Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 155: The Plague Who Trains The Living

The training grounds behind the manor of House Elarin.

It looked like a ruin of stone and dust, a sunken court ringed by broken statues and bleached banners that once bore a crest.

Now it belonged to no one. The only thing that lived here was the air, and it was still.

Unmoving. Watching.

Lyra stood barefoot on the cracked tiles, her silver-threaded hair tied behind her ears. Caelen stood beside her, tall and silent as ever, his worn sword at his side.

Across from them, Eli waited—his arms folded, his expression a death mask of stillness.

His golden eyes, sharp as razors, tracked their every breath.

"You’re too clean," Eli said, voice like a cold wind scraping bone. "Too soft. The Crucible won’t kill you fast. You’ll bleed slowly—wound by wound, mistake by mistake. It’ll take your breath in inches until you’re choking on your own fear."

He stepped forward. Not a sound from his boots.

"That arena demands tribute. Blood, screams, limbs, sometimes your soul. And it never forgets what you owe it."

Lyra’s brow twitched. "We’ve survived the Reach."

Eli’s gaze turned on her like the edge of a guillotine. "Because there was a man more demon than anything there, and he let you."

Caelen finally spoke, his voice low. "We’re not afraid to fight."

"I know," Eli said. "But you should be afraid to fail. Because the moment you do, there’s no coming back. No second try. No mercy. Esgard’s crowds don’t remember the brave—they remember the living."

He turned and walked a few paces away, then stopped.

"Draw your weapons. Come at me."

Lyra blinked. "Both of us?"

Eli didn’t turn. "Together. Kill me."

There was no jest in his voice. No smugness.

No warning. Just command.

Caelen unsheathed his sword. Lyra drew her twin blades from behind her hips. A moment of silence passed—enough for the wind to return, whispering through the ruined statues.

Then they moved.

Caelen struck first—his footfall like thunder, sword arcing downward with the weight of a killing blow.

But Eli stepped to the side without so much as looking, and Caelen’s blade kissed empty air.

Before he could recover, Lyra was already there, blades spinning in a flurry meant to overwhelm.

She danced around Eli like a viper, striking from low, from high, from the side.

Eli didn’t even draw a weapon.

He moved like wind.

A twist of his heel. A flick of his wrist. Every slash was dodged by inches, every thrust turned away by the slightest shift of his weight.

"Faster," he said. "Or you’ll be dead already."

Caelen came again, this time feinting high before sweeping low at the legs. Lyra mirrored him from behind, twin blades flashing like silver fire.

Eli’s hand shot out—open-palmed, precise.

He caught Caelen’s blade mid-swing. Not with a gauntlet. With his bare hand.

And then he shoved. Caelen stumbled backward.

Lyra pressed the advantage. She aimed for his throat.

Eli ducked.

His foot rose like a whip and planted itself in her gut. The wind left her lungs with a wheeze as she crumpled backward.

Eli straightened. "Dead."

Caelen growled and lunged, swinging with fury now, not discipline.

A rookie mistake. Eli turned, stepping inside the strike’s arc, and slammed his fist into Caelen’s ribs.

Caelen went down to one knee, coughing.

"Dead again."

Silence.

Lyra wiped blood from her lip as she stood. "You’re not even trying."

Eli finally drew a blade. A single, curved dagger.

"I’m never trying."

Caelen slowly stood. "Winning against you is not possible"

Eli smirked. "No, but you’ll learn from the pain."

He gestured. "Again."

They came harder.

Lyra vanished into speed, appearing behind him. Caelen roared and rushed head-on. They flanked him, mirrored strikes meant to trap and skewer.

They might as well have been children.

Eli spun, low and fast.

His blade danced across Lyra’s thigh—not deep, but enough to make her falter. With his offhand, he caught Caelen’s strike and locked it. Then he slammed his knee into Caelen’s chest, lifting the man from the ground before sending him sprawling.

When Lyra came again, limping but fast, Eli’s blade met hers—once, twice, three times. Sparks danced in the air.

But he wasn’t even looking at her blades. He was watching her eyes.

And when she blinked, he struck—grabbing her wrist, twisting her arm, and sending both her weapons flying.

She collapsed, breathless.

"Still dead," Eli said, voice even.

They lay there, panting. Hurt. Humiliated.

He stood over them, a shadow of war.

"You feel it now?" he asked. "The weight of it? You thought strength was enough. Thought survival made you worthy."

He crouched beside Lyra, his voice colder now.

"Strength means nothing if it isn’t sharpened. Mercy is a lie. And survival? That’s just failure postponed."

He looked at Caelen. "I watched a Menace-class beast eat thirty men in the Western Front and learned to walk past it like it was nothing. Because the weak scream. The strong bleed. But I don’t do either."

He stood again, turning his back.

"There is no part of me you can break, but with enough training you should be able to break others."

The silence that followed was heavier than steel.

Lyra sat up, her arms trembling. "You have no weaknesses..."

Caelen’s head bowed. "...well, i guess rumors were far from over exaggerated."

Eli didn’t respond.

He just walked away, the wind stirring behind him like a cloak of invisible knives.

As he disappeared into the manor’s shadow, his voice echoed behind him.

"Rest. Tonight, you’ll come for me again. And again. Until you bleed without fear...like he learned to."

That’s the only way you understand what it means to survive the Crucible.

—–—

Far from the stones of House Elarin’s manor, another stood beneath moonlight—a boy with glory burning in his eyes.

In the silence, something reached out from the dark.

A whisper.

"You wish to step over the Demon Blade?"

A hand, cold and endless, extended.

"Then come. Let me give you the power to."