Chapter 1: Ashes in a New World.
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The world burned for the hundredth time.
A shattered sky. Screams folded into silence. A scythe, blacker than death, resting in blood-soaked hands.
And then—nothing.
No pain. No cold. No system prompt for regression.
Just silence.
When he opened his eyes, the world was alive. Too alive.
The air wasn't saturated with blood or despair. The sun rose over white cobblestone streets. Bells rang in far-off towers. The scent of bread, perfume, and fresh sweat clung to the wind.
A city.
No… the city.
Orario.
Black Scythe stood in the shadows of Babel Tower, cloaked and unmoving. His tattered coat barely fluttered as adventurers passed, laughing with coin in their pockets and dreams in their eyes.
"This isn't Earth. Not the last timeline. Not the 99 before it either."
He looked to the Dungeon entrance, watched a pair of boisterous elves argue with a dwarf over formation patterns. A familiar rhythm stirred in his bones.
Despite the difference in architecture and attire, the energy was unmistakable: warriors preparing to gamble their lives.
"...a world of gods," he murmured. "Fascinating."
For the first time in millennia, there was no system message, no regression timer, no world-ending countdown in the corner of his vision.
He had died. Or won. Or lost everything. Perhaps all three.
So why was he here?
Why did this place feel... unfinished?
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Somewhere in the distance, a roar.
Not from the Dungeon below, but from the open plaza just beyond the Guild's marble steps.
His head turned slowly. It was faint, but distinct—panic.
He moved.
---
West Plaza, Guild Steps
Blood stained the stones in a crimson arc.
A boy—barely a teen—staggered back, blue eyes wide with horror, a crude dagger trembling in his grip.
Before him towered a Minotaur, muscle bulging, drool steaming. It roared again, raising its arm to strike.
The boy didn't move.
He was paralyzed by fear. By the realization of death.
Black Scythe landed behind the beast without sound.
His fingers brushed the hilt of his weapon—a monstrous black scythe strapped to his back, half-hidden by his cloak.
One fluid motion. One step forward.
The Minotaur's roar died in its throat as its head slipped clean from its shoulders.
Blood sprayed the plaza like a red curtain.
The boy collapsed, gasping, shaking, his blade clattering to the stone.
A crowd gathered in stunned silence.
The man who appeared stood tall, cloaked in decay and shadow, crimson eyes glowing beneath his hood. The scythe hissed as he spun it, flicking blood in a slow arc, before planting its curved edge into the ground beside him.
He looked down at the boy.
And smiled.
A ghost of a grin. One that knew pain, survival, and defiance.
"You're weak," Black Scythe said, voice like gravel smoothed by time.
The boy flinched, but nodded.
"But you're not a coward," he added.
Bell blinked up at him, trembling.
"I've seen that look before," the man said. "It's the same one I had… a hundred lives ago."
He extended a hand.
"Come. Be my student. I'll teach you to survive. To kill. And maybe—just maybe—how to live.