When Amara next opened her eyes, she wasn't falling. She wasn't floating. She was standing.
The ground beneath her feet was black stone, smooth and cool to the touch. A faint mist crawled across it, curling around her ankles like whispering fingers. Above her stretched a blood-red sky, scattered with drifting lanterns that floated aimlessly through the air, each carrying a small, flickering flame within — a soul's light, she realized.
And before her spread a city unlike anything she had ever seen.
The City of the Dead stretched endlessly, a strange, beautiful contradiction. Gothic towers loomed like cathedral spires, their edges glinting faintly with bronze and copper pipes that exhaled soft steam. The streets were cobbled with dark marble, lined with iron streetlamps burning blue fire. The air carried the scent of smoke, old metal, and something faintly sweet — like incense at a funeral.
It was haunting. Yet it was alive.
Amara blinked, trying to comprehend it all. The underworld — the place mortals whispered about in fear — looked almost… civilized. Stalls crowded the sidewalks, merchants selling vials of shimmering soul fragments and strange trinkets that pulsed faintly with energy. Steam-driven carriages rumbled by, pulled by skeletal horses whose eyes burned faint blue. Spirits floated through the crowd, translucent and murmuring, their faces half-forgotten.
It wasn't chaos. It was society — the afterlife, structured and breathing in its own eerie rhythm.
Amara stood before what looked like an apartment complex. The stone building rose five stories high, its windows glowing faint amber from within. Somehow, she knew this place was hers. She didn't know how, or why, but something deep inside whispered: home.
She stepped forward, brushing her hand against the cold railing by the door, grounding herself. Her reflection glimmered faintly on the metal surface — except her eyes seemed darker now, almost hollow. And her hair, though still peach, had dulled to a softer hue, like color fading from an old painting.
She exhaled slowly. "So this is death."
Her voice sounded strange here — as if the world absorbed the sound instead of echoing it back. For a long while, she simply stared at the city. The underworld wasn't what she'd expected — no lakes of fire, no tortured wails, no monsters dragging souls into pits. Just… people. Living their second lives.
After a moment, that quiet sense of purpose — the same instinct that had guided her to the scythe — tugged at her again. A pull, faint but insistent, brushing against her soul like a thread winding around her chest.
It was telling her to move.
She didn't fight it.
Amara began walking through the streets, weaving between ghosts and reapers and beings she couldn't begin to name. Eyes followed her — some curious, some fearful, some reverent. She caught glimpses of herself reflected in shop windows, the small scythe still attached to her hand like a mark of destiny. It pulsed faintly with dark energy, the bone handle smooth and the blade gleaming with an inner void.
Whispers rippled around her.
"Is that a new reaper?"
"No… look at her scythe. That color—"
"She shouldn't even have that thing…"
Amara kept her gaze forward. Whatever they thought, she didn't care. Her path was clear — at least, as clear as it could be in a world like this.
The pull led her deeper into the city, where the buildings grew taller and the streets wider. Eventually, she reached an enormous square surrounded by arched gateways. Beyond them lay an open field — or what resembled one. The ground was dark, glinting faintly with ash and obsidian, and the air shimmered with faint, floating motes of light.
Dozens — no, hundreds — of figures trained there.
They moved with precision, each one wielding a scythe. Some scythes gleamed metallic silver, others glowed faintly green or red, and some were as dark as void. Amara noticed the difference immediately: the instructors' scythes were massive — two meters at least — while the trainees' were shorter, more compact, like hers.
The clang of metal echoed across the field. Sparks flew. Souls cried faintly from within the blades.
It was mesmerizing.
Amara stepped past the archway — and instantly, the air changed.
All motion stopped.
Hundreds of heads turned toward her.
She froze as the weight of their stares pressed against her — heavy, almost tangible. She could feel their scrutiny, the mixture of shock and disbelief written in their faces. For a moment, she thought it was her hair, or her eyes. But no — it was the weapon in her hand.
The moment their gazes fell upon the scythe's jagged, bone-white blade, a ripple of unease ran through the crowd. Some whispered. Others took a step back. Even the instructors paused mid-motion.
She swallowed hard, refusing to shrink beneath the attention.
Then, cutting through the silence, a voice rang out — light, clear, and almost musical.
"You must be the new one."
Amara turned. A young woman was walking toward her, her steps light but confident. Her hair shimmered faintly blue, tied in a short ponytail, and her eyes glowed with a faint violet hue. In her hand, she held a tall, translucent scythe — its blade like glass, refracting the dim red sky above.
The woman stopped in front of Amara, studying her openly before smiling. "You look lost. I'm guessing you just arrived?"
Amara nodded. "A few minutes ago, I think."
The woman chuckled softly. "That tracks. You've still got that 'where the hell am I' look on your face." She extended her hand. "Name's Lyra. I'm your instructor."
Amara blinked, caught off guard. "Instructor?"
Lyra grinned, swinging her glass-like scythe effortlessly before resting it on her shoulder. "That's right. Every new soul with reaper potential gets assigned to one. And congratulations — you've been fast-tracked, apparently. I was told to expect someone… unusual." Her gaze flicked to the bone-white weapon on Amara's arm. "Guess I understand why."
Amara glanced at her scythe. "People were staring," she murmured. "Is it because of this?"
"Mm." Lyra's smile softened, but there was curiosity in her eyes. "Reapers can tell when a scythe's not ordinary. Yours is—" she paused, searching for the right word. "—different. It feels… old. Heavy. Like it's remembering something."
Amara didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.
Lyra didn't seem to mind. She gestured toward the field. "Come. Let me show you what you've just gotten yourself into."
They walked together through the ranks of trainees, most of whom pretended to resume practice but kept sneaking glances their way. Lyra's scythe hummed faintly, leaving trails of light as she walked.
"Everyone here," Lyra began, "is in some stage of becoming a Grim Reaper. We're what you'd call the guardians of balance — keepers of death's flow. We don't cause death, but we make sure it happens as it should. Every reaper's strength lies in their scythe — and every scythe is as unique as its wielder."
They stopped near a circular arena, ringed with carved obsidian stones. The faint shimmer of barrier magic lined its edges.
Lyra turned, raising her scythe slightly. "The reaper's weapon grows with its owner. It's not just a tool — it's a reflection of your soul. There are ranks, of course… markers of growth."
She lifted her free hand, ticking them off with her fingers as she spoke, her tone casual but proud. "Bone. Iron. Obsidian. Soulsteel. Eclipsed. Astral."
Her eyes flicked toward Amara again. "Six ranks. Each harder to reach than the last. Your scythe right now—" she gestured to it "—is bone. That's where everyone starts. But it feels like it's hungry already, doesn't it?"
Amara hesitated, then nodded slowly. The scythe did hum faintly against her skin — a pulse, soft but steady, as though it was breathing through her.
"To rise through the ranks," Lyra continued, "you feed it souls. The first three ranks — Bone, Iron, Obsidian — all require soul absorption. The more you harvest, the stronger it becomes. But once you reach for Soulsteel…" she trailed off, her eyes gleaming. "That's when it gets interesting. You'll need to master your aspect."
"My aspect?" Amara echoed.
Lyra's smile turned secretive. "That's not something I can tell you. Not yet. It's different for everyone — something you have to discover yourself. Usually through trial. Or pain."
Amara's fingers tightened slightly around the scythe handle. Quiet determination settled into her chest. "Then I'll find it."
Lyra studied her for a moment — then nodded approvingly. "Good. I like that look in your eyes. You're not afraid."
Amara didn't respond. She wasn't sure if she was fearless or simply too numb to feel it anymore.
Lyra gestured toward the arena. "Let's begin, then. You're late to training, but we'll make up for it. I want to see how your body moves with the scythe."
Amara stepped forward, the weapon at her side. The other trainees had returned to their drills, their movements fluid and practiced, the rhythm of blades cutting through air like a heartbeat. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
The bone handle of her scythe felt alive — warm, even comforting. The blade glimmered faintly as if responding to her touch.
Lyra's voice came soft, guiding. "Don't think of it as swinging a weapon. Think of it as listening to it. Let the scythe guide you. Death doesn't move with anger, Amara. It moves with purpose."
Amara nodded once.
She shifted her stance, right foot forward, scythe held diagonally across her body. The world seemed to narrow — the murmurs fading, the air stilling. Her heartbeat slowed.
She felt the weight of countless souls pressing faintly around her, a chorus of whispers in the wind. The pull in her chest — that same thread that led her here — pulsed once, steady and sure.
She exhaled.
And swung.
The motion was smooth, instinctive. The scythe cut through the air with a sound like a sigh — and from its edge, a faint ripple spread across the arena, distorting the light for an instant before fading.
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, Lyra smiled.
"Not bad," she said softly. "For your first swing… death itself paid attention."
Amara lowered her weapon, her breath steady, her gaze fixed on the faint shimmer that still lingered in the air.