Chapter 3
Azrael Luca didn't go back to work that night.
After everything that had happened in the cemetery, the last thing he wanted was to see another body.
The rain had stopped by the time he reached his apartment building. Water dripped slowly from the rusted fire escape as he climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor.
The city was quiet.
Too quiet.
Azrael unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside.
Small.
Cluttered.
Comfortably ordinary.
For a moment he simply stood there, staring at the familiar room.
The couch.
The small kitchen.
The dim lamp beside the window.
Everything looked the same.
But he didn't feel the same.
His hand tightened around the scythe.
The weapon had followed him all the way home.
It should have felt heavy.
Instead, it felt… natural.
Like it belonged there.
Azrael leaned the scythe carefully against the wall near the door.
The blade glowed faintly in the darkness, thin blue light drifting across its surface like mist.
He watched it for a long moment.
"…I must be losing my mind."
He walked to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water across his face.
When he looked up at the mirror, the man staring back looked exhausted.
And uneasy.
The memory of the cemetery flashed through his mind again.
The grave.
The corpse.
The moment the body had turned into dust when he touched the scythe.
Azrael shook his head.
"Nope."
"Definitely not thinking about that tonight."
He turned toward the refrigerator.
Opened it.
Empty.
He stared at the shelves.
"…Great."
Behind him—
The scythe pulsed.
Azrael froze.
Slowly, he turned around.
The weapon was glowing brighter now.
Soft blue light flowed along the blade like living smoke.
Azrael frowned.
"That's new."
He walked back toward it carefully.
The closer he stepped, the warmer the air became.
The scythe hummed softly.
Not a sound exactly.
More like a vibration.
Then—
A calm voice echoed quietly inside his mind.
"You can hear me now."
Azrael jumped.
"Okay!"
He pointed at the weapon.
"Let's stop right there."
Silence followed.
The voice spoke again.
"You have taken the scythe."
Azrael stared at it.
"…You're the one talking."
"Yes."
Azrael dragged a chair across the floor and sat down slowly.
"Alright."
He rubbed his face.
"Let me get this straight."
He gestured toward the scythe.
"You're an ancient magical weapon."
"Yes."
"And you're speaking inside my head."
"Yes."
Azrael sighed.
"Of course you are."
The voice remained calm.
"The previous Reaper has fallen."
Azrael's expression changed.
He remembered the body in the grave.
"How?"
A long pause followed.
Then the answer came.
"He was slain."
Azrael's stomach tightened.
"By who?"
The air in the room suddenly grew colder.
A single name echoed in his mind.
"Axar."
The word carried weight.
For a brief moment—
Images flashed through Azrael's thoughts.
A throne made from broken souls.
A dark kingdom beyond the veil of death.
And a towering figure wearing a crown of bone.
Blue fire burned inside his eyes.
Azrael grabbed the edge of the table.
"What was that?"
"A memory of the enemy."
Azrael swallowed slowly.
"That thing killed Death?"
"Yes."
Silence filled the room.
Azrael leaned back in his chair.
"Well."
"That's a problem."
The voice continued.
"The balance of souls has been broken."
Azrael nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
"I noticed that part."
The ghost he had helped earlier flashed through his mind.
The monster that followed.
"So now what?"
"You carry the scythe."
Azrael looked down at the weapon.
"That still doesn't explain why it chose me."
The voice answered quietly.
"It did not choose you."
Azrael frowned.
"What do you mean?"
A pause followed.
Then the voice said something that made his blood run cold.
"You were meant to die tonight."
Azrael sat up straight.
"…What?"
"Your soul was scheduled to leave the living world."
Azrael stared at the scythe.
"You're telling me I was supposed to die?"
"Yes."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then why didn't I?"
The scythe pulsed softly.
"Because Death died first."
The words hung in the air.
Azrael slowly leaned back again.
"…That's insane."
"Perhaps."
Azrael rubbed his temples.
"So let me get this straight."
He pointed at himself.
"I'm alive because Death got murdered before he could collect me."
"Yes."
Azrael laughed quietly.
"That's the strangest luck I've ever had."
Before the voice could respond—
Something outside the window moved.
Azrael turned toward the glass.
A shadow passed beneath the streetlight.
Slow.
Unnatural.
Then a faint whisper drifted through the night.
"…help…"
Azrael narrowed his eyes.
"You hear that?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"A lost soul."
Azrael stood up slowly.
"Well."
He picked up the scythe.
"I guess the job starts early."
The blade glowed brighter in his hand.
Azrael walked toward the door.
"…This is going to be a long night."
Far beyond the living world—
Inside a dark palace built from shattered souls—
Axar opened his glowing eyes.
A faint smile appeared on his pale face.
"The new Reaper walks the earth."
His voice echoed across the endless darkness.
"Let us see how long he survives."