This is the dimly lit corridor where the tales of men are stored, one book for every soul, and enough space for many more to come. In the old days, his library used to be what Death called an organized mess, but when Life kept on creating new souls, renovations had to be made. With the help of Space, the library was fashioned into an infinite corridor — as infinite as Time wanted it to be. If a mortal had seen this library, their brain would immediately explode, witnessing infinity with their own eyes. Luckily for them, this was a privilege Death would never allow, at least not yet. This is a library reserved for the collector of stories, which included Death and his servants.

The servants of death, gifted powers of their own, ran through the endless hallways to finish their assigned tasks. Be it running past the speed of sound, or flying up heights taller than any mountain, they were always in a hurry to find the correct shelf. Rather than wasting time at the library, writing down the tale of a deceased soul was time better spent, after all: dead men tell the best tales.

Forget about the servants, this is not their story. This is the story of Death.

Patiently walking through the corridor was the incarnation of death himself. He nodded back at the ever-so-occasional greetings he received from his passing servants. Death wished he was like his servants, quickly putting a book in its place before hurrying to discover the next best story to gossip about, but the concept of time had long since eroded from his consciousness. This, along with his sister's indifference to the concept of space, was why their younger siblings Time and Space were born.

Eventually, he discovered the correct shelf and inserted the book into its place. No one, not even himself, knew how the books were organized. You just kind of knew when you found the right place. He should probably do something about that, shouldn't he? Death sighed. No worries. He would get to it. Eventually.

Exiting the library, he walked back to his office. Pilled on the floor were stacks of documents that needed his approval. Some days he was enticed to kill the concept of documents, but Life would probably see it as a go ahead to create an entire specifies focused on documenting — now those would be annoying to deal with. His old scythe, which he long since had replaced with pen and paper, sat in the corner of the room collecting dust.

Death sat on his rusty chair and slouched over his desk, tapping it with his skeletal finger. "I hate my job," he murmured.

Whenever someone would ask him why he wrote down the story of every soul, he would always tell them: dead men tell the best tales. That was a lie. Or, it was something he used to think. In the distant past, the living used their time wisely, caring for one another. But dumb Time had to come into existence, and there was only so much 'I learned nothing from my life and was a nuisance to others' Death could handle.

Ever since Death and his sister Life had spawned into creation, he had never known a moment of rest. In contrast to his sister who constantly loitered around, only needing to work ever so often to pop new life into existence, he was responsible for sending all souls to the afterlife. Every. Single. One.

After complaining to his reckless sister for constantly increasing his workload, followed by a three-thousand-year-long war between them fought by their worshipers, the destruction of countless nations and almost the entire universe; and the creation of the embodiment of Chaos that — you know what, those details don't matter. Essentially, Life understood his worries for once and a compromise was made: select souls were allowed to live in the threshold between life and death so that his work would be more manageable. Some were even granted eternal life and the privilege to work in his name. His subordinates turned out to be extremely good at their job, a bit too much actually. It only made him feel more empty.

"Dear ruler of death, I am begging you … instead of complaining all the time, take the fucking vacation!"

Death slammed his skeletal fist on the table. "I need no break. I am a God!"

Anubis snorted. "I have heard that excuse a million times. You are going through the same problem I once went through myself: you are a workaholic. And as your closest friend, helping you is the right thing to do." He picked up Death's skeletal body and threw him out the window. "Have a fun vacation!"

"What the — you are an idiot!" Death shouted as he fell from his castle in the heavens and crashed into the mortal realm. His skeletal form shattered to pieces, but he did not die; Death could not die.

Recreating his form, he stood in silence looking at fields of grass around him. Anubis had dropped him in the middle of nowhere. He was all alone. There was something calming about being alone, without any dead souls in — never mind, he spotted one in the distance, but he could follow Anubis advice and ignore them. Maybe he had been too hard on himself. A short vacation wouldn't hurt.

Jumping into the air, he flew towards the closest corpse he could find. In a nearby forest, he found the corpse of a young child. The soul of the child stood beside the corpse and looked at Death. "My name is Timmy. Are you here to guide me to the afterlife?"

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Nope," Death answered, and jumped into the corpse, taking it over. He stood up, trying to get familiar with this new body.

"What are you doing? That is ... was my body. You can't steal it!"

Death ignored the child and focused on his new body. It wasn't a perfect vessel and would start decaying in a few weeks, but that would be enough time for him. Now, what should he—? "Ouch!"

"That is what you get! Or, what I get … I really am dead, aren't I?"

Had the child seriously punched him? This wasn't the first time Death had created a mortal vessel for himself. The fact that a departed soul could make contact with him meant that he was getting rusty, failing at completely moving himself to the realm of the living. At least he managed to properly recreate the emotion called pain.

The child punched him again. "My daddy left me, and there is no way I am having my body taken from me." He started crying. "Maybe I should explain my life story; isn't that what dead people are supposed to do? It all started—."

Death punched the child and launched him to only Space knows where. If this had been any normal occasion, then he would have patiently listened to the child's story, written it all down, and sent him to the afterlife. But not today. He was on vacation.

Sensing a cluster of souls nearby, he found a city and entered it. Looking around at the bustling street filled with wooden buildings and horse-drawn carriages, he scratched his head. He had seen countless nation rise and fall; this city was mediocre at best. It could not compare to the serene beauty of Angelia, the then capital of the great Dread empire. Of course, before Life decided that no one should die and overran the empire with zombies. Neither could it compare to the moving city Altracaz, the home of the nomadic Incza folk. Until Death found out they were cheating with all the extra land Life was creating and sent a plague their way — that one was his bad. The moral of the story: always skip the sightseeing. Now, where was the closest library? He had always wondered how mortal fiction compared to the ones he wrote down.

He walked over to a human male. "Excuse me, do you know where—."

"Scram, filthy beggar." The human kicked him in the stomach and walked away.

Death held his stomach. So, this was one of her beauties Life was always boasting about. A waste of space as always. He should complain about her to Space more. Time was way too patient.

Deciding it would be best to go to a familiar place, he walked to the closest graveyard. Several departed souls were loitering around there, ghosts he believed they were currently called. Some newly departed, others still clinging on to existence. He wanted to sit, but all the good spots were occupied.

Death looked at one of the ghosts. "Hello."

The ghost, a human male with scars all over his body, stared back at him, eyes wide. "You can see me?" He looked at the other ghost. "You guys, he can see me!"

"Another necromancer? How boring."

One of the ghosts, an old female human, snarled at Death. "Don't you dear touch my corpse."

"He is young," a middle-aged female ghost said, giggling. "They get frightened the easiest."

Death ignored all of them and kept his focus on the ghost in front of him. "What tale do you have to tell?"

"What tale?" He asked, confused. "Wait, you are asking for my story. Cosplaying as one of those annoying shinigami."

"Valkyrie!" A male ghost interjected. "The viking grind lives on!"

"Oh, shut up Todd. We grew up in the same village. You aren't a northerner," another ghost said.

The ghost looked at Death, smiling. "A curious child are you not?" He coughed. "I have nothing against it. Wasn't much of anything anyway."

Death patiently listened about the man's life, holding back the urge to write down what he was hearing. He was the type of soul Death detested the most. No interest in respecting others. Gambling. Alcohol. The usual.

"Then," the ghost continued. "At the end is the harmless fun I was unjustly executed for. You see, I had these neighbors who went out to help at the harvest one day, and their daughter was alone at home. So I took my chance and broke into their house, found the girl, and then—."

Death gripped the ghost's neck to stop him from speaking. He had heard enough.

"H-How?" The ghost gasped.

Using his other arm, he opened a rift to the end of time and threw the ghost into the afterlife. After closing the rift, he sat on the empty seat. This was a lot of work for a seat at the edge of the graveyard. Fortunately for him, there were plenty more gravestones to sit on; the rest of the ghost had fled.

After finding a better seat, Death closed his eyes, trying to relax. He had no idea how to do that, so he did what he usually did and pondered if he should kill Schrodinger's cat or not.

"Uhm. Excuse me?"

He opened his eyes and saw a young human female.

"Are you per change one of the servants of death?"

"Something like that."

Her eyes lit up. "Really? That is perfect. My name is Anya, and I am a necromancer. I have been trying to contact one of you for so long, but it has been difficult."

Death blocked her with his palm. "No refunds."

"It isn't that! Actually," she hesitated. "I think I am going to lose my job. A lot — and I mean a lot — of people have suddenly gained the power to see ghosts. Due to so much demand to learn more about honing this new craft, books about necromancy are basically sold out everywhere. Isn't that horrible!"

"… Wait a second."

Death left his vessel and flew as fast as he could into space. Looking over the planet he was currently at, he adjusted his vision. Now he sees humans running away from graveyards haunted by ghosts.

Now he sees guards resigning from guarding the dungeon, leaving a terrified general staring at his former enemies.

Now he sees a child terrified of the stranger in their room.

Now he sees armies running away from each other to avoid looking at their fallen comrades.

Now he sees Life peeking out of her cave, smiling.

"Time. Space. Are you seeing this?"

They did not bother recreating a form before him, and telepathically sent a feeling of agreement.

Flying back down, he reentered his body, with the magnitude of the current situation weighing on his mind.

"Are you okay?" The necromancer frantically asked. "You collapsed all of a sudden."

Death shook his head. "I am alright. Thank you for telling me." He gritted his teeth. "Why didn't I notice earlier?"

The boundary separating the world of the living from that of the dead was breaking down, and his sister Life had something to do with it.