The world ended with a scream—and then silence.
Ezra Vale tasted blood before he understood what had happened. Metal shrieked. Glass shattered. Then, nothing but the deafening hush of stillness. His vision blurred as crimson crept across his eyes, the world tipping sideways like a spilled painting. The scent of ozone and burning rubber filled his lungs, quickly followed by the metallic tang of his own blood.
"Did I… die?"
The thought didn't feel real. Not at first. One moment, he had seen the child, frozen in the path of the out-of-control truck, eyes wide with incomprehension. The next, a desperate surge of adrenaline, his body moving without thought, a lunge to push the small form clear. Then, the sickening impact, the world buckling around him. He hadn't imagined his death would be this messy, this abrupt. A phone repairman, taken out by a rogue delivery truck. Figures. His legacy, if he even had one, would be a footnote in a traffic report.
Then the cold.
It wasn't the chill of winter, but a deeper kind. A silence that gnawed at the edges of his soul, severing his connection to the living world. The kind of cold that seeps into bones and memory, a profound cessation of all sensation. He felt himself drifting, a feather in an unseen current, away from the mangled wreckage and the frantic shouts of distant paramedics. His regrets, a familiar litany of unfinished tasks and unspoken words, flickered like dying embers. He hadn't lived enough, hadn't been enough.
When Ezra opened his eyes again, he wasn't on the street anymore.
He stood barefoot on black stone, his breath clouding in a place where no warmth lived. The air was heavy—like a cathedral where every soul who had ever prayed had left their last words to rot, mingling with the subtle, melancholic scent of ancient dust. Around him stretched a bleak plain, veiled in gray mist that swirled like forgotten dreams and seemed to distort the very fabric of time. The sky above was neither day nor night—just twilight, eternal and unmoving, a canvas of endless grey.
Before him stood a gate.
Massive. Ancient. Forged from bone and obsidian, it rose into the mist like a monstrous, silent sentry. It pulsed with a slow heartbeat of ghostly light, a faint, rhythmic thrum that resonated deep within Ezra's chest. Chains, thick as tree trunks and wrought from rusted iron, wrapped around its surface like sleeping serpents. At the apex of the arch, a symbol burned with a cold, silver flame: a scythe entwined with a broken crown. He knew, instinctively, this was the Underworld. But it was no fiery hell or heavenly choir; it was a place of profound desolation and chilling majesty.
Ezra took a step forward, and the ground groaned beneath him, a low, resonant growl, like it resented the living.
A whisper rode the wind. Not words, not yet, but a presence. A knowing.
"Ezra Vale."
His name echoed, not aloud, but within—etched across his soul like an old wound reopening. It was cold, commanding, ancient. It stripped away his cynicism, his self-deprecating humor, leaving him starkly vulnerable.
He turned in a circle, fists clenched, a primal fear battling a burgeoning sense of bewildered defiance. "Who—who's there?"
Only silence answered. The kind that ate sound, leaving only the echo of his own frantic thoughts. He was a regular guy, a consumer of pop culture and instant ramen, now trapped in a scene ripped straight from a forgotten myth. He felt utterly insignificant, a speck caught in a cosmic current, and a surge of helpless anger welled within him.
Then, the gate creaked open. Slowly. No visible mechanism moved it—no force. Just inevitability, a silent, grim invitation.
Beyond it, the world shifted.
A staircase of bone descended into shadow, each step groaning softly as if burdened by unseen weight. The air grew thicker, heavy with the scent of ozone and the subtle tang of iron, like a storm brewing in the heart of eternity. Gravity itself seemed to bend inward, as though everything below the gate centered around a single point—a throne.
Black. Empty. Carved from the skull of something ancient and divine, its obsidian surface gleamed with an inner light, reflecting the distant, swirling mists. Upon its armrest, a single, gnarled hand, seemingly of bone, rested, palm up, as if waiting to receive something.
And above it, floating like a dying star, hovered a crown of silver flame. It pulsed with a cold, hungry light, illuminating the vast emptiness of the chamber beyond. This was power, undeniable and terrifying.
Ezra stepped back, shaking his head, a desperate attempt to cling to sanity.
"Nope. Nope, I'm dreaming. Hallucinating. Post-mortem neurons firing. Whatever this is—I want out." His voice, usually laced with casual wit, was a raw whisper, lost in the vastness. He just wanted to go home, back to his crappy apartment and his broken phone parts. Back to the familiar, the mundane. He wanted to return to life, to the simple, complicated existence he'd taken for granted.
He turned.
The way he had come was gone.
Only mist.
Only death.
And then came the voice again, closer now. It resonated through his very core, vibrating not just his soul, but the ground beneath his bare feet. It was the voice of the Faceless Herald.
"You are dead, Ezra Vale."
He spun. A figure stood just beyond the gate—tall, cloaked, faceless. A robe darker than shadow covered its form, seeming to absorb all light around it. In its hand was a staff shaped like a scythe, its blade glinting with an inner, ethereal glow. The symbol on the gate glowed faintly behind it.
"But death is not the end," it said.
The voice was calm. Cold. Older than time. It held no malice, only an ancient, weary truth, a weight of countless ages.
"I—I don't understand," Ezra stammered, feeling utterly out of his depth. He was used to fixing tangible things, diagnosing faulty circuits, not grappling with existential crises in the afterlife.
"You will."
"Where am I?"
"The Threshold. Between what was, and what must be."
A pause. The wind, which had seemed to whisper, now fell utterly silent. The air was thick with anticipation, pressing down on Ezra like a physical weight.
Then: "And the throne awaits."
Ezra's gaze flickered to the empty obsidian seat. The crown of silver flame seemed to beckon, its light reflecting in the polished stone, a silent, chilling invitation. It was terrifying, alluring, and utterly wrong.
"I'm not… I didn't ask for this." A wave of indignation flared within him. He'd died saving someone, an act of pure, selfless instinct, not signing up for cosmic servitude. He had a responsibility to himself, a life unlived.
"No one does." The Herald's voice was flat, devoid of sympathy or judgment. "But one must rise."
The air around the throne began to hum, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in Ezra's chest. The warmth he'd felt earlier, a strange, alien heartbeat, pulsed stronger now, almost aching. It was as if the throne itself was reaching out, pulling at a part of him he didn't even know existed, a dormant power stirring.
"The Mantle cannot remain unclaimed."
Ezra's eyes flicked to the throne again. Something pulled at him. Not physically—but something older. Deeper. His soul recognized it before his mind could explain. The same warmth bloomed in his chest. A heartbeat. Not his own. It was the echo of judgment, the weight of finality.
He backed away, shaking his head. "I'm just a guy. A nobody. I fix phones. I watch bad horror movies. I'm not a king." His self-deprecating humor felt hollow here, a pathetic shield against the vast, terrifying reality. He felt the immense pressure of it, the profound loneliness of such a power. He wasn't some destined hero; he was just Ezra, suddenly confronted by the crushing weight of cosmic responsibility.
"You are not chosen for what you were," said the figure. "But for what you might become."
Chains began to rattle, a dry, bone-on-bone sound that echoed in the vastness. The shadows around the throne twisted—forming shapes. Figures. Faces. Ghosts? Spectral forms writhed in the periphery, silent, tormented, drawn to the empty seat like moths to a destructive flame. They were souls, he realized with a jolt, souls that had lost their way, adrift in the absence of a guide, their silent cries a chilling symphony of despair.
Ezra stepped closer despite himself. His initial resistance was warring with a strange, burgeoning sense of responsibility. He had saved a child, hadn't he? A flicker of that selfless instinct, even in death, refused to let him turn away from cosmic chaos, from the silent suffering of these lost souls.
The throne was calling. He could feel it now: every soul that had ever died, every whisper of oblivion, every act of judgment—it all converged here. It waited for someone to decide. Someone to wield it. Someone to bear the weight of Death itself.
The figure pointed its scythe-staff towards the empty throne. "One sits, or all suffer."
"What happens if I refuse?" Ezra asked, his voice strained. He felt like he was standing on the edge of an abyss, and the Herald was offering him a parachute made of shadow and bone.
"The balance collapses." The Herald's voice deepened, resonating with a terrifying certainty.
"The dead wander, lost to eternity."
"The living rot, their cycles broken."
"And Death—forgotten—becomes hunger."
Ezra blinked. His mind, still stubbornly human, grasped for levity. "So… no pressure." The wry comment was a desperate attempt to cling to his fading humanity, to the sharp wit that had defined him. But it felt thin, brittle. He realized that his very death had placed him at a cosmic crossroads, and running from it wasn't an option. His path, whether he liked it or not, was tied to this throne. The burden was immense, the choice inescapable.
Silence. The kind of silence that stretched through ages, heavy with the weight of untold suffering if he made the wrong choice. The cosmic stakes were laid bare before him.
Then the figure raised its skeletal hand, and a small, floating orb appeared—a fragment of pure soulfire. It drifted toward Ezra, hovering before him like a question, shimmering with impossible light—blue, violet, silver. It felt familiar, ancient, and utterly profound, radiating a cold, alluring power.
"Take it," said the figure.
Ezra hesitated. This was it. The point of no return. Oblivion, a final escape from all burdens, or a monstrous responsibility beyond imagination. He thought of his 'almosts,' his unfulfilled potential. If he chose oblivion, he'd never be anything. If he chose power, even a terrifying one, he would become something new, something more. He might not have chosen death, but he sure as hell wouldn't run from this. A surge of defiance, a nascent seed of the antihero he was destined to become, hardened his resolve.
He reached out—and the moment he touched it, everything changed.
A searing cold, like liquid nitrogen, flooded his veins, followed by an explosive burst of light that momentarily blinded him. The Soulfire orb dissolved into his hand, not absorbed, but becoming him, burning away the last vestiges of his old self.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
[Death's Mantle: Unclaimed → Syncing Candidate (Ezra Vale)]
[Core Authority Accessing: Soul Judgement, Spirit Binding, Temporal Severance]
[Warning: Inexperienced Host]
[Override Accepted]
[You Are Now The Heir]
Ezra collapsed to one knee, gasping, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming influx of information. A rush of memories not his own slammed into him—centuries of execution, mercy, justice. A thousand names. Ten thousand screams. The final moments of empires, the quiet passing of infants, the desperate prayers of the dying. He saw gods kneeling. He saw monsters begging. He saw the world break, time itself bending to a will he now vaguely understood. It was a kaleidoscope of cosmic truths, beautiful and terrifying, stretching his consciousness to its breaking point.
And then… peace. A profound, almost chilling sense of order settling over the chaos, a cold, absolute calm.
He rose, shaking, his translucent form now seeming to solidify, to thicken with an alien essence. The power hummed beneath his skin, cold yet alive, like the heart of a cosmic winter. He felt an ancient, terrifying authority stirring within him.
The Faceless Herald stepped back, bowing its cowl-shrouded head, its previous stillness replaced by a profound reverence.
"All hail the Heir."
The gate behind him, the one he had just passed through, closed with a soft, final thud, echoing with cosmic finality. No way back. No turning away.
And Ezra Vale, ordinary man, phone repair tech, nobody…
Had just become Death.
He lifted his hand, and for the first time, truly saw it. It was pale, almost bone-white, with slender, unnervingly long fingers, a subtle shimmer clinging to its surface, like starlight caught on frost. A ripple of power coursed through him, a strange, profound connection to this silent, desolate realm. He felt the weight of countless souls, a vast, silent hum of existence and non-existence, a cosmic tapestry he was now intrinsically woven into. He felt the nascent stirrings of his new abilities, vast and terrifying.
His eyes, which had been closed, now snapped open. And for the first time, he saw not the pale grey of a dying world, but the eternal twilight of the Netherworld Palace, stretching endlessly before him, its gothic spires and vast, silent halls waiting for its new master. A chill, ancient and promising, settled over him. His terrifying journey had truly just begun.