Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Mark recoiled at Ian's words, his fear flickering for only a moment before it was swallowed by pure, seething fury. His eyes burned with hatred as he glared at Ian, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the chains rattling with every tense movement.

For a second, it looked like he might lunge forward, consequences be damned. The air between them crackled with unspoken violence, thick and suffocating.

"You're still threatening me, fucker?!" Mark spat, his voice trembling with rage.

Ian opened his mouth, ready to deliver a retort, but before he could, a sharp voice cut through the tension like a whip.

"Enough."

A guard stepped forward, armor clanking with each deliberate step. He was a towering figure, his face obscured by the shadow of his helmet, but his presence alone commanded silence.

In his hand, he held a heavy club, its surface darkened and scarred from countless beatings. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised it and pointed it straight at Mark.

"You keep making noise," the guard growled, voice low and full of promise, "and I'll cave your skulls in. Understand?"

Mark froze.

His fury didn't vanish, but fear crept in, dulling its edge.

He took a reluctant step back, his chains clinking softly, his jaw clenched so tight that Ian swore he could hear his teeth grinding.

Around them, the other captives shrank in nervous silence, their eyes darting between Mark, Ian, and the guard. The moment of chaos had passed, but the tension remained, simmering beneath the surface like embers waiting for a gust of wind.

Ian exhaled slowly, his heartbeat still hammering against his ribs.

His gaze flicked to Mark, who was now staring at the ground, his lips pressed into a tight, white-knuckled line. The guard's threat had shut him up—for now. But Ian knew it wouldn't last.

Then his attention shifted.

At the front of the line stood a raised wooden platform, its planks worn and splintered with age. It was simple in design, yet it commanded the attention of everyone in the square.

At its center sat a table, and on that table rested a single object—a small stone, its surface etched with faint runes.

It pulsed with a dim, rhythmic glow.

Beside it stood a man in flowing robes, a stark contrast to the ragged captives before him. His expression was unreadable as he called out a name.

A young woman stepped forward, her chains rattling as she climbed onto the platform. She looked terrified, her hands trembling at her sides.

"Place your hand on the stone," the conductor instructed, his voice calm but firm.

The woman hesitated before pressing her palm against the stone.

Instantly, the runes flared to life, bathing her in soft blue light. The glow pulsed, flickering in a steady rhythm.

The conductor studied it for a moment before giving a single, dispassionate nod.

"Low affinity," he announced. "Next."

The woman's shoulders slumped. Two guards stepped forward, grabbing her by the arms and leading her away to the far side of the platform, where a growing group of captives stood—silent, resigned. Their chains remained firmly in place.

Ian's eyes flicked to the other side of the platform.

A smaller group stood there, their chains removed. Unlike the others, their faces weren't marked by fear but by hope.

One of them, a young man with wild red hair, grinned as he rubbed his now-freed wrists.

The distinction was clear.

Freedom on one side. Despair on the other.

Ian's stomach twisted.

This wasn't just a test. It was a judgment.

A determination of worth.

He turned to a nearby captive—a thin man with sunken eyes and a permanent sneer.

"What is this?" Ian asked, his voice low but urgent.

The man barely spared him a glance.

"Affinity test," he muttered, his tone laced with boredom. "Standard procedure. Every captured slave gets tested."

"Tested for what?"

The captive let out a sigh, clearly irritated by the question.

"Magical affinity," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The stone measures your potential. If you've got none, you stay a slave. If you've got some, they might stick a sword in your hands and make you a guard or a mercenary. But high affinity…"

He trailed off, his gaze flicking toward the freed captives.

"Well. That's rare. But if you have it, you get taken to Esrad City. Guilds, Imperial Guard, elite squads—power, wealth, a whole new life."

Ian's mind reeled.

Magic?

He barely registered his own muttered words: "This can't be real."

The captive snorted. "Don't get your hopes up. High affinity among slaves is almost unheard of. Most of us?" He lifted his bound wrists with a hollow chuckle.

"We stay right here."

The words sank deep.

Ian clenched his fists, the chains digging into his skin. A sharp pang of frustration stabbed through him, but beneath it was something else—something dark and relentless.

Determination.

This wasn't the end. It couldn't be.

Whether this was a transmigrated world or some twisted afterlife, Ian knew one thing: fighting fate was pointless.

But controlling it? That was something else entirely.

He wasn't going to waste this chance.

His thoughts flickered to Mark. To Emily. To every single person who had betrayed him, humiliated him, ruined him.

They were here, shackled and powerless. Just like him.

But he wouldn't stay that way.

They would rot in chains.

And he would rise.

He would master this so-called magic, no matter what it took. He would be the one with high affinity—while they were left in the mud, forgotten and worthless.

He had failed once.

Not this time.

The test conductor's voice boomed through the square, yanking Ian from his thoughts.

"Next!"

Ian's heart gave a single, heavy thud.

Mark's name had been called.

Mark's face paled.

He hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, his chains rattling with every reluctant step.

Ian watched as Mark climbed onto the platform.

The conductor gestured to the stone.

"Place your hand on it."

Mark swallowed, his throat bobbing. His fingers twitched at his sides.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached out.

Ian barely breathed.

The moment Mark's hand met the stone, the runes pulsed.

And then—

They flared.