Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 163: Threaded in Blood

The sands had barely settled from Caelen’s fight when the gates groaned again.

Loud and announcing.

This time, the crowd didn’t laugh.

They remembered the name.

The brother who killed the Bonebreaker.

Now came the sister.

"Next challenger!" the announcer bellowed from atop his gilded perch, voice thick with bloodlust and drama. "Swift as silver, sharp as shadow—Lyra of House Elarin!"

The iron doors creaked open, their hinges protesting like dying men. Dust stirred. Heat shimmered.

And out walked fire.

Small, yes. Slighter than most.

No grand armor, no etched blade of noble make.

Just her hood down, hair pale as ash—no, paler. White-silver, tangled like threadbare silk, clinging to her shoulders in ghostlight strands. A short crescent blade crossed her back, matte-black, unpolished, brutal.

She moved like wind through a half-open window—graceful, effortless, fast.

In the fighter’s box above, Caelen leaned on the rail, forehead still streaked with blood. His hands were clenched. Not in fear.

Just... in hope.

"She’s not afraid of anything," he muttered.

Eli, beside him, smirked faintly. "That’s the part I tried beating out of her."

---

From the high seat draped in stern faces and silk, Ian watched her descent with unreadable eyes.

Velrosa sat beside him, the cup poised at her lips. She watched too—calm, elegant, unmoved.

"She never look like much, but she has been quite determined so far," Velrosa murmured, a cold appraisal beneath a warm smile.

---

The opposite gate groaned.

From its yawning dark stepped out a monster.

A walking slab of carnage wrapped in jagged crimson armor, as if he’d skinned a lava-beast and forged it into warplate. Two axes crossed his back, each nearly as tall as Lyra herself, their edges chipped from too much use and too little mercy.

"Vornak the Mauler!" the announcer thundered. "Breaker of limbs! Eleven kills in the Crucible!"

The crowd howled.

Vornak raised his arms, his massive form dripping with old, dried blood. He pointed one thick finger at Lyra and dragged it across his throat.

The air pulsed with violence.

Lyra tilted her head.

Then smiled.

The horn sounded.

And she was gone.

No flash of light. No magic circle. No spell.

Just gone.

One heartbeat she stood still, the next she was behind him—blade drawn in a silent whisper of steel. A thin red line bloomed across the back of Vornak’s knee.

He roared, twisting, his axe swinging in a murderous arc—but she was already low, a shadow skimming the sand, her body a blur of coiled grace and deadly timing.

Her blade sang again, this time tracing a shallow cut across his ribs.

A warning.

I’m here. I’m faster. I can hurt you.

In the box, Eli leaned forward.

"Good," he murmured. "Don’t let him make it his fight."

But Vornak wasn’t just a brute.

He was old blood. Arena-born.

He stopped chasing.

Anchored himself. Let his weight work for him.

Feet planted. Shoulders squared. He began swinging—not wild haymakers, but controlled arcs, perfect for cutting off escape. The air screamed as his axes moved, the sheer force of them shaking the pillars around the arena floor.

Lyra backed off, circling. Light on her feet. Watching.

Measuring.

He lunged—too fast.

She twisted away, barely avoiding a blow that would have shattered a stone pillar. Dust exploded in the air. Another swing came—closer. She spun beneath it, hair trailing smoke.

Then he caught her.

Not with the blade.

With the pommel.

A sudden, brutal slam to the side of her head.

Lyra staggered. Spun.

Hit the ground hard.

The crowd gasped.

In the stands, Caelen surged forward, but Eli’s hand caught his chest.

"Wait."

"She’s bleeding."

"She’s breathing. Interrupt a Crucible match and you both die."

---

Lyra’s vision blurred.

The world tilted. Warped.

Her tongue tasted sand. Metal.

Pain stabbed down her spine. Warmth trickled from her temple. A drumbeat of agony pulsed behind her eye.

Vornak laughed—a deep, wet sound.

He lumbered forward, raising an axe for the final strike.

"You don’t belong here," he snarled.

She looked up through blood-flecked lashes. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Smiled.

"I do, far more than you."

And moved.

She rolled—fluid, precise—just as the axe crashed down where her skull had been. Dust exploded again, blinding.

She was already moving—climbing his leg, using his own weight against him. A foot against his chestplate, the other vaulting high. She jammed her blade into the meat of his throat.

Vornak screamed.

Staggered.

Blood jetted.

She hit the ground, rolled, and came up with her second blade—drawn from the hidden sheath in her boot. Reversed grip.

He turned, half-dead, roaring.

She dove forward, low—ducked under the arc of his desperate swing—and plunged the second blade into the same wound.

Then twisted.

His scream became a gurgle.

He stumbled back, blood cascading down his chest like black-red rain.

She didn’t wait.

Didn’t let him fall.

She leapt.

One foot on his knee.

One on his shoulder.

And drove her crescent blade straight down into the top of his skull.

The arena went still.

Then the sand trembled.

And the Crucible roared.

Lyra stood over the corpse.

Breathing hard. Bleeding harder.

But grinning.

She raised her blade—not to the nobles. Not to the crowd.

To the fighter’s box.

To Caelen.

He gave a single nod.

Not proud.

Just... certain.

Eli exhaled. "You might just live through this after all."

Ian’s eyes followed Lyra as the medics reached her.

"They both might."

Velrosa’s eyes narrowed slightly. "We’re building something," she said quietly. "breeding killers."

Ian didn’t smile.

"We’ll keep feeding it," he said. "Let’s see what it becomes."

---

That night, as the blood was washed from the sand and the names etched into the chalkboard were sealed in ink, the Crucible recorded the change.

Caelen — 1 kill. Advanced.

Lyra — 1 kill. Advanced.

No longer nameless mercenaries from the Reach.

Now Blood League competitors.

One step closer to entering the League of Champions.

One step closer to carving a legend into the bones of this city.

One step closer to making the sand remember their names.