CHAPTER 1

The rain poured relentlessly over a small cemetery on the outskirts of town. Glenn stood silently, watching his own coffin being lowered into the ground. It was his funeral. Not many people had come. His only family member present was his grandmother—his parents had died when he was a child. A few acquaintances from school attended, though Glenn hadn’t been close to them. They were likely there out of respect. As depressing as it sounds, Glenn wasn’t sad. It was more than he ever thought would show up.

Even his last day on Earth hadn’t been special. Like any other day, he got up, chose from the same three outfits he always wore, said goodbye to his grandmother, hopped on a bus, went to school, came home, and repeated the cycle. His life had been on autopilot—mundane and unremarkable, which, in a way, explained his death. He was hit by a car. A death as ordinary as his life.

No one spoke during the funeral. One by one, the attendees left until only Glenn remained. He’d never given much thought to the afterlife, but this was not what he’d expected. He tried to get the attention of the others, but no one could see him. Alone, he wandered over to his gravestone. It read:

“Glenn Garcia. A nice man.”

His entire life summed up in three words: A nice man.

Disheartened, Glenn wandered through the graveyard, reading the headstones of others who had passed. All these lives were now reduced to a few lines etched in stone.

“A good father and loving husband.”

“A life well lived.”

“A creative artist known for beautiful paintings.”

One gravestone caught his eye:

“Rage against the dying of the light.”

“It’s from a poem,” a soft voice said behind him. Glenn turned to see a woman with pale, serene features. Her hair was as dark as the night sky, and her storm-gray eyes seemed to hold unspoken emotions. She stepped closer, standing beside him.

“I know it,” Glenn replied. “From Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. A plea to fight death—to live with defiance.”

“They rage because they love,” the woman said. “And yet, when the night comes, it isn’t cruel or gentle. It simply is. Their defiance is beautiful, but their peace would be too, if they’d accept it. Death doesn’t rage back—it simply waits.”

“Who are you?” Glenn asked.

“My name is Mora. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

“Meet me? Why? There’s nothing special about me.”

“You are every man and no man, Glenn. You are what the world truly is—simple, fleeting, and yet worthy. Your mother believed every living thing was special. You see yourself as forgettable, but you are the thread that holds the fabric together. The stars are not the universe; it is the sky that holds them.”

“My mother? You knew my mother? Where is she?” Glenn’s voice wavered.

“Your mother…was murdered. She is gone from existence.”

“What? How?!”

“That’s for you to find out. But I must go now. They’re here.”

The air turned colder, heavier, as if time itself slowed. The cemetery, already quiet, grew still and eternal. Glenn felt an overwhelming presence.

A figure emerged from the mist. His head was that of a sleek, black jackal, with sharp, dignified features accented by gold. His glowing amber eyes were intense and calculating. He wore a flawless black suit, adorned with faint Egyptian hieroglyphs. A gold ankh pin rested on his lapel, and a briefcase hung at his side.

“It’s time, Glenn,” the figure said. “Your judgment awaits. We can make this swift or a process. Your choice.”

Glenn glanced back, but Mora had vanished. He turned to the figure. “Who are you?”

“Come on—jackal head? No respect for the elders anymore. I’m Anubis. God of Death. Overseer of souls, shepherd of the scales, and—depending on context—your case manager. I’m here to escort you to the afterlife. You should be afraid unless you plan to run. Then...” He gestured to his briefcase, which glowed with a dark aura. “You should really be afraid.”

“I don’t wish to fight,” Glenn said. “I’ll go willingly.”

Anubis sighed, as though disappointed. “Fine. A wise choice.”

As Anubis led Glenn through the misty cemetery, the world dissolved—not violently, but seamlessly, as though they’d stepped through an invisible doorway.

They emerged into a vast, otherworldly chamber suspended between realms, neither light nor dark. The air was still and sacred, and every sound seemed to echo softly, as though the room itself listened.

At the heart of the chamber stood a massive glowing set of scales. One side held a delicate golden feather—the Feather of Truth. The other side was empty, waiting for Glenn’s soul. The scales hovered in the air, shimmering with an ancient light. The chamber stretched into an endless void where faint stars flickered like forgotten souls.

“This is where souls are judged, Mr. Garcia,” Anubis said. “The scales don’t err. Your heart—or, in this case, your soul—will determine whether you are worthy of peace or punishment. If the feather moves up, punishment. Down, peace. Step up to the podium. Let’s see the highlights of your life.”

Behind the scales, faint monitors flickered, displaying moments from Glenn’s life. Glenn stepped up to the podium, feeling exposed, as though every secret and forgotten moment of his life was on display.

“Behold!” Anubis exclaimed.

Glenn stared at the monitors. Nothing happened.

“Hmm. This has never happened before. Step off the podium and back on.”

Glenn complied, but still nothing.

Anubis sighed. “Hermes!”

A small woman suddenly appeared beside Glenn, her glowing shoes catching his eye.

“Yes?”

“Fetch Techlops,” Anubis instructed.

She vanished and reappeared moments later with a cyclops in a rumpled shirt and tie.

“What seems to be the issue?” the cyclops, holding a laptop, asked.

“The scales aren’t working,” Anubis said.

After troubleshooting with no results, Anubis sighed. “Pull up the best moment of his life.”

The monitor flickered, showing Glenn eating cereal while watching a bootleg copy of Avengers: Endgame.

“This?” Anubis groaned. “You didn’t even watch it in theaters!”

“Pull up the worst moment,” Anubis demanded.

The screen changed. Glenn was again eating cereal, this time watching the Game of Thrones finale.

“The season 8 finale? Really?” Anubis exclaimed. “Where’s the rest of your life?”

“That’s all there is,” Techlops muttered.

Frustrated, Anubis dismissed him. “The scales don’t know what to do with you. Has anything exciting ever happened to you?”

Glenn hesitated. “Well, besides Endgame…”

Anubis’s glare silenced him. “No, I guess the first extraordinary thing was meeting you…and Mora.”

Anubis froze. “Mora? Are you sure? Describe her.”

“Pale, black hair, gray eyes. Kind.”

Anubis leaned in, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Mora. This changes everything.”

“Change of plans. I offer you a choice,” Anubis began. “I can call Management to pass judgment on you; however, I must warn you, they are rather... strict. Or, I can offer you a job. Perfect balance is a rarity, Mr. Garcia, and it suggests you are not yet finished. There is... potential. So, I offer you this: become one who guides others through the threshold. A Reaper.”

“A Reaper? Like the Grim Reaper?” Glenn asked.

“Precisely. Follow me.”

Anubis turned and began walking away. Glenn hesitated for a moment, then quickly stepped down from the podium to follow. A swirling portal opened before them, and Anubis stepped through. Without much thought, Glenn followed.

They arrived in an office. Glenn stopped in his tracks, confused. The space stretched endlessly, filled with impossible angles and corridors that looped and spiraled unpredictably. At the front desk stood a polished and professional assistant, resembling the Hermes-like creature he’d seen earlier. The assistant juggled glowing scrolls, ethereal tablets, and a constant stream of visitors. The entire assistant pool buzzed with activity, Hermes-like figures darting from desk to desk, carrying glowing messages.

Behind them loomed a massive directory board, updating itself in real-time to show the locations of every Reaper and department head. Glenn’s eyes lingered on a name he recognized: Charon.

As they walked, Glenn passed cubicles filled with an odd assortment of figures. It was like seeing every Reaper from mythology and religion gathered in one place. Most were skeletons, but others appeared more human-like. All of them stared at him as he passed.

He peeked down hallways marked with signs pointing to HR, IT, Management, Loading Dock, Lounge, Marketing, and Earth.

“Welcome, Mr. Garcia, to the Bureau of Reaper Operations,” Anubis announced. “Unofficially referred to as The Office. This is where the living and the dead intersect with... Management. Our primary objective is simple: to ensure that souls transition smoothly from life to death. Reapers are the frontline operatives, and this office supports their mission. Think of it as the glue that holds the afterlife together—or perhaps the duct tape, in some departments.”

“And where do souls go after that?” Glenn asked.

“To Management. Heaven or Hell. Elysium or Tartarus. Valhalla or Niflheim. The Great Beyond. Choose whichever name suits you. We’ll never know.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you accept the role of Reaper, you’ll never be allowed past this point. Management keeps us here. Interaction with them is rare, and when it happens, it’s usually the last time anyone sees you. Let’s keep moving.”

Anubis gestured toward a hallway. “Ah, Human Relations. Managed by demons—because who better to handle complaints, disputes, and, shall we say, difficult personalities? You don’t want to get sent there. They specialize in cruel torture. Even the name is misleading—‘Human Relations.’ They are anything but. They work for Management. Remember that.”

He pointed to another department. “Over there, you’ll find IT, staffed by Cyclopes and Gremlins. The Cyclopes handle server maintenance, metaphysical system upgrades, and anything requiring brute force precision. The Gremlins? They thrive on chaos—troubleshooting problems and, occasionally, creating them just so they can fix them. We’ve learned to live with it.”

He sighed, continuing. “The assistants you’ve seen—modeled after Hermes himself—are the lifeblood of this place. Swift, efficient, and occasionally infuriating, they handle scheduling, soul logistics, and last-minute adjustments. They’re never late.”

They stopped in front of a door marked Director.

Anubis led Glenn into the office and gestured for him to sit. He placed his briefcase on an ornate altar-like desk, then opened a drawer to retrieve a photograph of three women.

“Was the woman you spoke to one of these?” Anubis asked.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Glenn pointed to one. “Yes, that one. Mora.”

Anubis looked perplexed. “There’s an old story. I don’t know if it’s true. In the beginning, there was only Life and Death—the original Management, if you will. Life thrived, and Death was overwhelmed. To restore balance, Death created three daughters. Mora, the Sister who takes your final breath; Nyra, the Sister who guides souls; and Lytha, the Sister of Silence—the end itself. What we do now is essentially their work. But no one has ever seen them. Even here, in a realm of deities, they’re a myth.”

He paused, gripping his briefcase. “If Mora appeared to you, there’s a reason. Call me curious, but I want you to work for me as a Reaper. It’s this, or you can interview with HR for a spot in Heaven. Be warned, though—interviews are part of their torture. They’ll keep you interviewing endlessly for a position you’ll never get.”

“Wow, that’s evil,” Glenn said.

“They stole the idea from you humans,” Anubis replied. “Now, before you protest, consider this: you were given no great purpose in life, no grand legacy. This is an opportunity to create meaning beyond what you believed yourself capable of. To rise above... mediocrity. And, truthfully, it will help me uncover why Mora spoke to you.”

Glenn hesitated but eventually said, “I accept.”

Truth be told, this was the first exciting thing that had ever happened to him. He’d been sold the moment he saw the office. And, for the first time, someone wanted him to be part of a team—even if that team was run by the God of Death.

“Really? No questions? Well, great,” Anubis said, walking over to his briefcase. He opened it and shouted, “Canis! Get in here!”

The door creaked open, and in walked a figure that looked like Death itself—a skeleton draped in black robes, seemingly floating. Its empty eye sockets stared at Glenn... and then, it smiled.

“Oh, sorry, boss!” the skeleton said with a chuckle. “I was just so excited! This is the most exciting thing to happen in ages! We haven’t had a human Reaper in... when was the last time? Oh well! Hi! I’m Canis. Glenn, right? Pleased to meet you! They say I have so much personality it's like I have three heads all with their own.”

The skeleton extended its bony hand and shook Glenn’s enthusiastically.

Canis looked over at Anubis. “Don’t you worry, I’ll get him all caught up. Come on, Glenn. You’ve already stayed in Anubis’s presence longer than most.”

Glenn glanced back at Anubis as he was whisked away. Canis and Glenn began walking. And walking. And walking some more. Glenn felt like they had been at it forever when, finally, far in the back of the office, they stopped.

“Here we are,” said Canis.

“Alright, rookie, listen up. Being a Reaper? It’s not just a job—it’s a calling. And by calling, I mean no one else wanted to do it, so congratulations! You’ve been voluntold.”

He chuckled, his jaw rattling slightly, then leaned in with exaggerated seriousness.

“First rule: Reaping isn’t about killing people. They’re already dead. Why did they die? Not our problem—that’s Management’s territory. No, our job is simpler: we guide souls. Escort them to wherever they’re supposed to go. Think of us as celestial taxi drivers—except no tips, no snacks, and no five-star reviews.”

He continued, “Next, you’ll need a scythe. Yeah, it’s cool and all—big, sharp, dramatic—but it’s more than that. It’s like... an extension of your will. Think of it as your Swiss Army knife of death. It cuts ties, opens doors, and even makes a great backscratcher in a pinch. You’ll learn to love it. As you get better, you can shape it to fit your style. All scythes start the same but evolve with their wielder.”

“Souls are... complicated. Some are like, ‘Thank you, kind Reaper, for guiding me!’ And others? Full-blown existential meltdown. Pro tip: don’t take it personally. Most of them are just freaked out about dying—can’t blame them, right? I mean, you were freaking out, what, a day ago?”

“If they go peacefully, just guide them to the chamber. But if they don’t want to go—that’s what the scythe is for. See, they’re dead, so they don’t have a body. But scythes? They’re made of the same stuff souls are. Don’t ask me how; that’s a Management thing. Go watch How It’s Made: Scythes or something.”

He smirked before continuing. “When you sever the soul’s tether to the mortal plane, the scythe acts like a magnet, collecting the soul. Then, you bring the scythe to the chamber, and voilà—you’re done. Honestly, the worst part? The paperwork.”

At that moment, an assistant came running in, dropped off a folder, and darted away.

“Do those things have names?” Glenn asked.

“They never stick around long enough to find out,” Canis replied. “Anyway, let’s see who you got!”

He opened the file and skimmed through it while Glenn stood anxiously. His mind raced—who would it be? Could he do this? What if it was a child or someone he knew? How could he convince them to move on?

Canis slid a photo across the desk. “Here you go. Mr. Nibbles. He lives in Central Park, in a tree near the east side.”

Glenn stared at the photo, confused. “A squirrel?”

“Of course. Did you think we’d start you off with humans?” Canis burst into laughter. “You’re not ready for that. This should be super easy. Squirrels aren’t afraid of death—just humans.” He glanced at Glenn, realizing he looked very human. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Canis grabbed an ID badge from his desk, slipped it around his neck, and led Glenn toward the IT department.

The IT department—known as the Reaper’s Forge—was an enormous hall, dimly lit by glowing embers and swirling wisps of energy. The smooth black stone floor was etched with faintly glowing runes that hummed as Glenn walked across them. The air was alive with energy, carrying whispers and the distant clang of metal on metal. Mist swirled along the ground, illuminated by the glow of ancient, supernatural forges scattered throughout the chamber.

At the heart of the room, master smiths—Techlops artisans and tinkering Gremlins—crafted the scythes.

Glenn and Canis approached a familiar face: the same Techlops Glenn had seen earlier.

“Hey, how’s it going, Techlops? What’s new? Get it? Because you’re the IT department?” Canis leaned closer to Glenn and whispered, “I just figured out what IT stands for.”

The Techlops barely glanced up. “Did you put in a ticket?”

“Ticket? This literally just happened. Special case from the boss,” Canis said.

Glenn smiled. “Your name’s Steve, right?”

The Techlops grinned, surprised Glenn remembered. “It is. But it’ll take time to craft a scythe for this ‘special case.’ For now, just borrow one of the temporary ones on the rack.”

Canis led Glenn to a wall of scythes in various shapes and sizes. Some were small and designed for dual wielding, while others were so massive they seemed fit for giants.

“These are temporary scythes,” Canis explained. “You can use them if yours ever needs repairs or upgrades. They come from Reapers who are... no longer with us.”

“No longer with you? Like dead? How can a Reaper die?” Glenn asked.

Canis hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not death. It’s... an end. Oblivion. Eternal silence. There are two ways it happens. First is Management—you never want to be called up or down there. The second? Some souls really, really don’t want to move on. If left on the mortal plane, they grow stronger, destroying other souls and becoming too powerful for an average Reaper. That’s when an Elder Reaper steps in.”

He listed them off: “Charon, the Ferryman. Yami, the Shinigami. Hildr, the Valkyrie. Maeve, the Banshee Queen. Baron Samedi, the Voodoo Lwa. La Parca, the Spanish Reaper. There are others. You know what? Just stay away from everyone. Yeah, that’s safest.”

Glenn scanned the rack, unsure what to choose. He finally grabbed one that fit his image of a Grim Reaper’s scythe and seemed the right size.

The scythe was plain and utilitarian, with a slightly weathered shaft of old polished wood. Faint cracks glowed faintly, pulsing with hidden energy. The blade was smooth, sleek, and understated, with faint etchings that hinted at some deeper power.

“That one, huh? Alright. Let’s do this!” Canis said, leading Glenn back toward the front desk.

Behind the desk were three doors. One was labeled Upper Management, tall and radiant, made of glowing white-gold material that shimmered like sunlight on water. Another was labeled Lower Management, dark and foreboding, crafted from blackened iron with glowing red veins, like molten cracks in stone. The final door, labeled Earth, looked entirely ordinary—like the door to a closet.

“Upper Management handles the good souls. Lower Management, the bad. And Earth? Well, you know Earth—you’re from there! To access it, you’ll need a key from the front desk. Never, and I mean never, go through the other two doors. Even if they say they have an ‘open-door policy.’ Do. Not. Go. Got it? Good. Let’s move. I’ve already got the key.”

Canis pulled out a badge from around his neck and held it up to the door labeled Earth.

“That’s an Oni by the Management door and a Troll by the Earth door. They’re used for security—mainly for souls. Management has a different force to handle Reapers. You’ll see the Oni and Trolls patrolling the grounds from time to time. Now, get ready.”

Glenn waited with anticipation. What kind of magic was about to happen? But nothing did.

“It’s a door, Glenn. You have to open it. And here, put this on—your new black cloak.”

Glenn hurriedly grabbed the cloak from Canis and walked to the door. “Sorry, I thought something was going to happen.”

“Like what? A snake slithers across the wall, and the door turns into a glowing portal? We run a smooth operation here, Glenn,” Canis said.

Glenn couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not. Either way, they both stepped through the door. Glenn emerged from a small brick building in Central Park, on 65th Street, and almost got hit by a car.

“Oh, wait. We can’t get hit because we’re dead, right?” Glenn asked.

“They can’t see us, but we can definitely mess up this planet. Humans will think it’s a natural disaster, but it’s usually one of the elders fighting,” Canis explained.

They walked deeper into the park. It was a calm, crisp day, with children playing, joggers running, and leaves rustling in the trees. The serene atmosphere contrasted with Glenn’s nervous energy as he fiddled with his new scythe, trying to figure out how it worked. He glanced at the file again. The target was listed simply as: “Nibbles, Squirrel, Central Park.”

“How are we supposed to find a squirrel here? It’s like a needle in a haystack.”

“Your badge will always unlock the door to Earth, and the file will always take you to the closest door to the soul. So all you have to do is look for something ghost-like or out of the ordinary.”

Glenn scanned the park and finally spotted Nibbles perched on a bench. The squirrel looked hilariously innocent, struggling to chomp on a peanut but unable to grip it properly. Glenn glanced back at Canis for confirmation.

Canis nodded. “Well? Go get it! Chase it! Run! I love chasing squirrels. GO, GO!”

Glenn sprinted after Nibbles, scythe in hand, weaving through startled parkgoers. He tripped over a baby stroller, narrowly avoided colliding with a cyclist, and got tangled in a dog leash. Nibbles spotted Glenn and glared angrily, staying just out of reach. It darted up trees, leaped across branches, and paused occasionally to taunt Glenn with chirps and tail flicks. The squirrel climbed down by a fountain to sip water but still struggled to drink.

“Alright, buddy, no more games. Let’s do this the easy way. Don’t you want to go to the afterlife?” Glenn raised his scythe, trying to figure out how to “sever the soul” of a squirrel without hurting it—or looking ridiculous.

But Nibbles had other plans. The squirrel lunged at Glenn’s face, claws outstretched. Glenn yelped, dropping the scythe as Nibbles scurried up his arm, tugging at his hood. Glenn spun in circles, trying to shake it off, and tripped over a park bench, landing flat on his back. Nibbles perched triumphantly on his chest, chirping angrily and making rude gestures.

Just as Glenn managed to snatch up the scythe again, he caught a glimpse of Mora—one of the Three Sisters of Death—walking gracefully through the park. She looked radiant and mysterious, entirely out of place in such a mundane setting.

While Glenn was distracted, Nibbles seized the moment. The squirrel grabbed the scythe with its tiny claws and darted up a tree. Glenn snapped out of his trance just in time to see the glowing blade disappearing into the foliage.

“Wait—NO! You can’t just—HOW DID YOU EVEN LIFT THAT?!”

The squirrel paused on a high branch, holding the scythe aloft like a trophy. It shrank to fit Nibbles’s size before disappearing into the canopy.

Glenn looked over and saw Mora still there, waving him closer.

“What are you doing, Glenn? It’s getting away!” Canis shouted.

“Over there! Don’t you see her?” Glenn responded, getting up and running toward Mora. She stood behind a tree in a meadow. As he approached, the air grew still and cold. Glenn slowed to a walk.

“Hey again,” Mora said with a smile.

“Hi—uh, hi. Mora, right? Anubis says you’re some ancient, powerful being. What do you want with me?”

“Even now, you’re so innocent. You don’t see it, do you? The enormous power you have inside you. The scales were not accurate, Glenn. They couldn’t measure who you are.”

“I’m just a guy—an average guy who stumbled into this mess!”

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The weight of this role? The pull of something greater, even when you didn’t ask for it?” Mora stepped closer, touching his cheek. “What if I told you your death wasn’t an accident? That all this was set in motion by powers you will soon face?”

“Everyone’s got the wrong guy! Did you not just see me get beat by a squirrel? Oh, crap—my scythe! It has my scythe!” Glenn blurted out.

“Do not worry about that scythe. The office will be very pleased with you today. What I’m about to give you is more than a weapon—it’s a piece of me. It belongs to you.”

“I am the Sister of Silence. With my scythe, every soul I meet takes their final breath. I’ve guided countless lives, witnessed fear, relief, anger, and peace. Now... it’s my turn.”

“There’s no fear in this—only purpose. Death isn’t the end; it’s a release, a quiet promise to those left behind. I’ve always known my last breath would not be for another but for myself. And I find peace in that.”

“You can be that kind of Reaper, Glenn. Be there when they’re scared. Be a punching bag when they’re angry. A shoulder to cry on when they’re sad.”

“But what will happen to you?” Glenn asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’ll be with you in every swing of this blade, in every soul you guide.” Mora grasped the scythe with Glenn, her form beginning to fade as its energy flowed into him. She glanced at him with a faint smile, her final thought clear:

I see it in him—the strength he doesn’t even know he has. He’s awkward, unsure, so very human… but within him burns the spark of death’s purpose, the weight of the cycle we all serve.

A faint smile crossed her lips.

“Life is a series of breaths... but the last one is always the most important. It’s yours now.”

“Mora! No! Come back! You didn’t have to—” Glenn shouted, but she was gone.

In an instant, with Glenn’s hands wrapped around the scythe, he felt a surge of energy rush through his entire body. It was like touching raw, unfiltered power—lightning coursing through his veins, igniting every nerve.

The scythe pulsed faintly, as if alive, and Glenn felt an indescribable connection to the cycle of life and death. He could sense the fragile threads binding souls to the living world, the delicate balance Mora once protected.

Canis came running into the scene, snapping Glenn out of his trance. “Glenn. Glenn, what the fuck just happened? Oh no. Look at this place! How did you do this? Wha—what is it? Whose scythe is that?”

Glenn looked around. There was a five-foot radius around him where everything—plants, animals, and even insects—was dead. Mostly squirrels, but any other animals that happened to be nearby had also perished. No humans were harmed, but Glenn was in shock.

“What—what have I done?” he stammered.

Chapter 1.1

Nibbles watched as Glenn and Canis hurried back to the door they had come through. Canis seemed desperate to get Glenn out of there. Nibbles observed everything: Glenn with his new scythe, Canis pulling out a badge, and the two of them walking through a strange door.

Curious, Nibbles scurried down from his perch to investigate. He waited for the next human to approach the door and watched as they vanished after using a badge.

Nibbles quickly realized it was the badge that led them somewhere different. Souls have no brains, so they aren’t limited by the same capacity for learning as living creatures.

Determined, Nibbles climbed back up the tree and grabbed the scythe. He was excited to show his wife and friends his shiny new toy. He hurried back to his home, which was close to where he had fought the "evil Glenn."

As he neared, Nibbles caught an unfamiliar scent in the air. It was the smell of death. His nose twitched, and he ran toward it.

When he arrived, his eyes widened in horror. His family and friends lay dead in a field. He fell to the ground, overcome with sorrow, and cried out in a series of anguished squeaks.

The scythe began to pulse. Nibbles stopped crying and stared at it, mesmerized. Slowly, he stood up and grabbed it with a disturbingly human-like grip. He walked toward the lifeless bodies of the squirrels. The closer he got, the more intensely the scythe pulsed.

Nibbles touched the tip of the scythe to one of the squirrels—it was his friend Nutty. Nutty’s soul rose from the body, smiled at Nibbles, and was drawn into the scythe. Nibbles understood instinctively and quickly went from one body to the next, collecting the souls of his family and friends.

Finally, he reached the last one: his wife.

Nibbles hesitated, unable to bear the thought of letting her go. But he wanted to see her one last time. He gently laid the scythe on her body. Her soul rose, smiling warmly at him. They embraced briefly before she faded into the scythe.

When the last soul entered the blade, a surge of power radiated from Nibbles. A black robe materialized over his small frame, and his eyes glowed red for a moment before returning to normal.

He was no longer Nibbles.

His name was Deathnibbles, and he would have his revenge.