The two guards stood frozen in the corridor, their lanterns trembling in their hands. The West Pavilion was supposed to be a tomb tonight, a silent corner of the manor where the "Harrison problem" was quietly decaying. Instead, they were staring at a boy who should have been a corpse. Blake Harrison stood amidst the splinters of the storage room door, his crimson-embroidered robes—the ones meant for his betrothal—now tattered and stained with the very blood that had birthed his new life.
Behind him, the faint, emerald-green silhouette of the Divine Reaper pulsed like a dying star. The air in the hallway grew frigid, the moisture on the stone walls turning to a thin layer of frost.
"H-Harrison?" the first guard stammered, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "That's impossible. Captain Dravis said he extracted your heart-origin himself. You're supposed to be—"
"Dead?" Blake's voice was a low, resonant rasp, far removed from the polite tones of the clan's golden son. He took a step forward, and the floorboards beneath his boots groaned as if bearing the weight of an ancient mountain. "I was. But I found the exit."
The second guard, a veteran with a scar across his bridge, drew his blade. "Demon trickery! He's been possessed by the shadow-spawn! Kill him before he reaches the high chambers!"
The veteran lunged, his 3rd-layer Flesh Tempering giving him a burst of speed. In the past, Blake would have used the Sterling Gale footwork to elegantly parry and reposition. Now, he didn't bother. He watched the blade approach with a cold, clinical detachment.
[Host is under attack. Analyzing enemy combat power...]
[Target: 3rd Layer Flesh Tempering. Threat Level: Negligible.]
As the sword reached his chest, Blake didn't move. The steel struck his ribs—and shattered. The shards of the blade whistled through the air, embedding themselves in the stone walls. The guard stared at his empty hilt, his eyes wide with a terror that transcended words.
Blake's hand snapped out, moving faster than the eye could follow. He gripped the guard's throat, lifting the man off the floor with a single arm.
"The Sterlings taught me that power is a gift from the clan," Blake whispered, his emerald-green eyes boring into the guard's soul. "They were wrong. Power is a debt collected from the weak."
A surge of reaper energy flowed from Blake's palm. The guard didn't even have time to scream. His body withered instantly, his skin turning to grey parchment as his vital essence was forcefully inhaled by the Divine Reaper hovering behind Blake.
[Vital Essence absorbed. Strength +0.5. Resilience +0.2.]
Blake tossed the hushed, desiccated remains aside as if it were a bundle of dry sticks. He turned his gaze to the first guard, who had dropped his lantern and was currently scrambling backward, his boots slipping on the polished floor.
"Please!" the guard shrieked. "I only followed orders! I didn't touch the needles!"
"Then run," Blake said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Run and tell Silas Sterling that the reaper has come for his harvest. Tell him to gather the Elders. I want them all in one room."
The guard didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and bolted down the hall, his screams of "Demon! The demon is alive!" echoing through the West Pavilion, signaling the end of the manor's peace.
Blake didn't chase him. He turned back to the abandoned room where his father's body still lay in the corner. He walked over to the remains of Thomas Harrison and knelt. The anger that had been a roaring fire in his chest cooled into a sharp, icy resolve.
"You died believing we were a mistake, Father," Blake said quietly, reaching out to close his father's sightless eyes. "You died for a lie told by cowards. I will build a monument for you out of their palace."
He stood up, his gaze fixing on the red screen of the System.
Current State: Blood Reaper Awakening
New Skill Unlocked: Soul-Devouring Strike (Level 1)
Mission: The First Harvest. Eliminate the architects of the betrayal.
Blake walked out of the West Pavilion, his steps measured and heavy. As he moved toward the central manor, the festive sounds of the Autumn Festival's final night began to drift toward him—the distant music, the laughter of the guests who were still celebrating the "Sterling victory" over the Hawthorne house.
He reached the Great Courtyard, where the moonlight washed over the white marble. A squad of ten enforcers, led by a junior deacon named Harlen, was already forming a perimeter. They had heard the screams.
"There he is!" Harlen shouted, pointing his halberd at Blake. "The shadow-spawn! Formation Delta! Don't let him speak his curses!"
The enforcers closed in, their shields locked. These were 4th and 5th-layer disciples, the backbone of the Sterling defense. To the old Blake, this would have been a formidable wall. To the Reaper, it was merely a field of grain.
Blake raised his hand, and the Divine Reaper behind him mimicked the gesture. The pale emerald scythe swept through the air, not touching the physical world, but slicing through the spiritual plane.
"Soul-Devouring Strike," Blake uttered.
A wave of black and green energy erupted from his palm. It hit the shield wall like a physical hammer. The shields didn't break, but the men behind them did. They collapsed simultaneously, their eyes rolling back as their spiritual sense was momentarily shredded by the Reaper's majesty.
Blake walked through the center of the fallen squad. He reached Deacon Harlen, who was clutching his head, blood leaking from his ears.
"Where is Jazmin?" Blake asked, his voice calm.
Harlen looked up, his face contorted in agony. "The... the high balcony. With Garrett. The betrothal... it's being finalized by the City Lord."
"Good," Blake said. "It's only right that she has an audience."
He bypassed the main stairs, jumping instead to the carved stone buttress of the central spire. His new physical strength was absurd; with a single leap, he propelled himself thirty feet into the air, his fingers digging into the stone like iron claws. He climbed the vertical surface with the grace of a predatory insect, reaching the high balcony of the Sterling Sanctum in seconds.
The balcony was a place of opulence, draped in silk and lit by floating lanterns. Silas Sterling stood at the railing, holding a glass of amber wine. Beside him stood Jazmin, looking stunning in her bridal crimson, her hand resting on the arm of a smug, bandaged Garrett Hawthorne. The City Lord was there, holding the official seal of the city.
The sound of Blake's boots hitting the marble balcony floor was like a gunshot in the quiet night.
Silas Sterling turned, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. Jazmin let out a sharp, choked gasp, her face turning a ghostly shade of white. Garrett Hawthorne instinctively retreated, his 6th-layer instincts screaming at him to flee.
"Blake?" Silas whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and genuine, primal fear. "How are you standing? Dravis said—"
"Dravis was a poor accountant," Blake said, walking into the circle of light. The Reaper's silhouette towered behind him, its bloodshot eyes fixed on Silas. "He took the wrong things. He thought my power was in my marrow. He didn't realize it was in my hate."
"Guards!" Silas roared, finding his voice. "Kill him! He's a demon! A walking corpse!"
The elite guards of the Sanctum—8th-layer masters—rushed from the inner chambers. But they were too late. The atmosphere on the balcony had already changed. The Reaper's aura was so thick that the lanterns flickered and died, leaving the balcony bathed in a sickly, emerald glow.
Blake looked at Jazmin. She was staring at him, her lips trembling. "Blake... you... you don't understand. I had to—"
"You didn't have to do anything, Jazmin," Blake interrupted, his voice devoid of the warmth he had once felt for her. "You chose the gold. You chose the pure blood. You chose the brute."
He turned his gaze to Garrett. "Do you remember the feeling of the sand against your face, Garrett? Do you remember kneeling?"
Garrett snarled, his pride overriding his fear. He drew a heavy claymore from a decorative rack on the wall. "You're a crippled freak, Harrison! System or no, I'll finish what the needles started!"
Garrett charged, his 6th-layer muscles bulging. He swung the claymore in a horizontal arc meant to decapitate.
Blake didn't draw a sword. He didn't have one. He simply raised his bandaged hand—the one burnt by Julian Valerian's blade—and caught the edge of the massive claymore with his bare palm.
The metal groaned. The impact sent a shockwave through the balcony, cracking the marble floor. Garrett's eyes widened as he realized he couldn't move the blade an inch.
"My turn," Blake said.
He twisted his wrist, and the 6th-layer claymore—the pride of the Hawthorne forges—snapped like a dry twig. Blake stepped forward, his fist buried in Garrett's stomach.
This wasn't a "Vibrant Palm" strike. This was a Reaper's Strike.
Garrett was launched off the balcony, a streak of bronze and blood. He plummeted a hundred feet down into the reflecting pool below, the impact shattering the stone and sending a geyser of water into the air. He didn't resurface.
The City Lord retreated toward the inner doors, his hands raised. "This is a clan matter! The city will not interfere!"
Silas Sterling drew his own sword—a masterpiece of Vital Essence refinement. "You monster. You've ruined everything! The alliance, the reputation, the legacy!"
"The legacy was built on my father's service and my blood," Blake said, his aura flaring until the balcony railings began to crumble. "I'm just here to collect the interest."
Blake moved. He was no longer a martial artist; he was a force of nature. Silas swung his sword, unleashing a wave of Sterling Gale energy that could slice through a house. Blake walked through the wind as if it were a summer breeze. He reached Silas and gripped the Clan Head's sword arm.
With a sickening crunch, the bone shattered. Silas screamed, dropping the weapon.
"This is for the needles," Blake whispered, his fingers digging into Silas's shoulder.
He began the "Devouring."
Silas Sterling, the Master of the Vital Essence Realm, began to wither before Jazmin's eyes. His hair turned white, his skin wrinkled, and his power—decades of cultivation—flowed into Blake.
[Vital Essence absorbed. Realm Progress: 45%...]
[Vital Essence absorbed. Realm Progress: 80%...]
[Breakthrough! Host has reached the 2nd Layer of Flesh Tempering (Void-Refined).]
Blake tossed the shriveled, unconscious Silas toward Jazmin's feet. He stood in the center of the wreckage, his tattered robes fluttering in the wind. He felt more alive than he ever had as a "genius." The Voidheart Pearl was humming a song of satisfied hunger.
He looked at Jazmin, who was huddled against the wall, sobbing.
"I'm not going to kill you, Jazmin," Blake said, his emerald eyes cold. "That would be too easy. I want you to live. I want you to marry the crippled Garrett Hawthorne. I want you to watch as I tear down every stone of this manor and use it to build something that will haunt your dreams."
He walked to the edge of the balcony and looked out over Thousand Blade City. The fires of the festival were still burning, but a new shadow was falling over the streets.
"The Harrison name is dead," Blake said to the night. "Call me the Reaper."
He jumped.
But he didn't fall. The Divine Reaper caught him, its emerald wings unfolding as it carried him over the walls of the manor and into the dark forests beyond.
The Sterling family was broken. The city was in shock. And in the silence of the woods, a figure in a black cloak waited for him—the same figure who had watched his awakening from the mountain peak.
"You took your time," the figure said, his voice like grinding stones.
Blake landed, his gaze sharp. "Who are you?"
"A friend of your ancestors," the man replied, pulling back his hood to reveal a face covered in ancient, glowing runes. "And the one who is going to teach you how to actually use that scythe."
Blake looked at the man, then at the manor burning in the distance