Ash sat at the edge of the training field long after the others had gone. The artificial sky dimmed above him, transitioning into the soft purples and muted ambers of simulated dusk. Wind moved gently through the cultivated grass, responding more to programming than weather.
Around him, the world was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just… quiet.
And Ash liked the quiet.
Not because it was comforting — he did not understand comfort yet — but because it didn't interfere. When the world fell silent, he could hear something else. A low, constant vibration. A feeling just beneath the skin of existence.
A breath beneath all things.
He closed his eyes.
---
Earlier that day, Instructor Seris had told them to begin cultivating independently. They were to sit still for an hour each evening, breathing slowly, focusing on drawing ambient mana inward.
Most of the others were giddy with results. Tarek could already form a blade of wind in his palm. A girl named Leyna made sparks dance across her fingertips. Ash watched them all. Then turned away.
When he tried to draw in energy, it did not come.
Or rather — it did not come like theirs.
He didn't feel warmth, or pressure, or tingle. He felt… pull. Not from the world. From within. Like something beneath him was waiting for him to listen.
So, that evening, Ash listened again.
---
His breath slowed. His limbs relaxed.
And the world vanished.
He stood now in a place without form.
Not a void. Not darkness.
Just… absence.
There was no sky. No ground. No stars or lights.
Only Ash.
And the sound of a low hum.
He turned.
In the distance — though distance made no sense here — something shimmered. A curve of lightless shadow. A blade, arcing like the edge of a crescent moon. It hovered in the air, still and waiting.
He stepped toward it.
Each step echoed without sound.
When he reached the blade, he didn't reach out to touch it. He simply stood still.
And the blade… breathed.
Not a weapon.
Not yet.
A symbol.
A promise.
> "The reaping begins not with a swing,"
"But with stillness."
Ash's heart — if it could be called that — pulsed once. A cold ripple spread through his chest.
Then the image cracked. The space fractured.
And he woke.
---
His eyes opened slowly to the sight of the orphanage's courtyard, the false stars blinking softly above. The others were still inside, asleep. It was late.
He looked down at his hands.
They were trembling.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
The energy inside him wasn't something he could pull in like the others. It wasn't something the world would feed him.
It was something already inside.
And something the world did not want.
He stood.
And the ground beneath his feet darkened for a heartbeat — a ripple like dying grass beneath snow — then returned to normal.
He didn't notice.
But the world did.
---
The next day, Ash woke before the others and slipped into the library wing — a quiet hexagonal hall built beneath the dormitory floor. It was usually empty in the mornings, save for a floating librarian AI that sorted memory chips.
He wasn't there to read stories.
He was there to search.
Instructor Halren had said most records of death were erased.
But Ash knew that erasure didn't mean obliteration. Only burial.
So he searched the archives.
He found stories of great cultivators, journals of energy harmonics, and tomes on law theory. But nowhere — not even in the oldest restricted texts — did the word "Death" appear as anything but a myth.
Until he found a broken page.
It wasn't on the system. It wasn't catalogued.
Just a strip of cracked crystal embedded in an old wall console, half-erased by corrosion.
He activated it.
A soft, broken whisper emerged.
> "There was a time before Order.
Before restoration.
When all things ended.
When names faded,
And light returned to stillness."
The recording ended there.
Ash stood in silence for a long moment, one hand on the wall.
He wasn't sure why, but it felt like a prayer.
And it was the first thing in this world that made sense.
---
Later, during sparring class, Ash stood in a circle of students as Instructor Seris directed them.
"Control is everything," she said. "Power without restraint is nothing more than noise. Show me grace, not chaos."
Tarek sparred with another boy, wind blades dancing between them. Other students chanted, casting beginner-level techniques, laughing as they missed or blocked each other's hits.
Ash stood still, not moving.
Seris noticed.
"You don't intend to practice?" she asked.
Ash shook his head. "I don't have a technique yet."
"Then observe. Even that can teach."
He nodded once.
When Tarek finished his match, he stumbled over, breathless. "You're up next. You sure you don't want to try? I could go easy."
Ash looked at the wooden training weapons on the rack nearby.
Swords. Spears. Batons.
Then something else caught his eye.
A curved blade, tucked in the corner. A harvesting scythe — real, but dulled. Likely used once for old-world farm roleplay.
He walked to it.
Picked it up.
The moment his hand touched the handle, the air tightened.
Tarek blinked. "You sure that's—?"
Ash stepped into the center of the ring.
The scythe felt… correct. Not comfortable, not familiar — but inevitable. Like it had been waiting for him longer than he'd existed.
The children watched in silence.
Ash spun the scythe once. Not fast. Just a small rotation.
Instructor Seris raised a brow. "That's not a standard weapon."
Ash said nothing.
He raised it. The curved blade hovered just above the grass.
Then he moved.
A single step forward.
A diagonal sweep — light, graceful, soundless.
Not a strike.
A whisper.
The air behind the blade bent slightly. Grass split without being touched. A faint pulse — one that felt like a breath being held — radiated from the motion.
Then nothing.
Seris stared for a moment too long.
Then nodded. "Very well. You may keep it. Just… do not swing it near anyone for now."
Ash nodded.
---
That night, he sat with the scythe across his lap.
It no longer looked like a dulled farming tool.
Not to him.
The metal had changed. It now held the faintest trace of shadow, like it refused to reflect light. The handle no longer felt wooden, but cool and smooth like carved bone. The curve had sharpened.
It had changed to match him.
No — it had revealed itself, now that it had found him.
Ash placed a hand on the blade.
It did not hum, or pulse, or spark.
It simply waited.
Like it knew it wasn't time yet.
He whispered.
"I will remember."
The blade remained silent.
But it listened.
---
Elsewhere, beyond the orphanage walls, in a far-off district of Elyssia's city core…
A group of high-tier Order Enforcers stood around a humming pillar of mana.
The pillar flickered.
Then glitched.
Runes misfired.
Systems corrected themselves within seconds, but the technicians on duty stared in confusion.
"Was that a code breach?" one asked.
"No. Not a hack. Just… instability in the immortal anchors for Sector-12."
Another technician frowned. "That sector has nothing above Level 1 clearance. Just low-tier soul registries and juvenile backups."
The lead Enforcer narrowed his eyes.
"Run a trace," he said. "Mark the anomaly."
"But sir, it corrected itself."
"Exactly," the Enforcer replied. "That's what worries me."
---
Ash didn't sleep that night.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he wasn't sure how to sleep anymore.
When he closed his eyes now, he didn't dream.
He waited.
Listened.
And the world waited with him.