Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian flicked the cigarette stub onto the stone floor, watching as the ember dimmed and died. Smoke curled from his lips, dissipating into the damp air of his cell. The cold bit into his skin, but he barely noticed. 

His focus remained on the panel hovering before him, its faint glow casting ghostly shadows across the walls.

Hours had slipped away as he studied the system, understanding its mechanics, forcing himself to know what had changed within him. Now, for the first time since his awakening, he felt a measure of control—or at least comprehension.

The display before him was stark, its implications undeniable.

[SoulBound: 1]

> Pit Brawler (Human)

Soul Strength: 3

Abilities: None

Ian's lips curled into a humorless smile. A pitiful gain. But in the pits, strength alone meant nothing. This was a resource—one he would use.

From what he had gathered, there were three choices. Each came with its own risks, its own advantages. He needed to decide carefully.

The first option: Absorption.

By devouring the bound soul, Ian could extract its essence. This would grant him a fraction of its strength—perhaps even an ability, if the soul had one and he was fortunate. In his current state, any enhancement would be welcome. His stats were abysmal, his body frail. 

Every advantage counted.

But as he examined the Soul Strength: 3, he frowned. Weak. The man had been tough, yes, but he had been no warrior, no prodigy. Absorbing such a feeble soul would yield only scraps. 

Not enough. He needed something more—something substantial.

Not this.

The second option: Transformation.

By channeling his Necrotic Energy, he could mold the soul into a Voidwalker—a spectral entity bound to his will. Unlike a mindless thrall, a Voidwalker retained its former strength and skills. 

A shadow to fight alongside him, to act as his blade in the darkness.

Useful. But costly.

Summoning a Voidwalker required Necrotic Energy, and sustaining it drained his reserves further. The stronger the spirit, the more it demanded. He would need to manage it carefully, lest he weaken himself at a critical moment.

Still, the potential was undeniable. A weapon forged from death itself.

The third option: Imbuement.

He could infuse the soul into a corpse, creating something more tangible—a physical servant, bound to the husk it inhabited. Unlike a Voidwalker, such a creature would not consume his energy to maintain. 

A soldier of flesh and bone, permanent.

But impractical.

At the moment atleast.

He had no body to use, no means of acquiring one without drawing suspicion. And even if he did, a shambling undead would be difficult to hide. He needed subtlety, not a lumbering monster constantly at his side to announce his presence to the world.

No. This was not the right path.

Ian exhaled slowly, his decision made. Transformation was the answer.

A Voidwalker would give him both offense and defense. It was adaptable, powerful, and—more importantly—it aligned with the plan forming in his mind. He needed an edge…a way out of here. 

This was it.

He stretched out his hand, feeling the cold hum of power rush through him. The air got heavier, shadows pressing closer, drawn by the pull of his will. A faint vibration filled the cell, the system responding to his command.

A sphere of dark energy coalesced above his palm, pulsing like a dying star. Deep purple light flickered within it, the soul trapped inside struggling against the inevitable.

Ian's voice was quiet, steady. Commanding.

"Rise."

The orb quivered. 

Then it shattered, dissolving into motes of violet fire that danced through the air before spiraling together, shaping something new. The cell darkened, the oppressive weight of the abyss pressing in as the fragments coalesced into a form.

The figure was humanoid, but wrong.

Its body was a shifting mass of shadow, the outline flickering like a flame in the wind. It stood tall, its form gaunt and elongated, its features distorted yet eerily familiar—the echo of the man Ian had slain. 

Twin pinpricks of violet light burned in its hollowed eyes, staring at Ian with something between recognition and submission.

Then it moved.

The Voidwalker took a single step forward, and the air itself seemed to tremble. It knelt before Ian, its presence oppressive, unnatural. 

When it spoke, its voice was a rasping whisper, layered with something eldritch, something not entirely human.

"What is your command… my liege?"

A shiver traced Ian's spine, though he masked it well. The words were not spoken with reverence. 

They were an acknowledgment of fact. A statement of undeniable reality.

Ian was its master. Its sovereign.

His fingers curled, testing the bond between them. He could feel it—the thread of control, the tether that connected them. A single thought and the Voidwalker would move. A whisper of will and it would kill.

The power was intoxicating.

Ian forced himself to breathe, to center his thoughts. Now was not the time for distraction. He had made his choice, but this was only the first step.

He eyed the Voidwalker carefully. "Your strength?"

The creature shifted, its form flickering before solidifying again. "Seventy percent of what I was in life."

Not ideal. But sufficient. More than he had before.

Ian nodded. "You will remain hidden unless I summon you."

The Voidwalker bowed its head in acknowledgment, then dissolved into the shadows, vanishing from sight. But Ian could still feel it, lurking just beyond the edge of perception. Waiting.

He allowed himself a small, satisfied breath. This changed things.