While the twins explored the limits of their cursed evolution in the living realm, far beyond time and flesh, the Soul Reapers gathered in their eternal dimension—a realm carved from oblivion itself.
They stood like sentinels of shadowlight, each wielding a scythe unlike any other, forged not from metal but from memory, regret, and death itself. Colors that didn't exist in the mortal world shimmered from their blades—crimson that pulsed with sorrow, silver that wept with time, obsidian that swallowed hope. And among them, one presence eclipsed the rest.
She stepped into the gathering without a word, her aura so dense it warped the air around her. The others whispered her legend behind hollow masks—the first human ever to become a Soul Reaper. The one who killed Death's own son. Some feared her. Others envied her. All watched her.
The Grand Gathering was held within the hand of a titanic stone god. Its fingers reached skyward like a crown, and in its open palm was carved an entrance—wide and inviting, yet humming with judgment. The light from the Reapers' auras glowed across the palm, casting dancing shadows like ancient spirits whispering forgotten names.
"Hi! My name's Rolo. I've heard so much about you," said a cheerful-looking Soul Reaper, approaching her with an outstretched hand and a smile that didn't belong in a place like this.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she walked past him and entered the stairway—one that flowed downward like a river of black bone, moving on its own.
"You're such an intriguing Soul Reaper," Rolo continued, unfazed. "You're the first human in history to join our ranks. And you killed Death's son! That's insane! You realize how rare that is? Death is one of the Seven Horrors. You're practically myth at this point. I'm honestly kind of jealous."
She continued her descent, saying nothing.
"What gave you the strength to become one of the toughest Soul Reapers here?" Rolo asked again, curiosity peaking.
"My children," she replied coldly.
He blinked. "Your… children? But that's not possible. Once you become a Reaper, you can't visit the living world without dire consequences. Unless—wait, did you select them as contenders? But… we're only allowed one—" He paused, his fingers flickering with spectral light. "Let me just check your live feed—"
"You're getting too nosy, Rolo," she warned as they stepped onto a floating circular platform. It rose silently, lifting them into a hovering arena above the palm.
"Ha! Don't worry. I'm harmless. You need at least one friend in this forsaken place." He grinned. "My contender landed on the Vampire Continent. He's number one on the leaderboard right now. Calls himself God. Wanna hear his origin story?"
"No."
"Alright, fine, but I'm telling you anyway. His real name's Chong Ling. Came from a place called Earth—China. Studied all the major religions, watched followers destroy each other in their gods' names… then decided he wanted to become God."
"Sounds like a walking pile of unresolved envy issues," she muttered.
Rolo laughed. "Exactly."
"Welcome, novice Soul Reapers," came a voice layered in echo, as though it reverberated through both reality and memory. "Please take your seats. The assembly is about to begin."
One of the Seven Horrors stood at the center—a skeletal titan with wings made of swirling dust and fractured halos.
"Wow," Rolo whispered, eyes wide. "I've never seen so many Reapers in one place. Look—those are the Seven Horrors."
She looked up. The Horrors sat in a semi-circle, throned above like forgotten gods. Their presence distorted the very air—time slowed, emotions sharpened, and the soul shivered under invisible pressure.
"There—that one's the strongest," Rolo whispered again, pointing. "The one covering his eyes. Rumor is if you see his eyes, you cease to exist. No death. No afterlife. Just—gone."
Suddenly, the Horror with covered eyes turned their way.
And beside the woman, a little boy appeared.
"Rolo…" she said slowly, "are children allowed at this gathering?"
"No. There are no children in this world."
"Mother," the boy whispered, clutching her hand.
Her breath caught. "There's a boy beside me. He… just called me Mother."
Rolo looked around, confused. "I don't see anyone. Are you okay?"
"You don't see him?" Her eyes rolled back. Her body went still.
She drifted into a dreamstate—a misty world where sound was muffled and reality bled into memories. The boy's cries echoed in the fog:
"Mother, help me! Mama!"
He stood before her—naked, bloodied, pierced with stakes. His eyes held unbearable pain.
"Please… don't leave me again."
"Hey!"
Rolo shook her shoulder. "Wake up! Snap out of it!"
She gasped, returning to herself.
"That was… something else. I saw a tortured child. What the hell does that mean?"
"I know what that was," Rolo said darkly. "The First Horror. He has a power involving illusions… often takes the form of a child. He must've noticed us speaking about him."
"Great," she muttered, gripping her scythe tighter.
"He won't harm you. Not now. The one speaking is the Second Horror. The Third is Death—the one whose son you killed."
"Silence!"
The Second Horror's voice thundered like the cracking of planets. "Novice Soul Reapers, you now walk a path shaped by pain and conquest. Long ago, our kind devoured souls to grow stronger. But we reached too far. We were cursed. Now, we cannot consume souls directly."
A pale mist seeped from his mouth as he spoke.
"To bypass the curse, our ancestors captured a primordial fairy and bound it into the core of the System—a force that channels souls from your contenders to us. You Reapers are the middle ground. When your chosen kills, we reap. For every three souls collected, one flows to the Horrors. You thought you'd keep them all?"
He chuckled. "Fools."
At that moment, Death rose.
His eyes locked onto the woman who had slaughtered his son. With no warning, he raised his hand.
A translucent sphere engulfed her.
In an instant, she vanished from the assembly—teleported into Death's domain.
She landed in a realm of agony—an endless plain of crucified souls, their screams silent but ever-present. Skies of fire, rivers of ash, and winds made of moans.
Death stood before her, wrapped in robes of shifting smoke and sorrow.
"You killed my son," he said, his voice not loud, but deep—like the weight of time itself.
"A human. A speck. And yet, you defied me."
He raised his hand. The pressure intensified. Her knees buckled. A purple liquid began to seep from her eyes.
"Kneel."
She dropped to the ground, her bones cracking under the sheer weight of his aura.
"Before I tear your soul apart, I want to see how you did it. How a fragile, mortal insect destroyed my blood."
He placed his palm on her forehead. Her body trembled as her memories were laid bare beneath his wrathful gaze.