Choosen by Goddess Hela, I became the Silent Death.

"Ash."

The name fell like judgment.

Ash turned slowly. His sword was already sheathed. His hands no longer trembled. But the shame in his eyes was still raw.

"Goddess."

Hela's gaze flicked to Licia—her cheeks tear-streaked, her fingers clenched tight around Ash's coat.

Then to Fenrir, who didn't even dare meet her gaze.

Then, back to the boy who would become her Reaper.

"Is this what your vengeance looks like?" she asked coldly. "Sacrificing the people who love you so that you can sharpen your wrath?"

Ash opened his mouth—but no excuse came.

Hela stepped forward, shadows pooling around her like oil.

"You think your pain is righteous. You think blood makes you free. But you forget something…"

She knelt before Licia, the goddess's divine light flickering across the woman's tear-stained face.

"When you use someone's love as bait, you don't just dishonour them—you chain yourself. Every drop of her fear lives in you now."

She stood again, towering over Ash.

"You want vengeance? Then understand this—you are no longer just a boy seeking justice. You are my blade now—my Reaper. And the Reaper does not kill for love. He kills for balance."

The silence stretched.

Then Hela lifted a hand, and a scythe of void light unfolded from the shadow, its shape ancient and terrible.

"Come, Ash. Your work begins tonight. The world is drowning in filth, and you will cull the corrupted souls that rot beneath the thrones of kings."

She turned her back on him.

"But if you ever endanger those bound to your heart again…"

Hela paused, her voice like frost against the spine.

"I will unmake you myself."

The scythe vanished. Her form shimmered.

And just like that—

She was gone.

Licia stumbled, her fingers reaching for Ash.

He was still on his knees, head bowed, tears streaking his cheeks. Guilt clung to him like a second skin. What he had done—what he had chosen—left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm."I forgive you," she said, her hand trembling as it touched his shoulder. "But listen to me, Ash—don't ever use your loved ones as pawns again."

Her words hung in the air like a sentence passed.

Then she rose and walked away—slow, pained, but proud.

Ash stayed there, unmoving. Drowning in shame.

SLAP!

A sharp sting cracked across his cheek. His head snapped to the side.

He looked up—startled—to see Veilthorn towering over him, arms crossed, eyes hard.

"Don't sit there sulking like a kicked dog," she snapped. "She forgave you. So stand up. Be better."

Ash blinked. The sting still lingered on his cheek—but so did something else. Clarity.

He reached up, gripped Veilthorn's outstretched hand, and let her pull him to his feet.

He turned toward Varrick's lifeless body—and froze.

A strange green light was oozing from the corpse, swirling like mist. It coiled unnaturally, pulsating with a malevolent rhythm.

Ash's instincts flared.

Without thinking, he raised his hand, and the scythe appeared in a silent scream of shadows. The moment its tip neared the green light, the substance snapped to it, as if drawn by gravity.

The blade pulsed.

Ash tugged the scythe, and from the remains of Varrick, a soul was pulled forth.

It hovered before him. Translucent. Flickering. A sickly green aura wrapped around its form, tainted, corrupted beyond natural death.

Ash stared at it. His heart thundered in his chest.

The soul hovered in front of Ash, flickering, translucent, bound in a sickly green aura. And then, it smiled.

"I always thought you were nothing," Varrick's soul said quietly. "A stray. A bastard father regretted bringing home."

Ash blinked, stunned.No venom. No mockery. Just… regret?

He stepped back slightly, confused. "Why aren't you angry? Why aren't you lashing out—calling me names, denying what you did?"

Varrick's soul lowered its gaze. "Because I see it now. Everything I was. The rot I carried. The pain I left behind."

Ash turned toward Fenrir, searching for understanding.

The great wolf met his eyes and sighed."Listen well, Ash," he rumbled. "When a soul is pulled from the flesh, it's forced to face itself. No lies. No ego. Just raw, unfiltered truth."

He glanced at Varrick's soul with something between pity and disdain.

"That one's seeing it all. Every cruelty. Every scream. Every scar he left behind. He knows he deserves what comes next."

Ash gripped the scythe tightly. "And what does come next?"

Fenrir's voice dropped, low and cold."He'll be dragged underground, where souls like his are punished. A million years of torment. Servitude. Remorse is etched into every breath he takes. Only then, maybe, will he earn the right to step toward reincarnation."

Ash stared at Varrick, who no longer looked like a monster—just a broken echo of the man he used to be.

A swirling portal of black and green opened behind Varrick's soul. From its depths emerged the Hands of the Damned—skeletal, clawed, and pulsing with infernal magic. They latched onto his soul with cold finality.

Yet Varrick remained calm.

His gaze never left Ash.

"Goodbye, Ash," he said softly. "Forgive me… for all of it. I hope I meet my family again, wherever I'm going. And tell my mother…" his voice cracked, "tell her I'm sorry—for treating her like she meant nothing."

Ash nodded, silent. The weight he'd carried for years eased—not vanished, but... balanced. A strange glow enveloped him.

A number floated briefly before his eyes.

"1."

He blinked.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

Fenrir nodded, a crooked grin forming. "Oh, I saw it. You've reaped your first soul. Welcome to the path of Reapers, kid."

Ash turned to the unconscious bodies of his other two brothers.

"What about these two?" Veilthorn asked, nudging their faces with the back of her dagger. "They look like they need a lesson in humility... or decapitation."

Ash didn't respond with words. Instead, he knelt beside Marek, grasped his hand with care, and unsheathed his sword.

With practised intent, he drove the blade once again through Varrick's lifeless mouth.

Veilthorn arched a brow, amused. "The three of them fought over your room, didn't they? Marek killed the eldest in a fit of rage… wait—your room?"

Ash smirked. "Exactly what you're thinking. Just... slightly different."

He placed his palm against Marek's forehead.

"Absolute Submission."

Marek's eyes shot open, glowing faintly, mind subdued. His voice was void of resistance.

"I await your command, little brother."

Ash stood, calm and composed.

"You struck down Varrick because he went too far. He broke the pact and tried to kill me. Today, I was meant to be cast out of this estate—but you prevented a massacre. One Arthur Lightbringer would have unleashed without hesitation."

Marek bowed his head.

"So be it."

Ash turned to Gly, placed a hand on his forehead, and whispered the same command:

"Absolute submission."

A faint shimmer crossed Gly's eyes. But something… glitched.

He suddenly jumped to his feet, threw both arms around Marek's shoulder, and shouted with unfiltered glee:

"Heyyy brother! We're goin' out for drinks or somethin', my man! Let's do this! Wooohooo!"

Marek blinked, baffled. "Uh… little bro… is this supposed to happen?"

Ash frowned, watching Gly awkwardly spin in place like a drunk noble at a festival. He shrugged helplessly.

"Guess I scrambled his brain a bit."

Gly stopped and stared at Ash, wide-eyed, tears streaming down his face.

"Why are you leaving me, brother? Don't go! Take me with you, please!"

Ash and Veilthorn exchanged a look... then simultaneously facepalmed.

Before Gly could spiral into another emotional meltdown, Ash raised his hand.

And with a snap of fingers, they vanished.

Ash, Veilthorn, and Fenrir were gone.

Leaving behind one very confused, weepy Gly… and Marek wondering if Ash had upgraded or just gone insane.