Darkness.
It wasn't the kind that came with the closing of eyes, nor the kind that followed sleep. It was heavier—dense, infinite, and soundless.
Amara drifted in it, weightless, for what felt like an eternity. There was no up or down, no air, no breath, only the quiet pulse of something vast and ancient surrounding her. Slowly, her mind began to piece together fragments of memory—the scythe, the pain, the unbearable heat in her veins, and then… nothing.
Now there was only this black space.
But even in the endless dark, there were lights.
Tiny motes shimmered in the distance, like distant stars scattered across an unseen sky. They pulsed gently, sometimes brightening, sometimes dimming, like they were alive—breathing, thinking. As Amara's eyes adjusted, she realised they weren't just lights. They were souls.
Shapes began to form between the glimmers—silhouettes of beings, countless in number, each one faintly glowing in a different hue. Azure, crimson, gold, violet—every colour imaginable floated in the endless void. They moved slowly, drifting like leaves in a cosmic current, aimless and silent.
Amara looked down at herself—and froze.
Her form glowed too, but unlike the others, hers wasn't radiant or colourful. Her light was dim, a murky grey edged with black. It clung to her like smoke, twisting and curling, as if her very soul was tainted by shadow.
"What… is this place?" she whispered. Her voice sounded distant, muffled, like she was speaking underwater.
No answer came.
Then she felt it—a weight, cold and solid, against her palm.
She looked down.
A small scythe was stuck to her right hand, its jagged blade only five inches tall but pulsing faintly with dark energy. It wasn't metal, not entirely. The shaft looked like bleached bone, the blade like condensed shadow. It didn't feel like a weapon. It felt alive.
Amara tugged, but it wouldn't move. The weapon clung to her hand as though fused to her very being. And as her fingers brushed the haft again, something stirred inside her.
A pull.
It started deep in her chest, like a heartbeat that wasn't her own. It grew stronger, tugging her forward—not violently, but irresistibly. The more she resisted, the stronger it became, until her body began to drift through the dark on its own.
"What's happening?" she gasped, but the void had no answer.
The stars of souls swam past her, some fading as she passed, others flaring brighter for an instant, as though acknowledging her presence. The pull grew fiercer, a current she couldn't fight. And then, ahead, she saw it—a glow.
At first, it was faint, a pale shimmer on the horizon. Then it grew, expanding into something massive and terrible.
A gate.
It towered above everything—twelve meters tall, maybe more, built from colossal bone-like pillars intertwined like ribs. Between them shimmered a golden light, but not pure gold—this one was tainted, darkening toward the edges, flickering with black flame. It wasn't inviting. It was final.
The Gate of the Underworld.
Even before she understood, she knew. Every part of her soul whispered it.
Her pace quickened, though she wasn't moving of her own will anymore. The pull was absolute now, dragging her toward the gate.
"No… wait—" she tried to resist, but it was useless. The current yanked her forward, the lights of souls spinning past like a thousand streaking comets.
Then she hit the gate.
There was no impact—only sensation.
Her vision fractured. Her mind twisted. The world folded inward, and the last thing she felt before the darkness swallowed her again was a rush of air—cold, ancient, and endless.
And then—light.
Amara gasped.
Her lungs filled with something thick and heavy, not air but a cold mist that seeped into her soul. She blinked rapidly, her vision struggling to adjust. The world around her slowly came into focus.
And it was not what she expected.
No flames. No screaming souls. No demons with chains or fiery pits.
Instead, there was a city.
Tall spires of black stone pierced a twilight sky, their windows glowing faintly with blue fire. Steam hissed from pipes that lined the cobbled streets below, feeding strange metallic carriages that hovered inches off the ground. The architecture reminded her of Earth's nineteenth-century Gothic, intricate, and full of shadow.
But the most breathtaking thing wasn't the city.
It was the river.
A massive stream of golden-red water flowed above the city, suspended in the sky like a ribbon of molten light. Its glow rippled across the rooftops, painting everything in shades of crimson and gold. The river seemed endless, stretching beyond sight, its current slow but steady, like time itself was flowing through it.
And Amara was in it.
She floated gently along its surface, her reflection shimmering beneath her. The water didn't feel wet—it was warm, soothing even—but when she looked closely, she could see faint outlines drifting within it. Souls. Countless souls, gliding peacefully through the current.
"Where… am I?" she murmured.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the air trembled. The river rippled around her, and light bent at a single point ahead. Something was coming.
At first, it was just a silhouette, walking calmly atop the glowing current. Then the figure became clearer—a woman, tall and graceful, her every step parting the water beneath her feet.
Amara's breath caught.
The woman looked nothing like the monstrous reapers of myth. No skeletal hands, no ragged cloak, no aura of horror. She was young—no older than her late twenties—with pale skin that seemed to absorb the light around her. Her hair was as black as the void Amara had come from, flowing freely in an unseen wind.
But her eyes—her eyes were cold, ancient things.
She carried a full-sized scythe, its blade curved and elegant, trailing faint wisps of shadow as she approached. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze piercing straight through Amara's soul.
When their eyes met, the world went still.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, without a sound, the woman raised her hand. The world shattered.
The next thing Amara knew, the river was gone.
She blinked and found herself floating high above a vast, dark forest. Beneath them, fog rolled across the treetops, and faint glimmers of soul-lights flickered between the branches. The air was cold but breathable. Beside her hovered the woman—the Grim Reaper herself.
Amara stared, unable to find her voice.
The Reaper finally spoke, her tone calm but sharp, like a blade slicing through silence.
"To become an Envoy of Death," she said, "you must first walk the path of those who serve it. You must rise through the ranks of the Reapers. Only then will you even approach the right to hold that title."
Her words carried a weight that pressed against Amara's chest.
"Even then," the Reaper continued, her gaze unwavering, "it isn't guaranteed. The trials will break you. Most who attempt them are lost forever, their essence consumed by the very power they seek to master."
Amara hesitated. "So… it's a test?"
The Reaper's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile. "A crucible. You seek to become Death's Envoy. Death does not grant power. It demands payment."
Her voice was calm, but there was something chilling beneath it.
"The path is high risk, with little chance of return. Those who succeed are rare. Those who fail are erased. So tell me, child of shadow…" The Reaper turned, her scythe glinting faintly in the dim light. "Do you still wish to walk this path?"
Amara's thoughts spun.
Everything had happened so fast—dying, awakening here, meeting this impossible being. Now she was being asked to make a decision that could cost her everything. Her instincts screamed at her to hesitate, but something deeper whispered otherwise.
She thought of Earth—of her friends, of the world left behind. The chaos. The corruption. The blood. Valeria's determination. Dare's quiet brilliance. Her brother's laugh.
They were all still fighting.
And she was here, trapped in death's realm, with a chance to change what she could not in life.
Still, one question gnawed at her.
"What's the time difference between here and Earth?" she asked softly.
The Reaper turned her head slightly, a faint glimmer of curiosity flickering across her cold eyes. "What does that matter?"
"I need to know," Amara said. "If I do this… how long will it take before I return?"
The Reaper studied her for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed, almost reluctantly.
"One year here," she said finally, "is one hour on Earth."
Amara's eyes widened. Her chest tightened, even without a heartbeat. The scale of it was staggering—an eternity here for every passing moment in the mortal realm.
"One… hour?" she whispered.
The Reaper nodded. "The Underworld is not bound by mortal time. Its flow is deeper, older. To mortals, you will seem unchanged when you return—if you return. But you will have lived lifetimes."
The words settled over her like frost. A year here for every hour there. The trials could take decades, centuries. And yet… her world would still need her.
Amara looked down at the forest beneath them, at the faint glow of wandering souls. She felt the weight of the scythe still fused to her hand, its presence pulsing in rhythm with the strange stillness of her heart.
She exhaled slowly.
The fear was still there, coiled deep within her chest, but beneath it was something stronger. Resolve.
She turned to the Reaper, meeting her gaze without flinching. "I'll do it."
For the first time, the Reaper's expression changed—just slightly. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Very well," she said.
The world around them began to shift. The sky darkened, the forest below stretching endlessly into shadow. The river of souls in the sky rippled and flared as if acknowledging her decision.
"You have chosen the path of death," the Reaper said softly. "From this point on, there is no return until your trial ends. You will serve as one of us, a fledgling Reaper, bound to the will of the cycle."
Her voice grew distant as the wind rose around them.
"When you awaken again, your training will begin."
Amara tried to speak, but her voice was drowned by the roar of unseen forces. The light around them bent, folding in on itself. The Reaper's form began to dissolve into mist.
Her last words echoed through the void:
"Welcome to the Underworld, Amara."
And then the world went black.