Nero did not lose himself in his thoughts. Mr. Powell had not finished speaking, and Nero listened carefully.
"Once you become a Reaper," the old man said, "and if your Reaper Core is strong enough, you may continue forming bonds with spirits of the Underworld that stand on humanity's side."
A pause followed—brief, deliberate.
"However," Powell continued, "you will also gain the ability to defeat and force a bond with Necros."
A ripple of unease spread through the classroom.
Powell raised a hand and gestured toward the massive black, horned bear spirit resting on his left shoulder. Its thick fur shimmered faintly with dark energy, and its single horn curved forward like a jagged blade. Several students scowled openly. Others clenched their fists, anger flashing across young faces.
It was natural. Humanity was still at war with the fiendish spirits of the Underworld.
The bear spirit merely yawned, revealing rows of blunt, powerful teeth, utterly indifferent to their hostility.
Powell did not reprimand the students for their reaction. Instead, his voice deepened, resonating with authority and weight that pressed against their chests.
"Once bonded," he said, "a Necros becomes your Guardian Spirit. You can treat it as a slave, but every Reaper who chooses that path ends up dead."
The room fell completely silent.
"At the very least," Powell continued, "treat it as a weapon. Maintain it. Temper it. Understand it. A well-cared-for weapon will repay you a hundredfold on the battlefield."
The horned bear lifted its head slightly, as if acknowledging the words.
Seeing that his message had landed, Powell moved on.
"When it comes to strength," he said, "the most basic measurement is Reaper Rank. That rank reflects the evolutionary state of your Reaper Core. However, your power is only one side of the coin."
He raised a finger.
"You must also consider the number of Guardian Spirits you possess—and the Rank of each."
Nero barely dared to blink. Though he had read much of this information in books, hearing it from an actual Reaper carried a different weight. These were not theories. These were truths written in blood.
Unfortunately, the Reaper Class was brief. Barely twenty minutes after it began, Powell dismissed them and exited the classroom without ceremony.
As the bell rang, Nero gathered his things and slipped his backpack over his shoulder. Before he could leave, a group of students approached him. One of the girls—tall, with chestnut hair tied into a neat ponytail—smiled toward him.
"Hey, Nero," she said. "We're going out for lunch. Want to come with us?"
For a moment, Nero smiled back. Like any young man his age, he enjoyed company. He enjoyed laughter. He enjoyed feeling normal.
Then the smile faded.
"Sorry," he said gently, shaking his head. "I have obligations. Thanks for the invitation."
"Oh… I see," the girl replied, offering a complicated smile before rejoining her friends.
As they walked away, Nero still caught fragments of their whispers.
"He's always so introverted."
"I heard he takes care of his mom—she's in a coma. And his brother's crippled."
Nero ignored it. He had long since learned not to waste energy on gossip. He had far more important things to do.
Leaving the school grounds, he broke into a light run toward a massive parking lot in the distance. Several large trucks waited there, their sides marked with bold lettering.
UNDERWORLD CLEANING
"Just in time," a middle-aged man leaning against one of the trucks said with a chuckle. "You're a fast brat."
Nero grinned as he climbed inside.
The truck's interior was crowded. Nearly a dozen people sat within, all of them older than Nero—some by decades. Scarred faces, heavy builds, and hardened expressions marked them as veterans of dirty work.
"Nero, over here."
A bald old man with a broad grin waved him over. Every tooth was visible when he smiled.
"Old Smiley," Nero said as he sat beside him. "Aren't you supposed to be resting your back today?"
Old Smiley laughed loudly. "Ha! I'm still more than capable of pulling my weight. Don't worry about me, brat."
The truck rumbled to life, accelerating faster than Nero expected. Even so, it took nearly an hour to reach their destination.
When the trucks finally slowed, conversation died instantly. Serious expressions replaced casual banter as everyone stood and began changing.
Nero did the same.
Without his loose school uniform, his body told a story. His arms, legs, and back were lean and tightly packed with muscle—strength forged through labor rather than training halls.
He locked away his clothes and stepped into a sealed suit resembling a hazmat uniform, reinforced at the joints and layered with filtration systems. Once everyone was ready, one of the men struck a panel near the rear.
The truck doors opened.
Nero stepped out along with the others.
Before them stretched what had once been a forest. Now it was a wasteland. Trees lay splintered and blackened. Ash coated the ground like snow. The air reeked of iron and rot.
Corpses littered the battlefield.
Some were small, no larger than chickens. Others were monstrous—hulking shapes the size of elephants, twisted beyond recognition. Mars's flora and fauna were already alien compared to Earth's, but these creatures were something else entirely.
They were Necros.
Fiendish spirits from the Underworld that had crossed into the physical world—and died here.
Nero's gaze lifted toward a distant cliff. Figures stood atop it, silhouettes sharp against the sky. His eyes glowed faintly with awe.
Reapers.
They were the ones who had fought. Who had slaughtered the invaders.
Nero clenched his fists.
His job was not glorious. He would not fight today. He would clean the battlefield—neutralize remaining energy, prevent Necros remains from corrupting the land and air, and stop an environmental disaster before it could begin.
Taking a deep breath, Nero set to work.
Heavy machinery roared as he and the others began dismantling the larger Necros corpses. Hydraulic cutters tore through twisted flesh and bone, separating limbs before the remains were hauled and dumped into reinforced containment trucks. The work was brutal, methodical, and exhausting.
It was also dangerous.
Direct exposure to Necros residue could poison the body, corrupt the mind, or worse. Normal civilians were never allowed anywhere near sites like this. That danger was precisely why the pay was so high.
And why Nero needed it.
With the money he earned here, he could open a path toward becoming a Reaper.
Those born with high innate Mana could attune to Guardian Spirits without difficulty. Spirits sought them out eagerly, competing for the chance to form a bond. For someone like Nero—born with a low Mana level—the situation was reversed.
Spirits would never choose him willingly.
However, there were alternatives.
Certain Reaper organizations offered… assistance. For the right price, a contracted Reaper could help subdue a defeated Necros and force it into a bond.
The process was known as a Proxy Bond—dangerous, unstable, and infamous for its risks.
Many who attempted it died.
Others survived, but paid a terrible price.
Still, it was the only viable path for someone like Nero.
That was why he worked so hard.
If he could save enough, he might be able to buy the aid of a Reaper and take his first step. And if he became a Reaper, he would be one step closer to helping his family.
"I'm already sixteen," he thought as he dragged another massive limb toward the truck. "My body and mind are finally mature enough to bond with a spirit. I need to succeed before my next birthday."
Hours passed.
By the time the last remains were secured, Nero's muscles burned and trembled with fatigue. Sweat soaked his undersuit, and his hands ached from constant strain. Still, he welcomed the pain. The work kept him in peak physical condition—something he believed would matter if he ever fought Necros himself.
When the trucks finally rumbled back toward the city, exhaustion settled deep into his bones.
After returning to the parking facility, Nero said goodbye to Old Smiley and the others, then jogged home under the dim glow of Mars's artificial lights.
His apartment was small, tucked inside a residential block. It lacked luxury, but it was clean, secure, and warm. That was enough.
After a quick meal and a long shower to scrub away the stench of ash and blood, Nero headed down the hallway toward his room, his body aching and his eyelids heavy.
He had nearly reached the door when a sharp voice stopped him.
"Nero."
He froze.
Turning slowly, Nero forced his expression into something neutral and stepped into the room beside the hall. When he opened the door, he saw a man in his twenties with strikingly handsome features, short black hair, and piercing eyes. His arms and chest were packed with muscle—clear evidence of relentless training.
But Nero's gaze drifted immediately to the wheelchair.
His chest tightened, and frustration appeared in his heart.
Nathan sat upright, his posture proud despite his condition. His sharp eyes locked onto Nero's.
"You should stop taking those jobs," Nathan said.
Nero clenched his fists.
He stared at his body without flinching. It was the gaze of someone who had faced hardship and refused to break—a will that had been tempered by years of struggle.
Yet Nathan's gaze was no less imposing.
Despite his disability, he had never succumbed to self-pity. He continued moving forward, adapting, refusing to surrender.
"With my engineering work," Nathan continued, "we can live well. Soon, we'll be able to move Mom to a better facility. If you want to work, that's fine—but don't make the same mistake I did."
Nero's jaw tightened.
"Proxy bonding put me in this chair," Nathan said quietly. "I won't let the same thing happen to you."
Rage flashed across Nero's face.
"If those cowards had honored their agreement," he snapped, "you wouldn't be sitting there!"
Normally, Nero was composed. Calm. But when it came to his family—and those who had wronged them—his restraint cracked.
Nathan shook his head slowly.
"It was my mistake," he said. "I trusted them. I can't change the past—but I can make sure the people I care about don't repeat it."
Nero said nothing.
He had immense respect and admiration for the man his brother was. But his eyes remained resolute, unyielding.
"This is my path," Nero said at last.
Nathan released a quiet sigh and nodded.
"Then walk it carefully."
With no more words exchanged, Nero left the room and returned to his own. He lay down, closing his eyes and forcing his body to rest.
Tomorrow would be important.