Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 58: Till First Blood

A hush had fallen over the hall.

A hush that tasted like blood when spilled, like wine still clinging to the edge of a glass.

Ian stood behind Velrosa, expression blank—detached, quiet, like a blade that would lay resting on a whetstone.

He said nothing for a moment, scanning the shifting currents of noble gazes, the smug glint in Lugard’s eyes, the way some members of the Council leaned in ever so slightly, already savoring the promise of spectacle.

His voice broke the silence like a cut through velvet.

"What is your command?" he asked.

Velrosa didn’t answer right away.

Her hand, still beneath the table, had relaxed slightly—fingers no longer clenched but coiled with thought. Her eyes were locked across the banquet floor where Duke Lugard reclined in his high-backed seat, the Council ring glinting on his finger, a goblet of violet-hued wine swaying lazily in his grasp.

She didn’t need to ask why.

It was targeted.

Of course it was.

A duel, in the middle of a banquet, before the full court of Esgard’s power. It was more than spectacle—it was strategy.

A trap cloaked in tradition.

She turned her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "He wants to make a point."

Ian said nothing.

Velrosa continued, her words quiet and sharp. "Lugard believes your strength depends on the beast. He’s gambling that without it, you’ll be exposed as weak. And if you do summon it..."

Her gaze flicked across the chamber to the farthest seat at the Council’s crescent table. Seventh Chair.

High Priest Eltharion Vale.

Clad in robes of white and gold that shimmered like sunlight on sanctified marble, Eltharion had not moved. He sat like a statue cut from divine wrath, his eyes veiled behind lenses of silver mana-glass, his expression unreadable.

But Velrosa knew better.

He was watching.

Always watching.

"A beast like yours," she whispered, "summoned here... in front of him... it would be enough for the High Priest to call for an inquisition. Demon collusion. Heresy. Corruption. If he speaks—there will be a vote."

Ian’s eyes didn’t shift. "And if he votes, I die."

"Or worse," Velrosa said.

A sip of wine echoed. The moment had stretched too long.

From his throne-like seat, Duke Lugard’s voice rang out with amusement and mockery layered in equal measure.

"What’s this, Princess? Silence? Does the Lady of Ash hesitate?"

The nobles chuckled. Lightly. Nervously.

Lugard tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Do you fear your champion isn’t up to the task?"

Velrosa raised her head slowly. Her voice, when it came, was cold and bright as moonlight on a blade.

"I hesitate," she said, "only because I’m thinking of you, Duke."

Lugard’s grin faltered, just for a moment.

"After all," she continued, "your last ’champion’—The Butcher—had his throat torn open in the arena. By my champion. Barely a day ago."

A murmur of laughter, sharper this time. More pointed.

"And here you are," Velrosa said softly, "so eager to send another one of yours to the afterlife."

Lugard leaned back, chuckling as if the remark were a clever jest. "Oh no, Princess. No need to worry. This won’t be a duel to the death. Not tonight."

He raised a hand, signaling toward the steward.

"It shall be a bout to first blood. A test of finesse. A display of grace."

Velrosa’s gaze sharpened, the corner of her mouth twitching as if tasting poison.

"In that case," she said, "I agree."

The hall stirred. Spectators leaned forward in their seats, their attention now wholly focused on the space between two noble giants—House Lionarde and House Lugard.

Velrosa tilted her head back slightly, just enough for her voice to reach Ian’s ears. "Don’t summon the beast," she whispered. "That’s the trap."

"Understood," Ian replied.

He stepped forward.

His footsteps made no sound.

Velrosa reached out, just as he passed her.

"Hey," she said.

He turned, one eyebrow raised.

"Win," she said simply.

Ian’s lips curled—not a smile, not quite. A promise.

"I’ll do more than win."

—

Duke Lugard stood, lifting his goblet once again.

"To represent House Lugard," he declared, "I offer one of my finest."

A man stepped from the shadows beside the dais, his armor a sleek, scaled composite of dark crimson metal and etched bone. A long fur-lined cloak trailed behind him, and a twin-headed axe rested across his back.

Scars lined his exposed forearms like tally marks, and his eyes glowed with a faint, pulsing red.

"Edran the Hollow Fang," Lugard announced. "Slayer of the Wastes. Warden of the Twelfth Pit. The man who fought the Butcher to a standstill—and some say would have killed him, had the pit walls not collapsed."

The crowd buzzed.

Edran gave a shallow bow, eyes locked on Ian the entire time.

He descended the steps, each movement deliberate, measured. Like a hunter circling its prey.

Ian was already moving, stepping down into the cleared dueling floor at the banquet hall’s center. Nobles and guards gathered in a ring, murmuring and jostling for better views.

Music stopped.

Light spells dimmed.

All attention narrowed to the center.

Edran sneered as he approached.

"I expected the beast," he said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Not its leash."

Ian said nothing.

Edran circled him, his voice low and cruel. "You hear that, champion? You should’ve brought your monster. You won’t survive without it."

No reply.

No expression.

Just those cold, gray eyes watching, waiting, measuring.

From across the crowd, Ian found her. Velrosa stood now, surrounded by highborns and guards, her posture immaculate—but her hand trembled just slightly around the stem of her wineglass.

Her blue eyes locked with his.

Ian knew.

This fight mattered.

More than he understood.

A single mistake, and the Council would strike.

A show of weakness and power would be lost.

The steward raised his hand. "Begin."

—

Edran moved.

Fast.

He surged forward like a thunderclap, twin-headed axe arcing toward Ian’s throat. Mana flared along its edge, a red glow of sharpened force. His footwork was flawless, brutal, honed from decades in the pits.

But what happened next—

No one understood.

One moment, the warrior was charging, axe high, screaming like a war-drunk zealot.

And the next—

He wasn’t.

There was no clash. No parry. No explosion of mana or spellfire.

Only a sound.

Like bones breaking beneath a mountain.

Edran’s body cratered into the stone floor. His limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his face slack and unconscious. The crater was perfectly formed, dust cracked in spiderweb fractures beneath Ian’s boots.

Ian stood above him.

Unmoving.

Untouched.

The nobles stared in stunned silence, minds struggling to reconcile what they saw with what was possible.

Someone gasped.

Someone else dropped a glass.

Even the High Priest Eltharion Vale tilted his head—just slightly.

From her place among the crowd, Velrosa exhaled softly, her grip on the wineglass loosening.

Ian looked up from the crater.

And only then did he speak.

"There, First blood."