Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The stench of sweat, blood, and fear clung to every breath Ian took.

The scarred man sat beside him, silent, his expression unreadable. The other slaves huddled in the corners of the cage, their bodies trembling, their hollow eyes fixed on the arena beyond the rusted bars.

Outside, the crowd was a writhing beast of greed and bloodlust, its roar shaking the very walls of the pit.

Then the iron door creaked open.

A hulking figure stepped inside, his massive frame swallowing what little light filtered through the dungeon. He wore a bloodstained apron, and a jagged knife hung from his belt, its blade glinting with menace.

"You," he growled, jabbing a thick finger toward a slave in the corner.

The chosen man flinched. He was gaunt, pale with terror, his bones visible beneath his tattered rags.

For a moment, he hesitated, his desperate gaze darting around the cage. But there was no escape.

The brute didn't wait. He lunged, grabbing the man by his chains and yanking him upright. The slave stumbled, his legs barely holding him, but the brute dragged him out, his pleas swallowed by the cacophony outside.

From another cage across the pit, another prisoner was pulled—a broad, wild-eyed man with a deep scar carving down his chest.

A voice boomed through the arena, theatrical and cruel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets! Will the rat survive the beast's bite? Or will we see his bones crushed into dust? Only the gods know!"

The crowd erupted, coins clinking, fists pounding against wooden tables.

Ian gripped the bars, his stomach knotting.

The two prisoners were thrown onto the platform. Chains removed. Weapons tossed at their feet—a rusted dagger for the frail man, a spiked club for the brute.

The announcer raised his hand. Silence fell, thick and suffocating.

Then—

"Begin!"

The fight was over before it truly started.

The brute charged, his club whistling through the air. The frail man ducked, lashing out with his dagger. The blade grazed flesh, drawing a thin line of red—nothing more than an irritation.

The brute roared.

The next swing connected.

Spikes tore through the frail man's shoulder. He screamed, staggering, blood seeping between his fingers as he clutched the wound.

Ian felt sick. His grip on the bars tightened, knuckles white.

The crowd howled.

The brute struck again. And again. Each blow landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking like dry twigs.

The frail man slashed wildly, desperate. But he was drowning against a tide of raw power.

Then—the final strike.

The club crashed down onto his skull. A wet, squelching sound.

His body twitched once. Then stilled.

The crowd erupted, laughter and cheers mingling in a grotesque symphony.

But the beast's victory was short-lived.

With his last breath, the frail man drove his dagger deep into the brute's thigh. A scream of agony tore through the pit as the burly man collapsed, blood gushing from the wound. His club slipped from his fingers. His body convulsed.

Then—stillness.

The announcer's voice rang through the cavern.

"And the winner is… the beast! But at what cost?"

The crowd jeered and laughed as the brute lay twitching, his life spilling onto the bloodstained ground.

Ian turned away, bile rising in his throat.

Beside him, the scarred man let out a bitter chuckle.

"Welcome to the pits," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where men with nothing left kill each other for the pleasure of those with too much."

Ian swallowed hard. "What is this place?" His voice was barely a whisper.

The scarred man exhaled, his eyes dark with knowing. "A graveyard for the damned. Slaves, criminals, men who crossed the wrong people—we all end up here eventually. There's no mercy. No escape."

Ian's chest tightened.

No escape.

The announcer's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Next up, a real treat! A seasoned warrior against a fresh face! Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!"

The iron door groaned open once more.

The brute stepped inside, his cruel gaze sweeping the cage before locking onto the scarred man.

"You." He pointed. "Get up."

The scarred man moved slowly, deliberately. He glanced at Ian but said nothing as he stepped forward. The brute grabbed him and hauled him toward the pit.

From another cage, his opponent emerged—a wiry, feral-looking man, his grin sharp as a dagger.

The announcer's voice dripped with excitement.

"A battle of skill versus savagery! Who will walk away, and who will be left in pieces?"

The weapons were thrown—a short sword for the scarred man, twin daggers for the feral one.

The announcer's hand rose.

Silence.

Then—

"Begin!"

The wiry man lunged, his daggers flashing.

The scarred man sidestepped, his sword slicing through the air. A thin red line bloomed across his opponent's arm—a shallow wound.

The wiry man only grinned.

He struck again.

This time, his daggers found flesh, plunging deep into the scarred man's side.

Ian inhaled sharply.

The scarred man grunted, his sword slipping from his grip as he staggered.

The wiry man didn't hesitate.

His blade carved a path across the scarred man's throat.

A spray of crimson. A choked gasp.

The scarred man crumpled, his eyes wide, unseeing.

The crowd roared as the wiry man raised his bloodied daggers in triumph.

The announcer's voice rang out.

"And the winner is… the feral one! A swift and brutal victory!"

The brute stomped forward, grabbing the scarred man's lifeless body and dragging it away like discarded meat. Then, he turned back to the cage, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

His gaze locked onto Ian.

"Well, that was quick," he said mockingly. Then, with a tilt of his head, "Looks like you're up next, boy."

Ian's blood ran cold.

No escape.

No mercy.

Only death.

But then—

[ Base abilities calibration complete. ]

[ Opening Skill window… ]

A shiver ran through Ian's body.

Because death was his ally.