents came after him.

Some bore marks of inquisitors. Others were low-tier sanctified Paladins. Some even whispered blessings before they died, as if prayer might make the death painless.

It didn’t.

It never did.

He remembered their screams, their holy magic breaking like glass beneath his blade. One by one, he fed on them.

Their souls became essence in his growing arsenal.

Some he absorbed directly — boosting his speed, his strength, his senses. Others he bound into twisted forms, crafting shades and bone-kin from the ruined remnants.

He remembered the night he raised his twentieth soulbound.

He stood atop a ruined chapel under a storming sky, eyes black with corruption, and whispered his new name to the wind:

Prophet of Death.

The Church had sent legions.

Now, only echoes remained.

—Now—

"They’ll test you," Caelen said as they walked. "The moment we step through, most inside that Reach will know to come after you. Whether that helps or damns us..."

He let the thought hang.

The three paused at the camp’s edge.

The Black Fall rose in the distance — a tear in the sky, a divine punishment frozen in motion. It fell from the clouds like a blade without hilt or end, forever striking the earth but never piercing through.

Ian stared at it again.

The same chill clawed down his spine.

But this time, something shifted in the wind.

Far above, perched on a crumbling watchtower overlooking the camp, a veiled figure watched through a polished orb.

The Seer’s robes were stitched with constellations.

Her face was hidden by an ivory veil etched with runes that shimmered faintly. Around her hovered ten glass beads, each filled with a flickering scene from different reaches — carnage, flame, shadow, and teeth. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

She saw Ian.

And she whispered:

"...the shadow will soon enter the flame."

A wind howled past her. The beads trembled.

She turned away.

Behind her, a massive painted mural on the tower’s wall bore the prophecy of the Fourth Convergence.

In it, an entity with gray eyes and a broken crown stood at the edge of a blood tide. And behind him... a serpent with the eyes of a woman.

"He steps into the fire," the Seer murmured, "and the world begins to burn."