Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The hall irritated Ian.

Regardless of how fancy it looked.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their refracted light scattering across the room.

"God, why am I here?" he muttered to himself.

Mingling scents of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint undertone of desperation filled the air.

There was laughter, but none of it was genuine. It was sharp, artificial, and far too loud—colleagues clinked glasses and exchanged hollow pleasantries.

The annual company party was in full swing. Perhaps it was the blatant display of forced camaraderie and barely hidden competition that made it unbearable.

A corporate mess.

Ian stood at the edge of the room, clutching a glass of lukewarm champagne as though he'd find escape at the bottom of the glass. He felt out of place, like a shadow that had wandered into a world of light.

His ill-fitting suit, a relic from his college days, hung awkwardly on his frame, and his tie felt like a noose around his neck.

He had debated not coming at all, but the fear of being labeled a recluse—or worse, a coward—had driven him here.

Now, he regretted it.

There was energy in the room, but none of it was directed at him.

None of it was positive, at least.

He was invisible, a ghost at the edge of his own life.

His coworkers moved in clusters, their conversations a mix of inside jokes and office gossip. Occasionally, someone would glance his way, their eyes lingering just long enough to make him feel like a specimen under a microscope.

He knew what they were thinking. He could almost hear their whispers.

"Isn't that the guy from the video?"

"Yeah, the one whose fiancée did that at the last party."

"Poor guy. I'd never show my face again if that happened to me."

Well, Ian had shown his face again—not just at this party, but at work, day after day.

Was it an embarrassing decision? Undeniably. But was it a mistake? Ian often told himself it wasn't. After all, why throw away the position he had worked so hard to reach just because of a little shame?

He took a sip of his champagne, the bubbles stinging his throat.

He had chosen to stay at the company—to endure this damn party—but that didn't make it any more bearable.

He hated this.

He hated the way they looked at him, the way they whispered about him. But most of all, he hated himself for enduring this humiliation day after day.

He should have stayed home. He should have quit months ago. But he hadn't.

And now, he was trapped in this glittering hell.

The memory of the video played on a loop in his mind. It had happened six months ago, at the last company gathering. He had been so happy then. So naïve.

Back then, the office had only recently learned that Emily was more than a coworker—she was his fiancée.

Upon hearing the news, his colleagues wasted no time making a mockery of it. They whispered about her true motivations, speculated about why she had accepted his proposal.

Ian, despite holding a high position in the company, had always been branded the loser. He never fully understood why people saw fit to walk all over him. But they did.

And more often than not, he let them.

His excuse was a reliable delusion: None of it matters.

Who cares what they think? He just needed to put his head down and work. At the end of the day, he was well off.

He had told himself that many times. Never enough to actually believe it.

When Emily had started working at the company, and he introduced her as his girlfriend, the rumors started immediately.

"Why wouldn't she date him? Look how easily he got her a job here," they sneered.

Were they right? Ian told himself no. At least, he hoped they weren't. But the thought crossed his mind more often than he liked to admit.

Still, six months ago, none of that mattered—because she had said yes.

For a moment, he had been the happiest man in the world.

But that night, everything changed.

It had started innocently enough. Emily had been talking to Mark, Ian's co-director and supposed friend.

Emily and Mark had always been close—after all, he was her supervisor. But that night, perhaps because of the alcohol, they had seemed too close. Closer than they should have been.

They laughed together, their heads nearly touching, and Ian had felt a pang of unease. He told himself he was just being paranoid.

But then, as the clock ticked past midnight, it happened.

Emily kissed Mark.

Right there, in front of everyone.

The room had erupted in cheers and laughter, the sound echoing in Ian's ears like a death knell.

They were happy. Excited, even. As if his humiliation had been a long-anticipated event. Or perhaps it had always been so glaringly obvious that no one was surprised.

He had stood there, frozen, as Emily pulled away from Mark and turned to him with a smirk.

That wasn't just the alcohol.

This wasn't a drunken mistake.

Something had always been there. The alcohol had only exposed it.

Someone had filmed it.

Of course they had.

The video had gone viral within hours, spreading through the office like wildfire. By the next morning, it was everywhere—social media, company chat groups, even the corporate newsletter.

Ian had become a cautionary tale.

And Emily? She walked away unscathed. If anything, she became even more popular—the office's resident femme fatale.

She no longer had use for Ian. She had Mark now. He was wealthier, higher up in the company—the perfect upgrade.

Now, six months later, the video still haunted him.

At the party, the humiliation was relentless.

A group of coworkers nearby burst into laughter, and Ian flinched, convinced they were laughing at him. He caught snippets of their conversation—something about a "pathetic loser"—and his stomach churned.

He wanted to disappear.

But he couldn't.

The noise became too much. The laughter, the chatter, the music—it all blurred into an unbearable wave. He needed to escape, even if just for a moment.

Setting his glass down, he slipped through the crowd and out onto the balcony.

The cold night air hit him like a slap. He gripped the railing, staring at the city below.

He wanted to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his suit pocket—to take the drag he so desperately needed—but he had sworn he wouldn't.

He would endure this night with no respite.

And if he couldn't?

The city lights twinkled below, distant and unreachable.

He imagined stepping off the edge.

Would it be peaceful? Or would it hurt?

He shook his head. He wasn't that far gone.

Not yet.

But the weight of his despair was crushing.

And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, she appeared.

"Ian."

Her voice was soft, almost gentle. But it sent a shiver down his spine.

He turned to see Emily standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the golden light from the ballroom.

She stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. The noise of the party faded into silence.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Ian's heart pounded, a flicker of something dangerous igniting in his chest.

Hope?

Or hatred?

She finally spoke.

"You shouldn't have come tonight." Her voice was cold, dismissive. "Everyone's talking about that day. It's embarrassing."

Ian's breath caught.

He should have left then. But he didn't.

Because the most dangerous of men… is a broken one.

Ian stood motionless, staring at her.

The woman he had once loved.

The woman who had humiliated him beyond repair.

The woman who now stood before him, not with regret, not with guilt, but with contempt.

He almost laughed. Embarrassing?

No, she wasn't embarrassed—he was. That was the difference.

Something inside him twisted, a dark coil tightening around his heart. The flicker of hope—the pathetic, desperate hope that she had come to say something, anything, to make it hurt less—snuffed out in an instant.

Emily took another step forward, crossing her arms.

"You know," she mused, tilting her head, "it would be better if you just jumped. At least then people would stop feeling sorry for you."

Silence.

Ian's mind went blank.

He stared at her, trying to comprehend what she had just said.

There was no hesitation in her words. No uncertainty.

Just cruelty.

She meant it.

A cold, hollow laugh escaped him before he could stop it. A dry, humorless sound.

"You really are a piece of shit, Emily."

Her expression didn't change. If anything, she looked bored.

"Just a thought," she said with a shrug. "You clearly don't belong here anymore."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked back inside, disappearing into the crowd, the golden light swallowing her whole.

Ian remained still.

The balcony suddenly felt smaller.

The city stretched endlessly before him, neon lights flickering in the distance.

The weight of everything—the laughter, the whispers, the shame, the years of pretending it didn't matter—pressed down on him.

He gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.

For a moment, he wondered what it would feel like to let go.

Would it be quick? Would he feel the wind rush past him? Would the pain be fleeting?

Would they finally shut up about him?

Would he finally be free?

Then, just as the thought threatened to sink its claws into him, another one surfaced.

No.

Not like this.

Not for them.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to let go of the railing. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists.

He turned away from the edge and walked back inside.

Not because he was okay.

Not because he had found some newfound resolve.

But because if he was going to go out, it wasn't going to be a pathetic, tragic footnote in their gossip.

It was going to be on his terms.

---

An hour and several drinks later, Ian reentered the ballroom.

Something had changed.

The air was thick, not just with the scent of expensive cologne and perfume, but something else.

Something sharp.

Something acrid.

Gas.

Ian smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of alcohol thrumming in his veins.

No one else had noticed yet.

They were still laughing, still gossiping, still pretending their lives weren't just as miserable as his.

They thought they had broken him.

They had no idea.

He staggered into the center of the room, glass in hand, his mind oddly clear despite the alcohol.

"Everyone," he slurred, raising his glass. "I have something to say."

The chatter died down. People turned, curiosity flickering in their eyes. Some exchanged amused glances, expecting him to embarrass himself yet again.

Ian let the silence settle, savoring the moment.

"You've all made my life a living hell," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "You've laughed at me, mocked me, humiliated me. And for what? Because it made you feel better about your own pathetic lives?"

A few nervous chuckles. Someone shifted uncomfortably.

Ian smirked. "Well, guess what?"

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, holding it between his fingers.

"I'm done."

The lighter clicked open.

A flicker of flame danced in the dim light.

For the first time all night, there was silence.

True silence.

People froze.

Someone gasped.

Emily.

She was near the bar, staring at him, realization dawning in her eyes.

Ian met her gaze, tilting his head slightly.

"Say," he murmured, as if to himself, "I've really been craving a smoke."

He brought the flame to the cigarette.

And let it drop.

The explosion was immediate.

A deafening roar shook the room, the force sending people sprawling to the floor. The chandeliers shattered, raining glass onto the screaming crowd. Flames burst to life, devouring everything in their path.

Ian stood at the center of it all, as if untouched.

He watched them scramble, their polished masks of civility melting away as they fought to escape.

Chaos. Panic. Terror.

For once, they were the ones suffering.

For once, they were the ones afraid.

Ian inhaled deeply, the heat licking at his skin.

Then, through the roaring flames, something strange happened.

A flicker of light—different from the fire—appeared before him.

A message.

[Host is dead.]

[Transmigration in progress.]

Ian barely had time to process the words before the world around him shattered.

Everything dissolved into light, like a burning photograph disintegrating into the wind.

And then—

Nothing.

Darkness.

Maybe this was hell.

Or maybe—

Maybe he had just been given a second chance.

A chance to be something else.

Something worse.

And the most dangerous of men…

Was a broken one reborn.

The darkness did not last, his eyes fluttered open.