Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian's breath hitched as a translucent panel materialized before him, floating in the air like a ghostly apparition.

Glowing letters etched across its surface, their meaning both alien and terrifyingly clear. He blinked rapidly, his mind struggling to process the impossible.

Stats. Skills. Titles.

It was all about him.

His heart pounded as he read the words again and again, their weight pressing into him like a heavy shroud.

[The forgotten lineage of the Voidborne Sovereigns awakens in you. Once rulers of the Gray Eternity, they commanded death not as a force, but as a language.]

[ Ian Night ]

[ Bloodline: Voidborne Sovereign (Ancient, Extinct) ]

[ Title: Whisperer of Death ]

> Level: 1

Health (HP): 34/50

Mana (MP): 0/0

Necrotic Energy: 0/500

Soul Essence: 0

Corruption: 1%

His eyes darted lower, scanning the rest of the panel.

{Attributes}

> STR: 4

AGI: 5

INT: 85

Charisma: 4

[ Active Skills ]

> Soulbind (Rank 1) – Bind a soul to your service. Retains 70% of its living abilities. (Cost: 200 Soul Essence, Cooldown: 10 min)

Bonecraft (Rank 1) – Forge weapons or armor from bones. (Cost: 50 Necrotic Energy, No Cooldown)

Death's Whisper (Passive) – Hear the final 60 seconds of a corpse's memories. (5% chance to uncover secrets)

Aura of Decay (Rank 1) – Weaken all living beings within 10 meters. (Cost: 100 Necrotic Energy, -10% Strength & Dexterity for 5 min.)

[ Passive Skills ]

> Grave-Touched – Siphon 1% Soul Essence per minute near death.

Whisperer of Death – Undead under your command gain +15% resistance to holy damage.

Soul Repository – Store up to 3 souls for later use. (Exceeding capacity risks Soul Overload.)

{Inventory}

> Cigarette Pack (x?)

Lighter (x1)

Consumables:

Soul Shard (x1) – Restores 200 Necrotic Energy, 200 Soul Essence, and 100 HP.

It was too much. Too surreal. He wasn't in some fever dream. He was here—bleeding, chained, barely standing—yet now this?

Before he could fully grasp it, a rough hand wrenched him back to reality.

The brute.

Ian barely had time to react before the hulking man grabbed his chains and dragged him forward.

The crowd's roar grew deafening.

His opponent was already waiting—a monstrous man with wild, hungry eyes and a spiked club gripped tight in his calloused hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets!" the announcer crowed. "Will it be the fresh meat or the seasoned killer? Only the gods know!"

The pit boiled with excitement, coins clinking, fists pounding against wooden tables.

A rusted dagger was shoved into Ian's grip, its blade dull, chipped, worthless. Meanwhile, his opponent grinned as he hefted his club, his confidence unwavering.

The announcer raised his hand. The world went silent.

Then—

"Begin!"

---

It was a blur of blood and brutality.

Ian barely managed to dodge the first swing, but the spikes still grazed his side, tearing into his shirt and skin. A searing flash of pain shot through him. He had no time to process it.

The second strike came fast.

Ian raised his dagger on instinct. Metal clashed against wood, sparks flying, but the sheer force of the impact sent him stumbling back.

His arms trembled.

Another swing. Then another. Relentless. Brutal.

Each time Ian barely avoided being crushed. But he was losing ground. The crowd reveled in his suffering, their cheers and jeers blending into a monstrous mix.

Then the club finally connected.

Pain.

Searing, blinding agony.

Ian crashed to his knees, his body battered, blood oozing from jagged wounds. The air felt too thick, his breaths shallow. He tasted iron.

His opponent stepped back, sneering. Toying with him.

A hush spread through the pit, anticipation thick as the killer raised his club for the final blow.

Ian's vision blurred. His limbs refused to move.

Was this it?

After everything, after all his sacrifices… was he just another nameless corpse?

He thought of the others—those bastards who got their grand destinies, their second chances, their power. Even after he'd bled for revenge, for justice, they lived.

But he?

He was supposed to die here?

No.

Ian's fingers dug into the sand. His blood boiled.

He wouldn't lose. Not again.

He swore vengeance. And he would not die until he saw it through.

His lips curled into a snarl, blood dripping from his mouth.

"Not yet…"

A faint ding echoed in his mind.

[Use Soul Shard? Y/N]

His vision swam, the words burning in his skull.

Ian didn't hesitate.

[YES.]

The moment he accepted, a wave of cold relief washed through him.

Pain evaporated. Strength flooded his limbs. His wounds closed, the bleeding stopped, and power—dark, thrumming, intoxicating—coursed through his veins.

[ HP Restored. ]

[ +200 Soul Essence. ]

[ +200 Necrotic Energy. ]

Something clicked inside him.

[Aura of Decay: Active.]

A sickly purple mist unfurled from Ian's skin, coiling through the air like living smoke.

[Effect: All living beings within 10 meters weakened. -10% Strength. -10% Dexterity.]

[Duration: 5 minutes.]

His opponent staggered.

The brute's confidence faltered, his grip on the club wavering. Fear flickered in his eyes.

He lunged—wild, desperate.

Too slow.

Ian sidestepped with ease, his body moving as if guided by something… unnatural.

His hand shot out, gripping the man's wrist.

His opponent struggled—but Ian's grip was iron.

He wrenched the arm sideways. A sickening crack. The man howled, dropping his weapon.

Ian's voice was cold, edged with something dark and ancient.

"I'll send you off first."

The rusted dagger in his hand found its mark, driving through flesh and bone.

His opponent's scream echoed through the arena.

Ian twisted the blade, his voice a whisper in the man's ear.

"And when you see the Mistress of Death…"

A cruel smirk curled his lips.

"Tell that bitch she'll have to wait a little longer for me."