The gates of Dusk Academy groaned open, iron and shadow parting to reveal a sprawling world within. What lay beyond was not just a school but an entire city, alive and breathing with history and ambition. Towering spires stretched skyward, each one carved with ancient reliefs of wars, kings, and gods who had once walked the earth. Wide cobblestone streets branched into squares filled with statues, sprawling gardens where exotic plants pulsed faintly with mana, and halls large enough to swallow entire villages.
The new students surged forward in a tide of excitement and unease. Their footsteps echoed across the great courtyard, the air thick with awe and anticipation.
Aeron moved with the flow, his eyes sharper than most. To him, this wasn't just grandeur—it was division. Every corner of the academy bore the mark of a race's pride. The dragons' halls blazed with eternal flame, their stonework scarred but unbroken, exuding raw dominance. The elves' quarters pulsed with verdant light, groves of trees so vibrant they seemed pulled straight from a divine forest. The dwarves were given massive chambers hewn into the academy's foundation, their forges already ringing with steel and rune.
And the humans? Modest brick houses tucked between the grander districts. Clean, functional, but forgettable.
For many, even that was overwhelming. Wide-eyed sons and daughters of peasants clutched at their new keys, marveling at beds softer than straw, tables without cracks, walls without holes. For the first time, they felt as if they belonged somewhere greater.
Aeron did not share their wonder. His room was small—barely more than a single chamber with a bed, desk, and narrow window—but it offered solitude. That was enough. A place to hide from the eyes of the arrogant races, a place to build.
The moment he closed the door behind him, he summoned the book. Shadows thickened in the corners as it appeared in his hand, the black cover breathing faintly with unnatural life.
"Where do I stand with the Death Law?" Aeron asked, voice low, edged with hunger.
The book's pages rustled open as if amused. "You sit at level fifteen. For one your age, it is… unprecedented. Truly, Aeron, you are a genius born for death."
Aeron smirked. Praise was a sweet thing, but never enough. "And yet, it feels slow. I'm restless. You've given me the path to immortality, but I want more. Death alone won't satisfy me forever. Show me Poison Law."
The book's voice chilled, calm and absolute. "Then kill."
Aeron blinked. "What?"
"Every life taken feeds your Death Law. Every essence consumed is progress. You crave knowledge, dissection, creation? Death is your scalpel. Poison is only another layer. To reach it, you must embrace killing."
The logic hit like a knife to the gut. Brutal, simple, undeniable. Aeron's grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light. "Fine then. Show me."
The pages turned, lines of venomous script igniting in sickly green.
"Poison Law is the most insidious of all," the book intoned. "Its surface is simple—sleep, paralysis, decay. But deeper… poison can corrode flesh, rot the soul, unravel time, and pierce the veil between dimensions. At its pinnacle, even death itself can be poisoned."
Aeron leaned closer, eyes glittering. The idea of corroding existence, of crafting death upon death, ignited a fever in him.
"How do I start?"
"To master poison, you must let it corrode you," the book whispered. "Venoms, toxins, and essence must enter your body. You endure them, you claim them, and you turn them into weapons. But not here. The academy is not the place for such experiments. You need solitude—true solitude—to embrace that chaos."
Aeron absorbed every word, though his impatience simmered beneath the surface. "Fine. Later, then. But Death first. Show me what I've unlocked."
The shadows twisted around him, dragging him into the Deathland once more. The barren plane stretched endlessly, its soil cracked, its sky heavy and gray. At its center floated a dark crimson orb, pulsing with a steady rhythm like a beating heart.
Aeron stepped forward, his boots crunching on brittle earth. His chest tightened, anticipation rising as he reached out. The moment his hand closed around the orb, a surge of energy rushed through him. It wasn't pain—it was ecstasy, a rush of strength that spread through every nerve, every vein, every breath.
When the wave subsided, the book glowed in his hand. Its pages flared with black fire, words etching themselves into existence.
Soul Reaper's Scythe
Summon a scythe forged of death's essence, capable of reaping the souls of the living.
Strikes deal devastating damage and harvest souls.
Each soul absorbed restores mana, strengthens the body, and heightens perception.
Survivors are left broken—defenses shattered, vitality drained, their will eroded.
The scythe lingers in the battlefield, its aura turning the ground into a zone of death, leeching life from any who remain.
Aeron's breath quickened as he read, his lips curling upward. "Now this… this changes everything."
The book chuckled darkly. "A weapon fit for a reaper."
Aeron closed his fist, imagining the weight of the scythe, the feel of souls tearing free into his grasp. "One problem," he muttered. "I need souls to reap."
The book's reply was immediate, unwavering. "Do not worry. This is a trial ground. Blood will flow. Souls will come. All you need is patience."
Patience. Aeron smirked. The word tasted foreign on his tongue.
But he knew it was true.
The trials had only begun. Soon, the academy would learn what it meant to stand in the shadow of death.
And Aeron would never look back.