Chapter 2

There was a quiet calm when Glenn arrived back at the office.

Do the other Reapers already know what happened? Glenn wondered as he glanced around nervously. He looked over at Canis, who was scanning the room.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Canis shrugged.

“Glenn. Come with me.”

Anubis appeared, a demon standing silently beside him.

“Sir, if I can say something—I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—” Canis stepped forward, trying to plead with Anubis.

“It’s fine, Canis. Go back to your desk and wait for Glenn’s return. Glenn, we’re going to take a little trip to HR.”

Gasp. All the Hermes assistants froze mid-task, their glowing scrolls and tablets hovering in the air. They stared wide-eyed until Anubis growled. The assistants scattered instantly, buzzing back to their tasks.

The walk to HR was silent. Neither Anubis nor the demon spoke as they made their way down the dimly lit corridor marked with a sign for Human Resources. The hallway stretched endlessly, oppressive yet strangely orderly. A faint tune, reminiscent of elevator music, played in the background. Its cheerfulness was so out of place that it felt like a cruel joke, mocking the terrified new arrivals.

They passed an empty reception desk with a small sign:

“Ring for help. Or call 666.”

A lost soul stood nearby, trying futilely to use the phone. When it didn’t work, the soul hit the bell again, and the number on the sign changed. The soul was dressed in ancient tribal clothing, a sign it had been waiting for an unthinkable amount of time.

The group continued past rows of cubicles where demons worked tirelessly. The HR demons wore sharp, tailored suits—professional yet unnervingly ominous. Their skin tones varied: deep red, shadowy black, ashen gray, or even glowing ember-like patterns. Their coal-burning eyes and flicking tails completed their unsettling appearance. They smiled constantly, but the smiles were far from friendly.

At one desk, a demon waved a clawed hand impatiently over a towering stack of glowing complaint forms, which promptly burst into flames, disappearing as though they had never existed. Motivational posters adorned the walls:

“Your soul matters.”

“Embrace the burnout.”

“It takes a team to reap.”

“Every soul counts.”

Lower Management souls sat at desks, pleading with demons in a futile lottery system to be transferred to Upper Management.

“Please, this is the six thousand two hundred fifty-second time I’ve applied,” one soul begged.

“I know,” a demon replied smoothly. “We had some very strong candidates in this pool. You were one of the top, but unfortunately, we’ve chosen a more qualified candidate. We urge you to apply again.”

As Glenn passed, the souls and demons alike turned to stare—not at him, but at the scythe he carried.

Finally, they reached the end of the hallway and stopped at a door marked:

Director of Human Resources

The demon escort opened the door. “Lilith will see you now.”

Glenn entered the HR office, the scythe gleaming faintly in his hand. The air grew heavier as Lilith looked up, her sharp eyes locking onto the weapon. She sat behind a grand obsidian desk, her posture relaxed, though her presence was anything but. Glowing sigils on the walls pulsed faintly, as if reacting to her.

“Anubis. It’s been a long time,” Lilith said coolly.

“Well, it’s a good thing if you never see someone from HR, right?” Anubis replied with a faint smirk.

“Well, well,” Lilith said, her gaze shifting to Glenn. “If it isn’t our newest Reaper, parading around with a shiny new toy.” She gestured toward the scythe with a flick of her onyx-glinting nails.

“Tell me, Glenn, do you even know what you’re holding?”

“It’s… Mora’s scythe. She—she gave it to me,” Glenn said, looking down at the blade, unsure if he should feel proud or intimidated. “She trusted me with it.”

Lilith let out a sharp laugh. “Trusted you? Oh, sweet boy, trust has little to do with it. That scythe… it’s more than a weapon. It’s a symbol, a legacy, and, quite frankly, a burden. Management is trying to figure out what to do with you, and that means you’ve become my problem. Everything must have a place, Glenn, and I run a no-nonsense department. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to see a lot of you. So why shouldn’t I just send you to Lower Management now and save myself a future headache?”

Glenn hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “Because for the first time in my life, I want something. When I touched this scythe, I caught a glimpse of what I could become. How death can be peaceful. You accepted me into the ranks, and no one has ever trusted me before. I want to make you proud and become the best Reaper ever.”

Glenn’s words hung in the air, a confident lie.

The truth was far more complicated. Glenn didn’t just want to be the best Reaper—he wanted answers. Answers about his mother’s death. Answers about whether his father was still out there. In his short time in the underworld, Glenn had already sensed something was off. He knew the only way to uncover the truth was to rise through the ranks, and that meant making it to Upper Management. The only way there was through promotion.

Anubis stood silently in the corner of the room, his jackal-headed figure immaculately composed, arms crossed as he watched the conversation unfold. His sharp golden eyes shifted between Lilith’s predatory smirk and Glenn’s nervous grip on the scythe. The faint hum of the blade resonated through the room, like a whisper of Mora’s presence. Though silent, Anubis’s thoughts were anything but calm.

Lilith continued, “Are you ready to carry it? To wield it? Because Management will be watching. And so will I.”

“I… I’ll do my best. Mora believed in me,” Glenn replied.

“Belief is a dangerous thing, Glenn. It inspires greatness… or leads to downfall.” She folded her hands, her tone sharpening.

“Let me make one thing clear: that scythe doesn’t make you special. It makes you a target. Reapers with shiny new toys tend to attract attention—from Management, from souls, and from things far worse. I actually am old enough to remember the Sisters of Death. They will not take the news of their sister’s demise lightly. And they will blame you.”

“Blame me? I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want any of it. But I’m here now, and I’m going to figure it out,” Glenn said firmly.

“Ah, the reluctant warrior. So cliché, yet so… amusing. Think of it from their perspective. Their sister is dead, and you have her scythe. The other two? Let’s just say they’re not nice. The last time I saw them, they nearly killed me. Keep that in mind before you start swinging it around like a hero.”

“Lilith, enough.” Anubis finally spoke, his deep voice steady. “The boy understands the gravity of his burden. There’s no need to twist the knife.”

He turned to Glenn, his tone softening slightly, though it remained firm. “Glenn, Mora chose you not because you are ready, but because she believed you could become ready. Hold fast to that belief—it may be the only thing that sees you through.”

Lilith let out a quiet huff. “Fine.” She pulled out a stack of folders. “Management wants to put that scythe to the test. In the reaping world, there are five tiers at which souls are ranked.”

She began listing them:

“Tier one are everyday souls with no supernatural powers or significant resistance. They are often ready to move on or resigned to their fate.”

“Tier two are stubborn souls—those with strong emotional attachments to the living world. They refuse to leave their families, loved ones, or unfinished business behind, driven by emotions like regret, guilt, or anger.”

“Tier three are supernatural souls—those with abilities or ties to magic, mythology, or powerful entities. These might include mythical beings, spirits, or individuals tied to the underworld. Some surviving Reapers are ranked tier three.”

“Tier four are mythical souls—gods, demigods, or legendary beings with immense power and deep connections to the mortal or spiritual realms. Anubis and I are ranked tier four.”

“Tier five are cosmic souls—beings tied to existence itself. Reaping them could disrupt the balance of life and death. Mora was a tier five.”

Lilith fixed her gaze on Glenn. “In these folders are tier three souls needing to be reaped. Management wants to test your worth and that tier five scythe of yours. Go through this folder with Anubis. Pick one and reap that soul. Do this, and you might just get the promotion you desire.”

“Tier three?!” Anubis interrupted, his voice rising. “Did you even read the report? He couldn’t reap the soul of a squirrel and got his scythe stolen! I’m still dealing with that! Why not start him on tier two?”

“Management was very clear. Tier three.” She turned to Glenn, her smile sharp. “And, Glenn, understand this: failure will result in your termination from the Reapers. Now go. I have some souls to… deal with.”

As Glenn walked out, gripping the scythe tighter than before, Lilith watched him with a mixture of curiosity and cold calculation. She knew the significance of Mora’s choice and what it meant for Management.

“A mortal with that kind of power… how quaint. Let’s see if he rises… or burns.”

Anubis and Glenn walked back toward Glenn’s desk, the folder in Anubis’s hands. Anubis studied Glenn carefully, his posture relaxed, but his mind sharp.

The boy is scared, as he should be. Fear keeps him grounded… for now. But beneath that nervous exterior, there’s something more. Mora saw it. I can see it too—a spark, faint but persistent.

Anubis tilted his head slightly, watching Glenn’s grip tighten on the scythe.

He doesn’t understand the power he holds—or the burden. Not yet. But perhaps that’s for the best. Too much knowledge too soon would crush him. Mora’s sacrifice wasn’t just about Glenn. It’s about something bigger, something Management is undoubtedly watching closely.

They reached Glenn’s desk, and Canis was waiting.

“Hey, guys! How was the meeting with HR? I hope things didn’t get heated. Get it?” Canis quipped. Neither Anubis nor Glenn laughed.

“Tough crowd. No one has a sense of humor down here. What do you got there, boss?” Canis gestured toward the folder.

“You and Glenn are to reap a tier three soul,” Anubis said sharply.

Canis’s jaw literally fell off his skull. “T-tier three, sir? But I’m a rank two at best. And Glenn—Glenn couldn’t even handle a squirrel!”

“I know. But this comes from Management. I want you to take Glenn to Maeve. Have him seek her advice for his first assignment. She may be able to help.” Anubis dropped a folder on Canis’s desk.

“Who is the assignment?” Canis asked, reattaching his jaw. He opened the folder. “C-Cú Chulainn?! Sir, he’s only tier three because he’s not a god, but some say his power rivals tier four. No Reaper has ever returned from reaping him!”

“I’ll do it,” Glenn said firmly, gripping his scythe. “If this is what it takes.”

“Glenn, sorry, but you have no idea. And Maeve? You don’t want to meet her. She’s spooky! She gives me chills just thinking about her.”

“Maeve was present at Cú Chulainn’s death. She can provide insight into the reap—and maybe explain why she hasn’t done it herself. Glenn, you may not see it yet, but you stand on the precipice of something extraordinary. Whether you fall… or rise… will depend on the choices you make now. I’m choosing to put my faith in you. Don’t let me down.”

Meeting Maeve

Glenn and Canis walked toward the elder Reapers’ offices. They stopped in front of a door with “Maeve” etched in frosted lettering. The door appeared frozen, encased in a layer of shimmering ice.

“This is as far as I go,” Canis said.

“You’re not coming with me?” Glenn asked.

“Oh, no, no. Elders don’t like, well… me. I’ve got a bit of a reputation for talking too much. But good luck!” Canis knocked on the door and bolted.

As Glenn stepped inside, the temperature dropped sharply. The floor, made of polished black stone, was smooth as glass and cold to the touch. Glowing runes flickered faintly, their light reflecting off the surface, giving the illusion of an endless expanse beneath his feet.

Candles, seemingly made of solidified mist, flickered with pale, cold flames, casting light but no warmth. One wall was dominated by a massive spectral harp, its strings vibrating faintly with an eerie melody. Shelves filled with ancient tomes, glowing crystals, and delicate artifacts from Irish mythology lined another wall.

Across from Maeve’s desk sat two elegant but uncomfortable chairs, ensuring visitors didn’t linger longer than necessary.

Maeve, seated at her imposing desk, glanced up, her silvery hair shimmering in the faint light. Her piercing, icy blue eyes locked onto Glenn, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, as if the walls themselves were leaning in. Her gaze was unrelenting, as though she could see directly into his soul.

Her hair flowed like a ghostly veil, silvery-white and alive, moving slightly even without a breeze. Maeve’s pale, almost translucent skin glowed faintly, as though lit by moonlight. Her presence was haunting, cold, yet captivating.

She wore a tailored Reaper uniform—dark, elegant, and embroidered with subtle Celtic patterns in silver and faint glowing runes. Over her uniform, a cloak reminiscent of traditional Irish mourning attire completed her banshee-like aura.

“Don’t just stand there, Glenn. Take a seat… unless you think this Reaper life doesn’t suit you.” She gazed at him from head to toe. “Glenn Garcia, wandering into my corner of the afterlife. What a surprise.”

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“I… uh… I need your advice. It’s about Cú Chulainn. They—they want me to reap him,” Glenn stammered as he nervously took a seat.

Maeve’s expression barely changed as she repeated the name, her tone contemplative. “Cú Chulainn.”

“Who is he?” Glenn asked.

“A name that echoes through the history of my land. A hero. A warrior. A man who defied gods and mortals alike. And now they send you—a fledgling Reaper—to claim his soul? Fascinating.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly get to pick my assignments. But, uh… he’s been avoiding being reaped for a long time, right? Why is that?”

“Because Cú Chulainn is no ordinary soul, Glenn. He was destined for greatness in life, and that greatness lingers in death. Heroes like him do not simply ‘let go.’ They cling to their purpose with a ferocity that defies time itself. He died standing, tied to his own sword, refusing to fall even in death. That stubbornness, that defiance—it’s what made him a legend. And it’s what makes him your greatest challenge.”

“Why my greatest challenge?” Glenn asked.

“Your resolve—what is it?” Maeve asked sharply.

“To be the best Reaper,” Glenn replied, trying to sound confident.

Maeve’s cold laugh echoed softly. “No. That won’t do. You will surely die.”

“So… how do I reap someone like that? He’s not just gonna let me walk in and take his soul,” Glenn pressed.

“No, he won’t. Cú Chulainn is a warrior, Glenn. To reap him, you must face him on his terms: combat. But it won’t be enough to simply swing your scythe and hope for the best.” She gestured to the scythe in his hands.

“That weapon’s past no longer matters. It is your legacy, but it won’t protect you from his Gáe Bolg—the spear that never misses. You’ll need more than strength to defeat him. You’ll need wit, patience, and respect.”

“Respect? Patience? You mean… I can’t just take him by force? This scythe is supposed to be top-tier,” Glenn said, glancing at the blade.

“To take him by force would dishonor him. And dishonor, Glenn, would only make him fight harder. Approach him with respect. Show him you understand the weight of his legacy, the pain of his sacrifices. Only then will he see you as worthy. Then you’ll learn why Cú Chulainn has avoided being reaped for so long. Or perhaps… Management will send someone else to clean up your mess. That is all the advice I have to give.”

As Glenn stood and headed for the door, Maeve’s voice stopped him cold.

“I have one more bit of advice.”

Glenn jumped, startled. Maeve had moved silently, her presence now directly behind him. She seemed to glide through the mist as she approached.

“Not all souls should be reaped just because Management tells you so. Cú Chulainn is not your enemy, Glenn. He is a soul longing for peace, though he will never admit it. Give him that peace, if you can. But tread carefully. Legends don’t die quietly.”

Glenn left the office with a chill, unsure if it came from the coldness of the room or Maeve’s words.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Canis teased, meeting Glenn in the hallway.

Back at their desks, Canis grabbed his scythe and badge, along with an extra badge.

“Oh, here you go, Glenn. You’re official now. This badge will get you through the portals,” Canis said, handing it over.

“You ready?” Glenn asked.

For the first time, Canis wasn’t joking. “No. Knowing you is going to get me killed.”

As they walked toward the portal, Canis skimmed the file.

“Grr. This guy supposedly ate a dog! Okay, I’m all in to reap this guy.”

“Let me see that file,” Glenn said, snatching it. “It says he was tricked.”

“Doesn’t matter. He still did it,” Canis replied.

When they reached the portal, Canis held up his badge, and Glenn followed suit. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Glenn noticed the sleeping Oni and Troll, different from the ones he’d seen before.

“Is this doing anything?” Glenn asked, holding up his badge.

“Just open the door,” Canis muttered.

Glenn took a deep breath and opened the door, following Canis inside.

Glenn stepped out of a small house in County Louth, Ireland. Clouds blanketed the sky, and a calm breeze rustled the fields. Green stretched as far as the eye could see.

“What if there were no doors?” Glenn asked suddenly.

“Hm?” Canis looked back.

“Do we always come through doors? What if we need to go somewhere that doesn’t have one?”

Canis groaned. “Are you the type who asks a bunch of questions during movies?”

“What?” Glenn asked, confused.

“I hate when people try to make sense of things right before the action starts. You just discovered gods and monsters are real. You got assigned to reap a demigod. And you want to know about portal transportation? Do you also pause Harry Potter to ask why wizards can’t fix their eyesight but can heal bones instantly?”

Glenn frowned as though he wanted to ask about Harry Potter, but he read the room. “Fair enough. I’ll stop.”

“Great. Now let’s go die. The file says he died in that field over there by that stone.”

They arrived in a vast, windswept field marked by overgrown grass and jagged stones. At its center stood a crumbling monolith—the place where Cú Chulainn had tied himself to die standing.

Glenn’s scythe began to pulse.

“This was a battlefield,” Glenn stated.

“How do you know?” Canis asked.

“The scythe. I can feel it. That’s the stone where he tied himself to die standing, fighting until his last breath.”

As they approached the stone, Canis knocked on it. Nothing happened.

“How does this work? Where is he?” Glenn asked.

“Usually, they’re just lurking around. I’ve never reaped a tier three. Maybe he’s not such a big shot after all.”

Glenn’s scythe pulsed harder. He and Canis exchanged a wary glance.

“Cú Chulainn! I’m here for your soul! Your time in this realm is over!” Glenn shouted, raising his scythe.

The weapon sent out a wave of spiritual energy, which reversed and crashed back into the scythe, leaving an eerie calm in its wake.

Canis tried to speak, but his breath was sucked from him. The air grew still until they both heard…

“Who dares disturb the Hound of Ulster?”

The ground trembled slightly, and the monolith began to glow. From its base, spectral chains—thin, glowing, and faintly metallic—rose into the air, pulsating with energy. The mist stilled for a moment before exploding outward in a gust of wind. A figure began to take shape, materializing out of the mist. His form seemed forged from the very essence of the battlefield, shimmering with ghostly light. He was tall and imposing, glowing faintly with an ethereal blue-green hue. His body radiated power, his muscles chiseled, and his stance unwavering.

His eyes burned with an intense, fiery light—embers of a warrior’s spirit that refused to die.

Spectral and semi-transparent, ancient Irish battle armor rose from the field, flying toward him. The pieces clung to his body, adorned with intricate Celtic designs that pulsed faintly like veins of energy. The ground shook, and the earth cracked open. From the fissure emerged the Gáe Bolg, his iconic weapon, which flew into his hand. The spear gleamed with an otherworldly red glow, humming with deadly energy, as if alive.

Fully materialized, Cú Chulainn planted the Gáe Bolg into the ground with a thunderous sound.

“We are so fucked,” Canis blurted out, then paused. “Hey, I can talk again!”

“I have stood for centuries, guarding this land and my honor. Countless men have fallen before me, and none have dared to claim my soul. Tell me, strangers—what makes you think you are worthy?”

Glenn stepped forward, gripping his scythe. “I never said I was worthy. I’ve been assigned to take your soul, and I’m prepared to do what it takes to bring you back.”

These words angered Cú Chulainn. “Pathetic. I see no conviction in you. If you wish to take my soul, you must prove your worth—not just as a Reaper, but as a man with honor and resolve. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Glenn.”

“And I’m Canis!”

Cú Chulainn glanced at Canis with mild disdain.

“This battle is between men. Begone.”

He waved his hand, and the ground rumbled, opening once more. From the fissure emerged his horse, Liath Macha, followed by a chariot driven by his best friend, Laeg. The chariot charged toward Canis and whisked him away.

As Canis was dragged off, he yelled, “Glenn, don’t let the spear pierce you! It’s instant death!”

Cú Chulainn turned back to Glenn, his fiery gaze unrelenting.

“Very well, Glenn the Reaper. Let us see what kind of warrior you are.”

Cú Chulainn struck first, the Gáe Bolg glowing red-hot as it arced through the air with terrifying precision. Glenn barely raised his scythe in time, the blades colliding with a deafening clang that sent sparks flying. The force of the impact sent Glenn stumbling backward, his boots skidding on the misty ground. He coughed, blood spattering from his lips.

Blood? But I’m already dead, Glenn thought, panic rising.

Cú Chulainn lunged again, spinning the Gáe Bolg in a deadly arc toward Glenn’s legs. Glenn leaped back at the last second, the spearhead grazing his robe and leaving a faint scorch mark.

Without giving Glenn time to recover, Cú Chulainn reversed his grip and thrust upward. Glenn twisted his body, raising the scythe in a desperate block. The spear slid along the curved blade with a shrill metallic screech. The force of the blow sent vibrations through Glenn’s arms, nearly making him lose his grip. His hands shook, bruising from the sheer impact.

“See? You have some fight in you after all!” Cú Chulainn bellowed, seemingly pleased. “But a true warrior strikes with purpose. Your hesitation will be your undoing!”

Cú Chulainn fought with grace and precision, every movement deliberate and honed. Glenn, by contrast, fought clumsily but began to feel the scythe respond to his will, as if urging him to push forward.

Gripping the scythe tightly, Glenn stood his ground.

“Why do you fight? Is it duty to the Reapers? Fear? Do you even know what you want? Without purpose, you are nothing more than a shadow—and shadows cannot claim the Hound of Ulster.”

Glenn gritted his teeth. “I didn’t come here to claim you or to be lectured. I came to fight.”

Cú Chulainn’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of approval. “True honor is not in the battles you fight, but in the purpose behind them. Fight for something greater than yourself, and you will never falter.”

“I—I am!” Glenn shouted, swinging his scythe for the first time. But Cú Chulainn easily parried the attack, knocking the blade aside.

Cú Chulainn took the offensive, striking blow after blow, still lecturing. “You hesitate because you do not know yourself! You wield a weapon of great power, yet you do not believe in your own strength. Tell me, Glenn Garcia—what do you fight for?”

As Cú Chulainn’s spear rushed toward him, Glenn finally confronted his fears. In that moment, he realized he didn’t just want to be a Reaper out of duty—he wanted to honor the lives he took, to bring peace to the souls he guided, and to uncover the truth about his family. And, most importantly, he wanted to live. Becoming a Reaper had made him feel alive for the first time.

Glenn parried the spear with newfound confidence, his voice steady. “I fight for the people who can’t fight for themselves. I fight to bring peace to people like you. I fight because it’s my choice, and I won’t give up!”

As Cú Chulainn prepared another strike, Glenn found his footing. With a surge of determination, he swung the scythe in a wide arc, the blade glowing faintly as it cut through the air.

Cú Chulainn blocked with the Gáe Bolg, the weapons locking together in a clash of raw energy. The spectral chains binding Cú Chulainn to the monolith rattled violently, responding to the force of the clash. Glenn pushed harder, forcing Cú Chulainn to take a step back.

For the first time, a flicker of approval crossed the hero’s face.

Cú Chulainn feints with a high strike, then sweeps the Gáe Bolg low, catching Glenn off guard. The spear’s shaft slams into Glenn’s ribs with a dull thud, sending him sprawling to the ground. Glenn gasps for breath, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

Cú Chulainn towers over him, his glowing eyes fierce but not cruel. As Glenn scrambles to his feet, Cú Chulainn allows him to recover, standing with the poised stillness of a warrior who respects the fight.

Glenn touches his ribs and stares at the blood on his hands. “You know, I read your file. You speak of resolve, but your resolve isn’t without flaws! You talk of honor, but your honor led to the death of your own son!”

Cú Chulainn’s fiery eyes dim slightly. “Aye. My son, Conlaoch. I killed him with my own hand, not knowing who he was. My rage blinded me, and it cost me everything.”

“Not just your son, but the sons and fathers of others. The same ones who ultimately brought about your death—men who were only a province away. Do you know what’s become of this land? How opposing sides both use your name as a banner for war?”

“I fought for my people, for my home,” Cú Chulainn replied, his voice firm.

“Was your son not your home?”

Glenn finds his rhythm. His movements become less frantic and more deliberate. He sidesteps Cú Chulainn’s thrust and counters with a sweeping slash of the scythe. The blade glows brighter than before, connecting with Cú Chulainn’s spectral armor and leaving a faint, shimmering gash across his chest. Cú Chulainn grunts but doesn’t falter, his grip on the Gáe Bolg tightening.

Cú Chulainn spins the spear, its glowing tip creating arcs of light as it cuts through the air. He thrusts forward, and Glenn parries, the scythe catching the spear mid-strike. Their weapons lock again, and this time, Glenn doesn’t back down.

The scythe feels like an extension of Glenn’s will, its glow intensifying as his confidence grows. Cú Chulainn’s strikes remain powerful, but there’s a subtle shift—Glenn is no longer just surviving; he’s fighting.

Cú Chulainn leaps into the air, bringing the Gáe Bolg down in a devastating overhead strike. Glenn braces himself, raising the scythe in both hands to block. The weapons collide with a blinding flash of light, the shockwave shaking the ground beneath them.

“I am not from your land,” Glenn says, his voice steady. “I won’t pretend to understand your feelings about protecting it. But long after you died, more outsiders came and occupied this land. The fighting never stopped. When peace was found in one place, war began in another. It happens all over the world. But I can be there. In their anger and sorrow, I can say, ‘You’ve done enough.’ With this scythe, I can silence their pain.”

Cú Chulainn studies Glenn’s face, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he leaps backward, shifting his grip on the Gáe Bolg. He readies the spear to throw.

“No one has ever survived my spear,” he says. “Glenn, this is it. Show me your resolve.”

Cú Chulainn gathers all his strength, his energy radiating so fiercely that the chains shackling him begin to break. His eyes glow with a warrior’s rage. With a deafening scream, he thrusts the Gáe Bolg at Glenn.

Glenn doesn’t dodge or cower. He stands his ground. The scythe reacts to his will, its blade meeting the spearhead mid-air. The impact drives Glenn back, his boots skidding against the ground. Gritting his teeth, Glenn reaches deep within himself. Something inside him refuses to give up—something that burns with the desire to live.

As he screams in defiance, Glenn’s eyes ignite with fire. The flames spread across his face, but there is no pain. The fire becomes part of him, glowing so brightly that his face is obscured. When the flames dim, Glenn wears a black skull mask, radiating an immense, unearthly presence.

With newfound strength, Glenn thrusts the scythe upward, flinging the Gáe Bolg high into the air. The spear spins before crashing to the ground. Glenn pivots and swings his scythe like a baseball bat, sending the spear flying back toward Cú Chulainn. The weapon pierces Cú Chulainn’s spectral form, throwing him back and pinning him to the monolith.

Coughing blood, Cú Chulainn grins. “You’ve found your fire. And in doing so, you’ve reminded me of my own humanity. Perhaps… it is time for me to rest.”

Glenn approaches and nods in appreciation for the lessons he’s learned. He touches the scythe to Cú Chulainn’s chest, reaping his soul. The glowing scythe hums with purpose as the battlefield grows quiet. The chains binding Cú Chulainn vanish, and the Gáe Bolg dissolves into light. Cú Chulainn’s form fades, merging with the scythe.

Glenn stands tall, more resolved than ever. He now understands his role as a Reaper—not as a curse, but as a choice. A chance to make a difference.

The sky begins to clear, blue peeking through the clouds. Glenn collapses against the monolith, his mask dissipating into thin air. He lets out a heavy sigh, staring up at the slow-moving clouds. “Finally. Peace.”

“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” A voice echoes across the field.

“Heyyyyyyy!” Canis comes running toward Glenn. “Holy shit. I just got my ass kicked. How was I supposed to fight a ghost chariot? It just kept running me over, again and again. And that damn horse kept kicking me too! Then, poof—they vanished. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Did you win?”

Glenn nods with a tired smile. “I’m exhausted. How is that possible? I’m dead, and I’m bruised and bleeding.”

“Oh, you still have a body,” Canis explains. “People can’t see you, but when you’re in the mortal plane, you have a physical form. It operates on a different wavelength, one that lets you surpass normal human limits. But you can still die. You don’t lose your body until your soul is reaped. If you’re killed by a tier 1 or 2, or even in a natural accident, you just get sent back. But tier 3 to 5 souls—or Management—they can reap you. Then you’re gone. Forever.”

Glenn laughs weakly. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me that beforehand.”

Canis helps Glenn to his feet, draping Glenn’s arm over his shoulder. “Let’s get you back.”

As they head toward the portal, Canis asks, “So, how was the fight? Did you call him a dog eater?”

Glenn chuckles but doesn’t reply. Together, they step through the portal and vanish.

The field was eerily calm. A light wind blew, but the tall grass swayed unnaturally, as if something unseen was walking through it. The movement drew closer to the cracked monolith. From the shadow of the stone, darkness began to shift and form a figure.

The figure wore a black cloak as dark as the night sky, its edges merging seamlessly with the shadows around it. Slowly, the hood lowered, revealing a woman.

It was Nyra of the Shadows, the sister of Mora. Her long, dark hair cascaded like ink, and her pale, almost glowing skin stood in stark contrast. Her black, mirror-like eyes reflected the truths of a soul.

“You were here, weren’t you, Sister?” Nyra said softly, touching the monolith. The shadows of the grass and stones stretched and crawled toward her like loyal subjects.

The sky darkened as clouds swallowed the sun and any trace of blue. From the shadows, Liath Macha, Cú Chulainn’s spectral horse, rose. Nyra placed her hand gently on its head, stroking it.

“Tell me what happened here.”

The shadows whispered their answer. Nyra’s expression shifted from curiosity to fury.

“What? A mortal… wielding her scythe? Impossible. What did he do to her? What lies did he tell?”

Her anger rippled outward, darkening the sky further until it seemed like night. Rain began to fall, as if the heavens themselves mourned Mora.

“Mora deserved better than this. Better than being reduced to a weapon in the hands of a mortal.”

Nyra looked back at Liath Macha. “You miss your master. Do not worry. Come—I will take you to him. And after that, I will find this boy and rip the scythe from his hands myself!”

A smirk played on her lips. “He won’t even see it coming.”

She spun, flinging her cloak wide. The shadows enveloped both her and the horse, and they vanished into the darkness.

Chapter 2.1:

Deathnibbles saw New York in a whole new light. Souls were everywhere, abundant and in all shapes and sizes. He only had to wait to see a Reaper emerge from a door to claim one. But every time a Reaper stepped through, hoping it would be Glenn, it was someone—or something—else. And every time Deathnibbles tried opening a door himself, there was nothing on the other side.

Frustrated, he searched high and low across the city. He attempted to communicate with wandering souls but had to flee whenever a Reaper approached. Deathnibbles decided to bide his time and study. He would master his newfound power. To do that, he needed to think like a Reaper—figure out how they moved and operated.

It didn’t matter how long it took. He would never give up.

He observed Reapers guiding some souls with care, while others were swiftly slashed and absorbed into their scythes without a word. Each time a Reaper absorbed a soul, Deathnibbles felt his own scythe pulse, as if it liked it. That gave him an idea.

He was going to hunt a Reaper.

Deathnibbles noticed a pattern: Reapers who dealt with human souls were more compassionate and deliberate, while those who handled animals were fast, efficient, and dismissive. They never guided animal souls, only absorbed them, as if their lives were less valuable.

This infuriated Deathnibbles. He decided his first target would be one of these Reapers.

Returning to Central Park, he stared at the spot where his family had died. His fury grew, but his resolve hardened. Nearby, he spotted an elderly black cat begging for food.

“Ew, get away,” a human said.

“Oh no, a black cat—it’s unlucky,” said another.

“Honey, don’t touch that; it’s probably diseased,” a third warned.

The cat, ignored and rejected, wandered back to its makeshift home: a broken-down cardboard box. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and Deathnibbles knew the poor cat wouldn’t survive the night. He also knew this was his opportunity.

Rain began to pour as the cat quietly closed its eyes for the last time. Its soul rose from its body, stretching like it was waking from a long nap. It looked around, confused but no longer in pain. When it turned and saw its lifeless body, it jumped in surprise, fear flashing across its spectral face.

Just as Deathnibbles had hoped, a Reaper appeared. This one looked like an average Reaper—similar to Canis, but with no personality. Silent and efficient, it approached the cat’s soul, raising its scythe.

Clank!

At the last second, Deathnibbles blocked the strike. The cat’s eyes widened in shock.

“What the—?” the Reaper said, startled.

Before the Reaper could process what was happening, Deathnibbles darted up its cloak, climbing to its shoulder.

“Hey, wait a sec—!” the Reaper began, but it was too late.

With a swift slash, Deathnibbles severed the Reaper’s head. Its body glowed brightly before fading into light, which was absorbed into Deathnibbles’ scythe. All that remained was a cloak and the Reaper’s scythe.

Deathnibbles picked up the scythe and offered it to the cat’s soul, but the cat hesitated. It shook its head, refusing the gesture. Confused, Deathnibbles extended his own scythe, wondering if the cat wanted to be reaped. The cat nodded and walked up, placing its paw on the blade.

The soul glowed, and the cat smiled at Deathnibbles before being absorbed into the scythe. Through the connection, Deathnibbles could feel the cat’s peace.

He picked up the cloak and tried it on, but it was far too large. Tearing off a portion, he fashioned a makeshift cloak that fit him well enough. As he searched the cloak, he found an ID card—just like the ones he had seen Reapers use to open doors.

Satisfied, Deathnibbles tore the rest of the cloak apart and broke the extra scythe in two with his own. He hid the pieces in a tree and examined the ID card in his tiny hands.

He looked at the scythe, then back at the card. He was gathering souls and knew he needed to find a way to guide them somewhere safe. With this ID, he could finally open doors.

But the question gnawed at him: should he use it to find a peaceful place for these souls? Or should he use it to find Glenn, the murderer of his family?

Deathnibbles stared into the stormy sky, torn between vengeance and purpose.