Clay floated.
Not in water, not in air—something stranger, weightless yet heavy. He opened his eyes—or what felt like eyes—and saw only shadow. His body was gone, swallowed in formless black. He tried to move, to call out, but when he looked at his hand, there was nothing. No flesh, no bone. Only shadow, same as everything else. Only his eyes reminded him he still existed.
> What is this place?
Ahead, a garden stretched out of the void, eerily vivid against the darkness. Grass bent in a wind he could not feel. In the center rose a tall tree, branches hung with pale fruit that pulsed faintly, as though alive.
Then, shapes emerged—two figures, a man and a woman, stepping toward the tree. They reached, plucked a fruit, and in the instant their hands closed around it, the vision ruptured. Black smoke bled across Clay's sight, filling his lungs, stinging his eyes like fire. Heat swelled, unbearable. He tried to cry out, but his voice vanished in the suffocating haze.
And then—
He blinked.
A ceiling. A wooden beam cut across his vision, blurred at the edges until he realized he was lying on his back. Clay sat up, startled, glancing down at his arms. His hands were there—solid, trembling. His chest rose and fell. The blade was still jutting out of him, sharp and mocking.
> Still here. Still stuck with this thing.
Warm steam drifted across his face, carrying a faint scent—earthy, calming. Tea.
He turned his head.
A man knelt at his bedside, holding a porcelain cup just inches from Clay's face. He smiled, too calm for the circumstances.
"Good morning."
Clay jolted backward, instinct overriding thought. His head smacked the wall with a painful thunk, and he rolled sideways on the bed, clutching the sore spot.
The man stood, tilting his head. "Am I really that frightening up close?"
Clay groaned, rubbing his skull, and shook his head. Slowly, he sat up straighter, taking in the room. It was sparse but lived-in, a study of sorts—shelves with books, a low table with bread sticks, scrolls rolled in the corners.
Clay rubbed the back of his head, grimacing. "How many more times am I going to wake up with a thousand questions?"
The man only smiled, lifting his cup again for a leisurely sip. Steam curled around his face, hiding his eyes in a soft haze before drifting away. "Hopefully," he said, "this will be the last."
He set another cup on the low table and slid it toward Clay. The porcelain was warm to the touch. Clay hesitated, then wrapped his hands around it and drew it close, the faint aroma settling his nerves despite himself.
The man sat back on his heels, adjusting the sleeve of his loose robe. "Where are my manners? I should introduce myself. I am Dorri, and I am a—"
"Reaper?" Clay interrupted, tone flat.
Dorri arched a brow, genuinely amused. "Well. Have we met before?"
Clay shrugged, still staring at the cup. "No, lucky guess. I had a similar talk with two others before..... some hours i guess"
"Naira and Shoto?"
"Yeah I think that was their names"
Dorri clicked his tongue and leaned back, muttering, "Of course. My students." He gave a quick nod. "Then I assume they filled you in on the basics of your situation?"
Clay took a slow sip. The warmth spread down his throat, but it didn't ease the weight in his chest. "Yeah, they told me about how i would most likely be killed" He tapped the side of the blade jutting from his sternum, grimacing. "And that this thing would be taken by their higherups"
Dorri placed his tea down with a soft clink, then rose, stretching his arm before plucking a piece of bread from the tray. He dipped it into his tea as though discussing the weather. "Sad to say, my students may not have known the full extent of it." He broke the bread in half, offering a piece.
Clay hesitated, then took it. The taste was simple, soaked and earthy, but it anchored him somehow.
Dorri leaned back in his chair, speaking as though explaining a riddle. "You can't be killed.And we can't take the tool from you as long as you live." He gestured lazily at the sword protruding from Clay's chest. "A little conundrum, wouldn't you say?"
Clay chewed slowly, then swallowed. "So I'm… immortal?"
Dorri shook his head, smirking. "Not immortal. You can die. Starve, age, rot away if you neglect yourself. But being killed? That's off the table."
Clay frowned. The distinction only deepened his unease. "Right. Okay… so then what happens to me now?"
Dorri set the rest of his bread aside, folding his hands neatly on his knee. "Normally, someone like you would be bound by a million chains and locked in the deepest abyss of our society. Safer that way, don't you think?"
Clay's eyes widened, his grip tightening around the cup.
Dorri's smile widened as if savoring the tension. "But because of my silver tongue—" he tipped his chin proudly, "—the Council allowed a… different arrangement. You'll walk free. All under the condition, of course, that we weaponize you."
Clay nearly choked on the last sip of tea. "Weaponize—?"
"Yes," Dorri said, cutting him off with a lazy wave of his hand. "You, dear Clay, will be made a reaper. Under my wing."
The words sat heavy in the room. Clay lowered the cup, staring into the steam as if it could hold an answer. The chaos of the past day spiraled back through his head—the fight, the smoke, the council's hammer of judgment, the burning light. His world had already crumbled, and even if he could walk away now, where would he go? Back to nothing? Back to no one?
He sighed, shoulders sagging. "…Do I even have a say in this?"
Dorri lifted his cup again, but his eyes were sharp now, peering over the rim. "You do. It's just that anything you say can't outweigh the fate of that blade. World destruction tips on your shoulders, Clay."
Clay chuckled bitterly, the sound cracking. "Figures." He rubbed his temple again, then looked up at Dorri. "Then… what should I do? If I'm going to be a reaper."
Dorri's grin flashed bright and sudden. He rose, clapping once as if Clay had just agreed to a game. "That's the spirit. Step one: dress like one. Step two—" He gestured at the blade with a face of mock disgust. "—put that hideous thing away. Walking around with a sword through your chest isn't exactly a reaper's fashion statement."
He drained the last of his tea, set the cup down, and straightened. "And for that, training begins… right about now."
Clay blinked. "Wait, what—?"
Dorri clapped again. A ring of portals flared to life between them, whirling with blue light. Clay's teacup slipped from his hands, forgotten, spilling across the sheets as the bed tilted beneath him.
"Wha—HEY—!"
Both of them dropped through the portals, swallowed by light. The last sound in the empty room was the faint rattle of porcelain rolling to a stop.
*****
Clay stumbled out of the portal and landed on his hands and knees, the ground hard and cool beneath him. His lungs caught air again as though they'd been emptied mid-fall. Dorri stepped through more gracefully, brushing dust from his dark sleeves as the portal snapped shut behind them.
They stood in a vast plain. Endless grass stretched out in all directions, silvered under a pale sky that seemed to have no sun and no horizon. The place was empty, silent, and yet carried a strange stillness that hummed faintly in Clay's bones.
Dorri spread his arms, his expression boyish with pride.
"Here we are. My training ground." He turned in a slow circle, his voice almost theatrical. "Isn't it something?"
Clay pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his chest and arms. He shivered; the open air carried a bite to it, a thin, cutting chill. With only his tattered pants and the blade jutting through his torso, he felt naked against the plain. He wrapped his arms around himself and muttered, "It's cold too."
Dorri nodded without sympathy. "Very unfortunate. You can't wear much with the tool jammed in you. Which is why…" He tapped his chin, then pointed toward Clay's chest. "…we'll need you to pull it out."
Clay stared at him flatly. "That's not happening. Your students already tried."
Dorri tilted his head. "But have you?"
The words sank in. Clay blinked, hesitated, then shook his head.
Dorri only raised his eyebrows, as if that was answer enough.
Clay glanced down. The sword's hilt protruded from his sternum, the blackened steel almost mocking him. Slowly, he wrapped both hands around it. His breath hitched as he tightened his grip.
"Fine," he muttered.
He pulled. Hard. His arms strained, veins standing out against his skin, teeth gritted. The blade didn't budge, not even a fraction. Heat flushed through his face as he pulled again, until at last his strength gave out and he sagged, breathless. "It's not coming out."
"That's because you're tugging at it like dead weight," Dorri said, hands sliding into his sleeves. "It's not stuck in your body, boy. It's stuck in you. Command it." He tapped his temple with one finger. "From inside."
Clay shot him a doubtful look, but Dorri only shrugged.
So Clay closed his eyes. He inhaled once, twice, steadying his breath. His palms tightened on the hilt again. This time, he tried to picture the sword loosening. In his mind, he willed it: Come out. Come on. Let go.
"Feel it," Dorri urged, his tone almost encouraging. "Don't just pull it—tell it."
The hilt shifted. Barely, but it shifted. Clay's eyes snapped open.
Dorri clapped his hands together, grinning wide. "There! You see? Go on, more!"
Clay growled, muscles taut. The sword nudged out by inches, dragging pain with it. His breath broke into short gasps, sweat streaming down his temple. But the deeper he tried to command it, the heavier it became. At last, with a choked groan, he collapsed to his knees, clutching the hilt as though it weighed a ton.
"I… can't," he wheezed. "Not anymore."
Dorri sighed and walked forward, his boots crunching lightly over the grass. "Then it's a good thing I brought us here."
Clay looked up, confused, as Dorri crouched.
"Sometimes," Dorri said calmly, "if you can't take something out, the next best thing is to let it in."
Before Clay could respond, Dorri planted one foot firmly on the hilt.
Clay's eyes widened. "Wait, what—"
"Brace yourself."
Dorri shoved the blade down.
Pain exploded through Clay's body. His scream tore across the plain, sharp and raw. The steel sank deeper, sliding through his chest until its edge protruded from his back. His head snapped back, mouth open in a soundless cry, eyes rolling white.
Dorri pressed harder, voice rising in command. "Come on, Black Skull! Come out and protect your vessel!"
Black smoke erupted from Clay's mouth, pouring upward in violent streams. It lashed at Dorri like whips. He dropped his weight backward into a portal, vanishing just before the smoke struck, then reappeared several paces away.
The cloud thickened, swallowing Clay whole. His body convulsed as the blade dissolved into shadow, pulled out of his chest in a surge of smoke. Flesh knitted, muscle sealed; the wound vanished as though it had never been.
And when Clay rose again, it wasn't Clay.
The smoke draped his body, clinging like armor, his eyes drowned in shifting black. The sword reformed in his hand, gleaming and jagged.
Dorri's smile sharpened. "Finally."
Clay's body swung the blade without warning, a vicious slash that ripped across the air toward Dorri. Dorri only stepped aside, the cut slicing through empty space. He watched, unimpressed, as Clay howled. The scream shook the ground, a quake rumbling beneath their feet.
"That's it?" Dorri muttered, almost bored. "I expected more."
He slipped into another portal, vanishing just as Clay turned. The blade swept wide, but Dorri was already behind him. He reached out, one arm snaking around Clay's throat, lifting him from the ground.
Black smoke poured from Clay's mouth, wrapping around Dorri's arm in fury. Dorri's eyes flared, a sudden pressure blasting outward. The smoke scattered like ash in a storm. Clay's body went limp, his eyes clearing back to gray.
Dorri lowered him gently, releasing his grip. Clay collapsed, coughing violently, clutching his throat.
Dorri opened a small portal with a flick of his wrist and withdrew a flask of water. He crouched and handed it over. "Drink."
Clay drank greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn't until he lowered the flask that he realized—the sword was in his grip now, not in his chest.
He stared.
"How does it feel?" Dorri asked.
Clay rose slowly, testing the weight. He swung it left, then right. To his surprise, it was feather-light, almost natural in his hands. His form, however, was clumsy, wild.
Dorri smirked. "Pathetic. But it's a start."
He pointed at a boulder sitting a few yards away. "Go on. Cut that."
Clay adjusted his grip, trying to imitate something proper. Dorri clicked his tongue and nudged his stance with a few curt instructions. It wasn't much, but it helped.
Clay raised the sword, exhaled, and swung downward with all his strength.
The blade met stone—then vanished into smoke. The boulder remained untouched.
Clay blinked, baffled. "What… what just happened?"
The smoke curled back into his body like breath returning home. The sword was gone.
Dorri scratched his chin, unimpressed but intrigued. "Interesting. Looks like we're going to have to start with the very basics after all."
Clay lowered his empty hands, still staring. "Basics? Like what?"
Dorri's smile turned sly, "Allow me to introduce you to what we call as.... Kai."