Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 161: Blood And Theater

Esgard’s Crucible was a cathedral of screams.

Sunlight beat down on the open arena, baking blood into the sand until the scent of iron clung to every breath.

Thousands filled the stone-ringed stands, their voices rising like a living storm — gamblers, nobles, merchants, beggars.

All drawn by the same ancient hunger: the thrill of watching men and women kill each other for glory.

It was Arena Day.

Ian sat in the elevated shadowed booth overlooking the Blood League ring, his gaze cool beneath the hooded cloak he wore to avoid the attention of the crowd.

Beside him, dressed in her flowing crimson and obsidian, sat Velrosa Lionarde, sipping chilled wine as if she weren’t perched above a battlefield.

Her expression was unreadable, her silver hair pinned back like a crown of moonlight.

Below, the sand was already thick with it.

Two warriors circled each other — one wielding twin sickles, the other a chainblade that hissed with flame every time it struck the air.

Their armor was ceremonial at best: leather, bone, painted steel, all designed more to impress than protect.

The announcer’s voice boomed from the enchanted amplifiers rigged around the arena’s perimeter.

"Jorran the Flamebearer of House Kurnas faces off against Serric Redhand, sponsored by the Iron Market Syndicate! To the victor, a thousand silver. To the fallen... a crimson grave!"

The crowd roared.

Velrosa tilted her head. "Serric will lose. His left leg is injured. Can’t pivot."

Ian watched silently. The battle was swift. frёeωebɳovel.com

Jorran danced through Serric’s first swing, ducked beneath the chain, and drove a sickle clean through the man’s ribcage. Flame erupted from his other hand, and Serric’s scream was swallowed by fire and applause.

The corpse was dragged off before it finished burning.

Velrosa didn’t smile. "Told you."

Ian gave a noncommittal grunt.

His eyes drifted across the arena floor — where, in a few matches’ time, they would stand.

Lyra and Caelen.

He had seen the way they moved now, how their edges had sharpened under Eli’s brutal training. They weren’t just scavengers anymore.

They were becoming more than killers.

"You think they’re ready?" Velrosa asked, echoing his thought.

"They survived the Reach."

Velrosa gave a soft exhale. "Because you let them. Doesn’t mean they’ll survive Esgard."

Another match began.

A horned giant of a man wielding a war club fought a trio of nimble speardancers from House Virex. It was less a duel than a slaughter.

The giant crushed one with a single swing, caught another in a bear-hug, and snapped her spine with a casual twist.

The crowd adored it.

From the shadows behind Ian, a ripple of distortion shimmered — and Fang stepped into being.

His robed soulbound form flickered slightly under the enchantments, shadows curling around his limbs like loyal pets.

"I have news," Fang said softly, bowing his head.

Ian didn’t turn. "Tell me."

"No sign of the squad leader yet. My search through the Western Quarter turned up nothing. Either he’s hiding beneath concealment wards beyond even my detection, or..." Fang hesitated.

"Or?" Velrosa asked, voice like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"...he’s already left."

Ian’s jaw tightened. "I doubt that."

"As do I," Fang said. "But I need more eyes. With your permission, I’d like to summon more soulbound. Silent types. Trackers."

Ian’s gray eyes flicked toward him now, sharp and steady.

"How many?"

"Three. For now."

Ian considered it.

Soulbound weren’t easily maintained. Each cost essence, stability, and the inevitable strain on his own power. But the longer the leader remained unseen, the more likely they’d be caught off guard.

He gave a slight nod. "Do it."

Fang vanished before the last syllable faded, like smoke in the wind.

Below, another name was being announced.

"Varka the Dreadflayer, Champion of the Fleshcrafters, returns to the Crucible!"

A woman clad in living armor stalked into the arena.

Her skin was sewn with rune-tattoos, and her arms bulged with asymmetrical muscle. Fleshmagic. Illegal in most parts of the empire — except here.

Her opponent was a lean man with no weapons. Only chains wrapped around his arms like coils of a serpent.

Ian raised a brow slightly. Interesting.

The match was a blur. Varka charged.

The man dodged.

The chains moved like extensions of thought — lashing, binding, cutting. By the end, Varka lay in the dirt, throat strangled shut by her own magic-warped muscles. The crowd screamed approval.

Velrosa tilted her wine glass. "That one could be useful."

"Chains?" Ian asked.

"Yes, he has something," she answered simply.

The announcer gave the crowd a moment to breathe. Then his voice rose again, this time with a sharp edge — the kind used when invoking legends.

"And now... the Crucible prepares for a return long awaited."

The crowd stirred.

"In his wake lie bone piles. In his path, silence and ash. The Pale Reaper. The Mute Butcher. The man with no nation."

Ian narrowed his eyes.

"Renner Voss. The Pale Slaughter."

Renner emerged from the far gate not with a roar, but with stillness. He wore no armor, only pale wrappings soaked in old blood.

His skin was now like wax, stretched taut over lean muscle. His eyes, dead green.

But it wasn’t his appearance that caused the silence.

It was the stillness that followed him. As though even the air feared to move.

No words came from him. He didn’t acknowledge the crowd. He simply walked to the center of the arena, and waited.

Velrosa’s voice was soft. "You know him?"

"I feel like I do," Ian replied.

She turned toward him.

He didn’t elaborate.

Across the arena, Renner’s opponent was still being coaxed out by the handlers — a massive brute clad in iron and wielding a greathammer. No name. No banners. A warmup kill, likely.

The brute charged.

Renner did not move.

At the last possible instant, he slipped — a motion so fluid it almost bent reality — past the hammer’s arc. His hand struck the brute’s chest once.

Open palm.

A flash of pale light. A sound like glass breaking from the inside.

The brute staggered, vomited blood, then collapsed.

The arena was silent.

Then came the roar.

Ian’s fingers curled around the railing.

Velrosa’s voice was careful now. "That power, it’s demon born—i feel it."

"I know."

"Who is he?"

Ian had no answer.

Below, Renner raised a single hand.

And pointed.

Right at the observation box.

Right at Ian.