Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

This was his moment of truth—close enough to feel blowback from the world's recoil. The moonlight danced off his chest-mark. He felt more alive than he ever had being farther west in a thousand tomb-like encampments.

He waited.

Ian appeared again, stepping forward, cadenced by his soldiers. He was pale, ebony clad, runic lines still faintly burning. His eyes glowed with the shadow fire.

The crowd roared—momentarily drowned.

Renner scanned crowds of faces: nobles with trembling lips, mercenaries sharing glances, gamblers wiping sweat. All shouted for blood. All expected Ian to hold.

He closed his eyes for a second. Not this time, he thought. This time I climb the blade.

Renner stepped down the wall steps into the trench behind the initial line. He moved nimbly—none of his steps kicked gravel. When he reached the second level of trenches, he paused to topple a standing lantern—embers fell into the ventilation gap. Magelight went pale.

He breathed deep.

He crouched.

Under the thunder, the beasts dashed in. Oathbreakers in front.

He moved through chaos, unseen. He reached the center line—the one Ian had proclaimed as his ground. He paused, pulling his cloak aside, revealing his scarred skin.

He drew sweat-laced air into his lungs and whispered his pact.

Then he stepped forward.

He would face the mountain—and crack the core.

That's where he was now.

Closing one hand on the Battlemaster's Mark on his belt. Other hand inching to the sword's hilt. He could hear the creatures falling. The snap of spear, the boom of catapult, the death gasp. Above it, Ian's voice rose—commands for containment, for domination.

Renner trembled—not with fear—but a rush.

"This is my stage," he told the dark inside him. "This is where I break him."

He tightened his grip on the sword and leaned forward into the hollow quake.

Behind him, the wall held.

Ahead, the third tide—and the war had just found its soul.

Renner waited as the thunder rolled. The forest-borne tide surged, an ocean of flesh, fang, and distortion gnarling against Esgard's walls.

The wall's jagged top edge was alight with arrow sputters and mana bolts, the sky glowing orange. He felt its pulse: the chaos.

It was the moment he'd been forging toward, the collision point between prophecy and ambition—the point where legends could be shattered or weaponized.

He allowed himself a breath.

Midnight air curdled with death-longing and arcane pressure. He could see Ian in the deeper trenches, stepping through ruin and dust, pale sigils cresting across his skin like spectral veins.

The Crown of the Forgotten had already been laid upon the city the night before; tonight's fight was not about ritual or dominion. It was personal.

Renner gripped the battlemaster's blade—an alloy of eldritch vulcanite and tempered iron. The edge was dull, broken in spots with old blood and new wear, but it had carried him through slaughter pits and tether-wars across unearthed depthless plateaus.

Without armor, without armor—he was a conduit and container of the spiral's power. He could feel its pulsation behind his ribs: a heartbeat that was not his own.

And he waited.

The beasts pressed forward. Oathbreakers came behind them, bloodless faces calm. They expected ritual. They expected patterns. Tonight, ritual would break.

Renner strode through the trench's rear, past archways lit by torches. Soldiers shouted, but none stopped him. He was ghost before eyes.

He passed Lyra once—her gaze flicked toward his chest, the spiral finally edge-shifting. In that brief glance, he saw calculation. Not fear. She recognized the threshold he'd walked beyond.

He reached the point where Ian commanded.

In a clearing of shattered palisades, Ian stood. His steps were measured, sovereign. Not looking for blood—expecting it.

Renner walked into that space and paused. Not as challenger. As reckoning.

A line formed between them. Moonlight skimmed the swirl of their figures—Ian tall, black-robed with veined runes; Renner lean, faltering with power, the spiral glowing bright green against white skin.

Ian inclined his chin.

"Renner Voss," he said. His voice cut through battlefield noise. "The Pale Slaughter."

Renner held the moment.

"Climb the mountain," he whispered so only Ian could hear. "Ascend, and shatter it from within."

Ian frowned, silent. It was invitation and threat. Reproof. Expectation. It told Renner he had reached a pinnacle—but also that the test had only just begun.

Renner stepped forward, hand falling on the hilt.

No words.

No warning.

The blade snapped free in a flourish like silver lightning. He lunged.

Ian reacted with unearthly speed. The flash of Judgment caught the pale steel's edge. There was no clash; just displacement. Ghost of force. The blade rang with hollow resonance.

Renner smiled.

"Do you bleed."

He thrust again, not at Ian but through him—across shadowed air toward the wall behind. The blade split open yawning air. Dust flared. The trench telemanced.

Ian's voice, calm: "Just like any other man."

He vanished.

Renner whirled, bringing his blade arcing across the empty air. His strike met nothing but breath and half-mystified soldiers. From behind him, he heard Lyra whisper.

He ignored her.

Suddenly: hurried breath. A scrape behind his left shoulder.

He turned and ducked.

A grey flame spat.

He cursed and stepped aside.

He didn't know if Ian was attacking—or repairing—but the power behind that Soulflame told him: Ian had acknowledged his threat.

Storm erupted.

Renner pressed his height advantage. He moved like liquid—revulsed glass—past the flares of mana. Every step a half-step backward. Every strike concealed by dust. Every feint followed by misdirection.

Ian responded.

They struck together.

The clang of cold steel biting cold darkness.

Renner felt the echoes in his bones.

He bled.

But he didn't let it show.

Each slash he made carved at the air around Ian. Each rip of wind he summoned bent toward the wall—toward the Oathbreaker tide. Their perception flickered.

For the first time, Renner saw the flash: Ian's eyes deepened—ashen coal.

He drew back and fell into that movement, flesh heaving.

He struck again.

This time, the pale spiral flared out.

Ian blocked, parried, but didn't snap back.

Instead, he vanished, a black hole where his form had been.

Renner attacked first—sweeping arc at where he last stood. The blade cut thin air.

He felt heat prick at his spine.

He turned.

Ian hovered there—grey-capped daggers in hands flicking. He stepped forward, facial expression neutral.

By now battle had shut down. Soldiers scattered back. Archers lowered bows. Trench moved backward. Word spread.

This fight was theirs.

Renner and Ian exchanged strikes—their rhythm was animal, human, and unnatural. Renner's spiral gave him bursts of speed far too quick for a human mind. He bounded forward, cuts aimed for flesh, ribs, neck. Each swing a promise: shatter. Break. Destroy.

Ian resisted, far easily than he should have.

Sword sang as it clicked away crackling enchantment. Each strike chipped rune-silver on Judgement's edge.

Renner's breath flashed heavy smoke.

His voice flew hoarse: "I am more!" He gritted teeth. "I will be more!"

Ian parried and stabbed. He disappeared from within Renner's vision. The blow landed against air—and the world flickered.

Renner staggered.

Then pushed back.

They fought under flickering torchlight. Oathbreakers watched. Renner heard whispers—not of fear, but hush of respect. A caveat: the wall might hold, but the apex had split.

Renner's spiral burned hotter—green lightning across his chest. The mark sang with each pulse.

He channeled it.

Pushing forward.

He lunged again. The blade struck.

Blade cracked across his forearm. Flesh split. Blood came.

He screamed, but held form.

Ian held ground, eyes flicking red-bronze.

They closed again.

Renner screamed again, louder.

The spiral seared through him—he rewrote strength.

He wouldn't die first.

He pressed. The blade tore across Ian's shoulder—not enough to break the skin—but enough to nick. Steel smoke.

Ian bled black.

Renner gasped. He struck again—open palm across Ian's chest—

Flash of pale light.

Ian staggered.

Renner's pulse slammed.

He held the stance.

He expected collapse. Instead, Ian put a hand on the blade's cheek. No major.

But…

Ian's eyes pried into Renner's.

A moment passed.

Renner met him, breathing.

They both grounded.

They both understood.

They both warred with survival, conquest, destiny.

Drag of wind. Impact of world.

Sudden hush. Soldiers gasped.

Renner exhaled.

"I—"

Ian moved.

He didn't step.

He glided.

He touched Renner's chest—no blow. Just a hand.

It burned.

The spiral winked off.

Renner stumbled. He sank to one knee.

He locked eyes. He felt broken. He felt alive.

Renner rose slowly, trembling.

He looked at the pale spiral pit in his chest.

He looked at Ian, scarred but resolute.

They'd shattered the myth—but neither broke.

Renner inhaled.

"The mountain doesn't kneel."

Ian nodded once.

Renner stepped back.

He withdrew the blade.

He let it fall.

Dust lifted.

He turned and walked away.

Renner reached the base of the wall, his hands clenching as he watched Ian turn and ascend through the soldiers like tide, reclaiming throne on the battlements.

Renner's head tilted back.

He smiled.

He'd bitten the crown. He had proven enough. The mountain did not break—but the mountain DID bleed.

He would climb again.