Months turned into years.
The boys—Cyrus, Keuirseu, Constant, Benjamin—scoured the Earth for signs of her awakening, for a pulse, a whisper, anything.
But nothing came.
It was as if she had vanished entirely. Her energy, her presence, even her name seemed erased from their senses.
"We can't find her," Constant muttered, shaking his head, the weight of helplessness pressing on him. "It's like she's… gone."
Benjamin's jaw clenched. "And the longer she's gone, the stronger whatever's out there gets. I can feel it."
Cyrus remained silent, staring at the horizon, knowing deep down that Zyla was alive… somewhere, training, building herself into something they couldn't even comprehend yet.
And then… a light.
Blinding. Shimmering. White gold, cracking the sky and burning through the air like a wound in the world.
The earth split, revealing a tomb hidden for centuries. Stone shards shattered outward.
From the center emerged a figure… immense, terrifying, unstoppable: Blood Reaper.
Her eyes glinted with cold amusement and something like curiosity. She moved like the world itself bent to her presence.
One of the shards landed on a small car parked on the street. Inside, a couple screamed as glass shattered, and metal twisted. Their cries ended abruptly as Blood Reaper loomed over them. Her presence was overwhelming. They had no time to react before she… unintentionally ended their lives.
The car fell silent.
Two children—one nine, one six—sat frozen in the backseat, tears streaming down their faces, clutching each other. Blood Reaper circled the car, observing. She had never seen such a thing: the fragile, fragile fear of mortals, the way they clung to life.
For a moment, she paused.
Then she leaned forward, shoving her head through the broken window, her eyes meeting theirs.
The older child, trembling, made a decision. He climbed out of the seat and lifted his little sister into his arms.
"Don't—don't hurt us," he whispered.
Blood Reaper tilted her head, intrigued. The faintest trace of something… almost curiosity… flickered across her face.
The boy followed her as she turned and walked away, the six-year-old clinging to him, their sobs quiet but determined.
She didn't speak. She didn't acknowledge them. She simply walked.
The world trembled around her.
And in that moment, Zyla's absence—and Blood Reaper's presence—made one thing clear: the war between Heaven, Hell, and Earth was no longer theoretical. It had begun.
Blood Reaper didn't walk like a human.
She glided — silent, sharp, dangerous — her presence bending the world around her.
Cars screeched and people screamed as she passed, though she didn't even glance at them. She was studying everything, trying to understand this strange, fragile realm she'd been released into.
Behind her, the nine-year-old boy, clutching the hand of his six-year-old sister, followed because… where else could they go?
She didn't acknowledge them, but she did not tell them to leave either. A strange allowance.
As they walked through the outskirts of a neighborhood, Blood Reaper paused.
She snapped her fingers.
Her body dissolved into black smoke.
The kids froze, trembling.
The boy hugged his sister tight, heart pounding.
Then—
POP.
Blood Reaper reappeared behind them, leaning in so close they felt her cold breath on their necks.
They screamed.
She tilted her head.
POP.
Now she was above them on the roof.
They screamed again.
POP.
Now inches from their faces.
The six-year-old burst into tears.
Blood Reaper frowned, confused. "You… leak water when frightened?"
The boy wiped his sister's cheeks with his sleeve. "Sh-She's not leaking! She's crying!"
Blood Reaper blinked once, then twice.
"…Fascinating."
She vanished again.
The boy almost dropped his sister.
Blood Reaper stopped in front of a house — neat little yard, Christmas lights still tangled around the fence even though it wasn't Christmas.
"What is this… structure?" she asked.
"It's a house," the boy said, voice still shaky.
"For…?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Living in," he explained.
"You sleep here and eat and… do everything."
Blood Reaper walked forward and punched the door.
The entire door flew off and landed across the street.
She walked in.
The kids followed, terrified but loyal.
She stared at the couch.
"Is this an altar?" she asked.
"No—it's where people sit," the boy said.
She stared at the couch harder.
She poked it.
It bounced.
She jumped back, hand raised to kill it.
"IT'S JUST SOFT!" the boy shouted, waving both hands. "STOP TRYING TO FIGHT THE COUCH!"
Blood Reaper paused.
She poked it again.
Bounce.
"…Soft enemy," she muttered.
Blood Reaper walked into the kitchen and stared at everything like it was a trap.
She walked up to a toaster.
"Is this a weapon?"
"No! It's to cook bread!"
He pushed the lever down.
The toaster popped.
Blood Reaper summoned a blade of black flame and slashed it in half.
"It attacked me," she said simply.
"It's supposed to pop!" the boy cried.
Blood Reaper tilted her head.
The concept confused her more than the object.
Then she pointed to the fridge.
"That… cube?"
"It keeps food cold."
Blood Reaper opened it.
A waft of cold air hit her face.
She hissed and slammed it shut.
"It breathes winter."
The boy sighed, exhausted.
His sister clung to his shirt like a baby koala.
Upstairs, Blood Reaper walked into a child's bedroom. Toys everywhere. Posters on the wall.
She held up a stuffed animal.
"This creature's soul was harvested incorrectly."
"It's a toy," the boy muttered.
Blood Reaper squeezed it.
It squeaked.
She flung it across the room.
It squeaked again when it landed.
She narrowed her eyes at it.
"…Disrespectful little beast."