Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 181: Prophet Vs Plague II

The sky had begun to bruise.

Clouds crawled overhead, sluggish and low, pressing down on the battlefield with the weight of an unspoken omen.

Somewhere in the distance, the bell of the old monastery tolled once—faint and hollow, as if mourning a death that had yet to come.

Dust lingered in the air like ash.

The ground between them was torn with gouges, pits, and impact craters. Trees leaned away. Shadows clung to the edges of the clearing, too fearful to cross the invisible line where the duel was being written in ruin.

Eli wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth—not his, but Ian’s.

A trace. Just enough to stain his glove. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

He looked at it.

Then looked at him.

Ian stood motionless, Judgement held loosely at his side. His breath came slow, steady. But even in stillness, he looked wrong. As if the world had forgotten how to fit around him.

The runes on his chest had begun to dim again, fading into a slow, steady pulse.

His eyes no longer glowed with ash-gray fire—but they were still deep. Still hollow in a way that turned the stomach. His body was unmarred.

The sword in his hand untouched. Yet he didn’t move.

It wasn’t exhaustion. It was calculation.

Eli took a slow step forward. Then another.

He moved like a man approaching a sleeping god. Careful. Not reverent—but cautious in the way warriors are when they know the next mistake ends them.

"You’re holding back," Eli said.

"So are you," Ian replied, voice quiet as death.

A smile twitched at the corner of Eli’s mouth. "You’ve changed."

"I’ve learned to not die, You taught me to."

That was true. The Ian who stood here now was not the one Eli had took to Blackblood forest.

This Ian had will. And worse—purpose.

He had become an idea.

And ideas were harder to kill.

"I don’t like your persistence," Eli said simply, sheathing his sword.

Ian tensed—but didn’t strike. "Then stop me."

"No," Eli said. "I’ll remind you."

Then he moved.

Not with magic. Not with a thing like Sovereign Step. Not with anything arcane or flashy.

He simply moved—with such absolute control, such fluid violence, that it felt unnatural. Like watching a lion stalk through a battlefield of corpses.

The sword came free again in a flash—drawn mid-lunge, turning a step into a strike.

Ian caught it with Judgement, but the impact sent him skidding backward through dust and stone. His boots left furrows. His breath hissed.

Eli didn’t wait.

He was on him again, this time driving forward with a flurry of cuts—measured, brutal, and sharp. Every blow had intent. Every step carried the weight of finality. This wasn’t sparring.

It was punishment.

Ian blocked three. Dodged the fourth. Reappeared behind Eli with a burst of Sovereign’s Step—but Eli spun into him, elbow smashing into Ian’s temple, staggering the Prophet of Death for the first time in the fight.

Ian’s eyes narrowed.

Then flared.

The runes across his skin shimmered again—like molten scars, breathing in time with his fury.

He raised Judgement, not to swing, but to will—and the void-blade whispered as it sliced through the air, distorting it. The edge didn’t need to touch Eli.

It commanded absence, devouring the inches before it struck.

Eli ducked low. Not dodging—inviting it.

And when Ian overcommitted—just slightly—Eli caught his leg, lifted, and slammed him into the ground with enough force to fracture stone.

The shockwave cracked out in every direction. Dust exploded upward. The earth buckled.

But Ian wasn’t there anymore.

He rose behind Eli, silent as breath, the world bending around his form.

And then—

Everything went still.

No movement.

No breath.

Even the wind stopped.

The Prophet had entered his rhythm.

The mantle of dread settled fully over him. His feet hovered an inch above the ground now—gliding, not walking. His eyes burned no brighter, but they watched more closely, as though time itself had slowed beneath his stare.

And when he moved, it was not with haste.

It was with inevitability.

He came forward with a slash that looked gentle—casual, almost.

Eli blocked it.

But the impact sent his blade shivering, his arms numbing. A second blow followed—then a third, the tempo rising like a war drum.

Ian was relentless. Not fast. Not desperate. Just... undeniable.

Each strike was like a bell tolling.

Each one asked a question.

Are you still standing?

Do you still believe?

Can you still say your name aloud without fear?

Eli grunted—then screamed as he surged back with a horizontal sweep laced in his own fury, his sword ablaze not with fire, but spirit. Not magic—just rage made perfect.

Ian caught it with his palm.

The blade struck flesh—and stopped.

Didn’t cut.

Didn’t even bruise.

Flesh of Suffering absorbed it.

Eli’s eyes widened for a heartbeat.

Then Ian’s knee hit his ribs.

Crack.

Eli stumbled back, coughing. He staggered, straightened—and smiled with blood in his teeth.

"You’re not invincible," he said.

"No," Ian answered. "But I don’t need to be."

Thunder rolled above them.

The rain still refused to fall.

They fought again.

Longer this time.

No more words. No more teaching.

Just steel, and breath, and the crack of broken stone.

The rhythm became ritual. The Prophet glided through Sovereign’s Step, appearing and vanishing, carving the world with Judgement. Each movement left a ripple in the air, each swing dragging silence in its wake.

Eli met him step for step.

No tricks. No magic.

Only mastery.

He read Ian’s patterns now. Anticipated. Deflected. Countered.

But even with his speed, his vision, his truth—he could feel it.

Ian wasn’t slowing.

He wasn’t tiring.

He moved with a certainty that came not from arrogance—but from the absolute conviction of a man who had looked into the darkness and stepped forward anyway.

That terrified Eli more than any spell.

And yet—

He smiled again.

Because Ian hadn’t broken him either.

---

At last, they stood apart.

Blood ran down Eli’s ribs. His arm trembled slightly.

Ian’s coat was torn. One sleeve hung loose where a blade had nearly taken the arm. His face bore a single cut across the cheek—but it didn’t bleed. Not really.

They watched each other across the ruin.

Two relics of different gods.

A Plague.

A Prophet.

"Not bad," Eli said, breath ragged.

Ian tilted his head. "You’re enjoying this."

Eli chuckled. "It’s not every day I get to fight with little restraint."

’Little?’

Ian’s expression didn’t change.

But he didn’t advance.

And neither did Eli.

For all their power, neither had found the key to end the other.

Unstoppable force.

Immovable object.

Thunder cracked again. This time closer. But still no rain.

They stood in that silence.

And for the first time since the fight began, they both knew one truth.

The next clash might end something.

They just didn’t know what.