Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The colossus raised his hammer high—not for cheers. Not for vanity.

For war.

The voice dipped to reverence.

"Back from the Black Fall. From the Ash of Hellscape. From death, from bone, from void. The Whisperer of Death... the Demon Blade... IAN."

Stillness. Then chaos. The Crucible wept, roared, screamed. Ian did not move. He breathed. Once. His fingers curled around air.

The daggers glinted.

And the announcer said—

"Begin."

———

The sand whispered beneath their feet.

Ian and Vorgan stood still, unmoving, not a word spoken between them as the roar of the crowd dulled into a low, pressing hum.

A sea of voices bled into white noise—meaningless compared to the weight of the stare being exchanged between two killers.

Vorgan the Breaker tilted his head.

Ian didn’t react, he just stared.

From the stands, for few it looked like a match of equals.

The hammer and the dagger.

The Esgard demon legend and the rising monster. But for those who knew—the guards and noble prodigies, the mages who studied movement, the freed pit fighters leaning against the rails, the seasoned mercs in the nobles’ shadow—there was something off.

Something quiet.

Too quiet.

Vorgan took a step forward, and the ground seemed to groan under his weight.

His runes pulsed, a faint red sheen crawling along his skin like living flame. His hammer shifted in his grip, a weapon too heavy for most to lift, let alone swing with the ease he had.

Ian still hadn’t moved.

The daggers on his back glinted, and the black fabric of his coat swayed ever so slightly in the dry Crucible breeze. His eyes weren’t wide with tension or sharpened by rage—they were measuring.

Like he was calculating how much effort this would really take.

Vorgan noticed.

And he didn’t like it.

"Say something," the Breaker rumbled, his voice like rocks grinding together.

Ian simply tilted his head, a breath quieter than the wind escaping his nose.

The crowd leaned in as one.

Then it began.

Vorgan moved first, hammer up, a two-handed swing that could have split an armored knight in half. It came down like a thunderclap—fast, brutal, with no wind-up, no flair. Just sheer, raw murder.

Ian sidestepped.

Not dramatically. Not even quickly.

Just... enough.

The hammer slammed into the earth, shattering stone beneath the top layer of sand. Dust exploded outward, blinding half the crowd in the lower tiers. But Ian was already moving.

One smooth pivot. A flicker of motion. One of the bone daggers was in his hand.

He didn’t slash. He tapped.

Just the flat edge of Vowbreaker trailing along Vorgan’s ribs as he moved past him like a shadow skimming a wall.

The crowd gasped. Some didn’t even see it.

Vorgan’s eyes flared.

He spun, hammer low now, trying to catch Ian’s legs—but Ian jumped, flipped, landed behind him with the ease of a cat leaping from a rooftop.

The Breaker turned with a roar and swung again, and again, and again.

Each time, Ian was just... gone.

Always a half-step beyond reach. Each dodge was tight, clinical. No wasted motion. No panic. It wasn’t a dance.

It was a man watching a boulder roll downhill and knowing it would never touch him.

From the crowd, a man whispered, "He’s not even trying."

And the truth of that sank like cold steel into every watching chest.

Vorgan grunted as he reset his stance, chest rising and falling faster now. He hadn’t even scratched Ian, and he knew it. His hammer was heavier than it looked, and the more he swung, the more Ian seemed to glide—always watching, always waiting.

"Come on then," Vorgan growled, flexing his arms. "Stop dancing."

Ian didn’t answer. He let the other dagger slide into his palm, holding both now. Still no stance. No battle-cry.

Just... presence.

The next clash was louder.

Vorgan came again, this time fainter, a feint left into an upward sweep. It almost worked—almost.

Ian ducked beneath the hammer’s arc and this time, cut.

A single slice across Vorgan’s thigh—not deep, not wide. But enough to bleed.

The crowd screamed.

The Breaker stumbled back, growling, the rune-glow across his arms flaring brighter.

"You little shit," he muttered.

He spat into the dust.

Ian straightened. His mouth didn’t move. But his eyes did.

And whatever Vorgan saw there made his grip tighten.

He charged again—full tilt this time. No tricks. Just speed and weight and fury.

Ian met him halfway.

For the first time.

Daggers flashed.

Sparks flew as one edge scraped metal, as Vorgan caught Ian’s strike with the hammer’s haft. He swung close, one-armed now, the weight whipping through the air—and Ian rolled under it, came up behind, and jabbed once toward Vorgan’s exposed ribs.

The big man twisted. It clipped his shoulder instead.

Still a hit.

Still blood.

Vorgan snarled and spun, catching Ian’s coat with the hammer’s blunt end and slamming him into the sand.

The crowd erupted.

At last.

Contact.

Ian lay still for a second, sand and dust flaring around his frame, black coat dirtied, blood at the edge of his lip.

Vorgan loomed.

"Get up."

Ian did.

Unhurried. Smooth. He cracked his neck to one side, then the other.

And smiled.

It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t mocking.

It was... amused.

Vorgan’s knuckles turned white around the hammer.

"You think this is a game?"

Ian’s silence said more than words.

He hadn’t activated a single spell. Hadn’t used a single ability. No Soul Flame. No summoned horrors. No burst of death magic.

He was just moving better. Reading better. Fighting better.

And not even sweating.

Vorgan’s pride—earned in blood, in countless bodies buried beneath Crucible sand—shook under the weight of it.

"FIGHT ME!" he screamed suddenly, voice tearing into the air like a crack of lightning.

The crowd went silent.

"I SAID FIGHT ME, YOU COLD-FACED WRAITH!"

He charged again.

Harder.

Faster.

Desperate.

Hammer raised over his shoulder, runes blazing like a storm.

And Ian—

Ian lowered his stance.

Daggers ready.

Expression unchanged.