Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian slumped against the cold, damp wall of his cell, his body still itching with the remnants of battle.

The metallic smell of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the stench of sweat and rot. His thoughts were tangled—a mix of exhaustion, anger, and something else.

Something darker.

The woman's words echoed in his mind, her proposition hanging over his thoughts.

Opportunity?

He didn't trust her, but he couldn't ignore the possibility?.

With a groan, Ian pushed himself to his feet, his muscles slightly protesting. He met her gaze through the rusted bars, his own eyes wary.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice low, guarded.

She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Exactly what I said. I want to give you an opportunity to be more than the walking corpse you are."

Ian frowned. "Walking corpse?"

"Yes," she said, the smirk widening. "That's exactly what you are. You might have survived your first fight, and maybe you will your second, third, or even fourth. But the sands of the pits will drink your blood eventually."

His jaw tightened. He hated how casual she sounded, as if his life was already decided.

"So what are you offering? My freedom?"

She scoffed, her chuckle low and knowing. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Of course not. I'm offering you a chance to die with honor… or perhaps not die at all."

Ian's eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."

She stepped closer, her voice taking on a practiced, theatrical quality.

"The Arena," she said, as if unveiling a grand revelation. "You fight against renowned warriors from across the empire. Thousands watching. Your name shouted in triumph. Nobles placing wagers on your skill. Royalty in attendance."

Ian stared at her, unimpressed.

Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't give a shit about glory. Or honor," he said flatly. "So all I hear is the pits with a richer audience."

Her smirk didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened.

"You're not wrong," she admitted. "But unlike the pits, you won't be treated like an animal. You won't be a dog in a cage, released only when your blood is needed to stain the sand."

She studied him, her gaze piercing.

"Fight under my liege's house, and win enough times, you may claim whatever you desire. I know you care not for honor, but what about wealth? Power? Freedom?"

Ian's mind raced, considering her words. He didn't trust her. But a flicker of something—hope?—irked in his gut.

"So if I accept," he said slowly, "you can just take me out of here?"

She shook her head. "No. You are a slave. You can be bought, like any other." A pause. "But we don't waste coin on those who won't serve our cause."

She stepped back, the smirk fading into something unreadable.

"I won't take an answer now. You have a day. Think it over."

And then she was gone, her footsteps fading into the corridor's dim light.

Ian watched her disappear, then let himself sink back against the wall. His body ached slightly, but his mind was restless

Suddenly, a floating screen appeared before him.

The translucent panel pulsed faintly, its presence undeniable. Ian had thought it some hallucination before, a fever dream conjured by exhaustion.

But no, it was real.

The Soul Shard. The Aura of Decay. The way the man's body had emptied—hollowed—when he had accepted the soul. It had all been real.

And now, the panel revealed what he truly was.

---

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

[Bloodline: Voidborne Sovereign (Ancient, Extinct)]

[Title: Whisperer of Death]

---

Ian's breath stilled.

Voidborne Sovereign. Gray Eternity. These words meant nothing to him, yet they struck something deep, something familiar. It was as if a part of him—something buried, something lost—recognized them.

And the title…

Whisperer of Death.

The weight of it settled over him, cold and absolute.

The words weren't just titles. They were declarations of what he was. What he had become.

He inhaled slowly, pushing down the unease as he scanned further.

---

[Level: 1]

[Health (HP): 50/50]

[Mana (MP): 0/0]

[Necrotic Energy: 0/500]

[Soul Essence: 0]

[Corruption: 1%]

---

His health and Necrotic Energy had been restored by the Soul Shard. But his Soul Essence remained empty.

Perhaps consumed by the skill he used.

His gaze lingered on those two terms.

Necrotic Energy. Soul Essence.

Power extracted from death itself.

His stomach twisted slightly, but he forced himself to move on. His attributes were next.

---

[Attributes]

[STR: 4]

[AGI: 5]

[INT: 85]

[Charisma: 4]

---

His strength and agility were pitiful. But intelligence…

Ian exhaled through his nose. It wasn't physical might that had allowed him to survive. It was calculation. Precision. Strategy.

And then, the skills.

---

[Active Skills]

[Soulbind (Rank 1)]

[Cost: 200 Soul Essence]

[Effect: Bind a soul to your service. Retains 70% of its living abilities.]

[Cooldown: 10 minutes]

[Bonecraft (Rank 1)]

[Cost: 50 Necrotic Energy]

[Effect: Forge weapons or armor from bones. Durability and Potency scales with corpse quality.]

[Aura of Decay (Rank 1)]

[Cost: 100 Necrotic Energy]

[Effect: Weaken all living beings within 10 meters. -10% Strength, -10% Dexterity.]

[Duration: 5 minutes]

---

His fingers curled slightly as he read the descriptions.

Bind a soul to your service.

Forge weapons from bone.

Weaken the living.

There was no denying it now. This was more than just a survival tool. More than just a floating panel to guide him.

This was a necromancer's art.

His art.

And it demanded death.

The realization settled deep, cold and unwavering. The Soul Essence were at zero not because they were infinite resources—but because they needed to be taken.

He had absorbed the soul of his opponent. He had felt it leave the body, had seen it unravel like mist before vanishing into him. That had been the first step.

But it wouldn't be the last.

A sharp exhale left his lips.

If this was his reality—if this was what he had been given—then there was only one path forward.

He had to kill.

Not for survival.

For strength.

Ian's eyes flickered to his final skill.

---

[Soul Repository]

[Capacity: 1/3 Souls]

[Effect: Store souls for later use. Exceeding capacity risks Soul Overload.]

---

Store souls.

That meant he could keep them. Use them later.

A slow, dark realization crept through him.

He wouldn't just be killing.

He would be building.

A force. A following.

An army.

His breath came out slow, steady. The panic was gone now. The uncertainty, the fear—burned away by the cold, logical understanding of what he had become.

Necromancer. Voidborne. Whisperer of Death.

The pit had forced him to spill blood to survive.

Now, he would do it to conquer.

Ian reached into his inventory, focusing on a small, familiar item. A cigarette materialized in his hand. He lit it with a flick of the lighter, the tiny flame casting flickering shadows across his cell.

He took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl between his lips, before exhaling softly.

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

Then another.

Then he laughed. A low, quiet sound that grew into something dark and certain.

For the first time, Ian wasn't afraid.

He had work to do.