The Summoning Hall stirred with an almost tangible excitement. The air itself seemed heavy, charged with anticipation, as the next announcement echoed across the grand chamber.
"Apprentices, step forward and form a line. The Ceremony of Scythe Summoning shall now begin."
A ripple of murmurs spread among the gathered youths. Today was the day they would receive their scythes—the sacred weapon and symbol of every reaper's potential. To wield one was more than just an honor; it was fate itself shaping their path.
The type of scythe they summoned would decide their standing among their peers. Would it be the steady but respectable D-Class? The promising C-Class? The revered B-Class? Or perhaps even the rare A-Class?
But above all, there lingered one dangerous hope—an almost forbidden dream.
The S-Class.
A hush fell as that thought whispered through every apprentice's heart. Across the vast continent, there existed only three S-Class Reapers in all of history. To summon such a weapon was to step beyond mortality itself… to claim a place among legends.
And tonight, perhaps, another name would be etched into eternity.
One by one, the apprentices stepped into the summoning circle, their hearts pounding in unison with the arcane hum of the ritual.
Scythes began to take shape before their eyes, wrought from the very essence of their souls. Some blades gleamed with earthen power, jagged and unyielding as mountain stone. Others blazed in crimson flame, their sparks crackling with untamed fury. A few shimmered with an icy chill, pale frost curling along the steel as if winter itself had bound itself to their will. Each weapon was unique, a mirror to the reaper it was bound to.
Gasps and cheers filled the hall as scythes of differing forms and powers manifested, the crowd swaying between awe and envy.
At last, the summoning was complete. From the gathered fifty apprentices, the results were announced.
Twenty-seven were placed into D-Class, steady but unremarkable, the foundation of the Order.
Twelve attained C-Class, their potential shining brighter than most.
Seven were raised into B-Class, earning nods of quiet respect.
And three—just three—ascended into the ranks of A-Class, their scythes carrying brilliance that set them apart in an unmistakable glow.
When the tally ended, silence fell upon the chamber.
All eyes turned toward the single figure still standing within the summoning circle. The last apprentice.
The one who had yet to call forth their scythe.
The Esper.
While curiosity buzzed through the hall, many apprentices exchanged amused glances and forced smiles. The speech the Esper had given had not gone well, and some whispered behind her back with barely concealed ridicule.
Before stepping into the summoning circle, she closed her eyes tightly. In that moment, memories flooded her mind—her family, her village, all those who had held hope for her success despite the odds.
When she opened her eyes, a quiet fire burned within them. With steady resolve, she spoke, her voice clear despite the weight of nerves:
"As I have wished since childhood, and for all my family, my village, and everyone who has helped me reach this moment—I call to you with all my heart. Please, come forth and answer my call."
At her words, the chamber trembled. A thick darkness seeped from the summoning circle, twisting and swirling in shadowy tendrils. Gasps echoed as bolts of dark light flickered with unsettling intensity.
Then, suddenly, a blinding flash of white overwhelmed the hall, forcing everyone to close their eyes. When they opened them again, all saw the source of the summoning—a thick, gnarly chunk of wood clutched in her trembling hands.
A deafening silence fell, broken quickly by bursts of mocking laughter.
"Hahaha… What is that? A summoning spell to conjure a piece of wood?"
"Maybe in her village they need long chants just to call up a stick."
The crowd's ridicule was harsh and unrelenting. The Esper's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she lowered her head, shame sinking into her bones. The scythe she had summoned bore no resemblance to the elegant weapons around her—it was nothing but a crude, heavy limb of wood.
As she hesitated, she moved to test the weapon's strength. The crystalline orb used to measure power hovered nearby, yet it refused to respond—its light dead and unyielding.
The Reaper exam conductor stepped forward to examine the orb himself but found no change.
Laughter continued to ripple through the hall. Some apprentices chuckled; others wore looks of confusion and disbelief.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. Vice President Hana approached with an imposing, heavy aura that silenced the room. Every eye turned to her as she stopped directly before the bowed Esper.
"To all other apprentices: your ranks have been determined. Proceed to join your respective departments and classes where you will be briefed on the rules," she declared firmly.
Turning to the Esper, she added with quiet weight, "And you… come with me."
The Esper followed Vice President Hana silently, the weight of her own doubts pressing heavily on her shoulders. She knew the unforgiving truth: a reaper who could not summon her weapon was deemed useless—a failure unworthy of the title.
They entered a sparsely furnished room. Without hesitation, Hana strode to her chair and sank into it with practiced ease. She lit a cigarette, the ember glowing softly in the dim light, and took a slow sip of the drink resting on the table beside her.
"So," Hana began, her voice calm but probing, "what do you think?"
The Esper's lips parted slightly. "Think about what?" she replied, though the question was hollow. She already knew what was coming.
Taking another measured sip, Hana continued, "You must be thinking I'm going to expel you because you couldn't summon a proper scythe."
The Esper nodded, her heart sinking. She knew she could never become a reaper—not after breaking the promise she had made to her family, friends, and villagers. The guilt was a heavy burden she carried alone.
Hana's expression softened just enough. "Then you're partly right…and partly wrong."
"What do you mean?" The Esper asked, desperation creeping into her voice. "It's clearly stated in the Reaper Guidebook—page two, rule seventeen—that if a reaper cannot summon a scythe, she cannot be chosen or placed in any class."
Her voice cracked as she continued, eyes closing tightly as tears threatened to spill. "And since I didn't summon a scythe… but a wooden stick… I'm not worthy to be a reaper."
She wiped the tears hastily on her sleeve, breaking under the weight of her shame.
Hana took a final drag from her cigarette and stood slowly, the smoke curling around her like a silent promise.
"Who said you didn't summon a scythe?"
Before the Esper could speak, Hana cut her off.
"A weapon summoned in the circle is a scythe. That will never change."
"But…" Esper began, voice trembling, "it has no power. It doesn't respond to the strength measure. I can't join any class if it remains like this."
Hana smiled faintly, an inscrutable expression playing across her lips. "Yes, according to the rulebook, you cannot join if it doesn't respond. But then… maybe it's time we write a new rule."
The Esper stared, disbelief and confusion flooding her eyes.
"What?" she whispered.
"Let's say you can't join any existing class," Hana explained, "Then you make a class of your own. One no one else can join. You will have to walk this path alone."
The words hung in the air, strange and daring.
The Esper's mind reeled as Hana's voice softened with finality, "Meet me tomorrow. For now, go—rest."
As the door closed softly behind her, the Esper was left alone with questions swirling in her mind—and the faintest spark of something unexpected: hope.