Darkness crept along the vaulted ceiling of the council hall. The torches burned too dim, their flames twitching as though even fire feared what it had heard.
The Demon Hunters' high council—the men and women who had built their legend on blood and iron—were shaken. Voices collided, panicked, as reports came from every corner of the city.
> "Another noble dead—heart ripped from his chest!"
"Our wards are failing—whoever it is, they walk through them like mist!"
"No one has seen the face! Survivors speak in fragments—dreams, shadows, nothing clear!"
They weren't strategists now. They were frightened animals, cornered. For the first time in decades, the mighty hunters felt the claws of fear pressing against their throats.
And then—
The great doors whispered open.
A shadow entered, not with noise, but with presence.
A man stepped into the chamber, clad in black so deep it drank the torchlight. His hair—long, flowing, obsidian with streaks of violet—hung in loose strands, some falling across his face like jagged brushstrokes on a death painting. His eyes, sharp and burning purple, swept across the room, and silence snapped into place.
The women among the hunters felt their breath hitch—his presence was cruel, but mesmerizing. Dangerous, yet beautiful. The kind of beauty that lived in the edge of a blade.
He walked with no sound, no effort, yet the weight of him crushed the air.
A single voice broke the silence. One of the elders, his wrinkled hand trembling, spoke a name half-reverent, half-fearful:
"Reaper…"
The hall shifted. Relief and dread twisted together. The Reaper, their greatest Demon Slayer—the man who had turned legends into corpses, the blade that stood above all others.
Whispers hissed, hopeful and desperate:
"If anyone can bring the demon prince down alive, it's him…"
"The Reaper never fails."
But not everyone welcomed him.
In the corner, Ben's jaw clenched. The sight of the Reaper set his teeth on edge, boiling hatred clawing at his chest. He stepped forward, his voice sharp and venomous.
"Let me go with him. If he's so great, he won't mind."
The Reaper's eyes cut toward him—no anger, no malice, only mocking amusement.
> "You? Last I recall, your heroic encounter with the Demon Monarch ended with you crawling back half-dead, begging for your life."
The chamber cracked with suppressed laughter. Ben's fists trembled.
"Say that again!"
He lunged. Rage first, reason last.
But the Reaper didn't move—he merely shifted. Steel hissed once.
By the time anyone blinked, Ben was airborne, crashing into the stone floor, blood streaking from a savage slash across his chest.
Gasps filled the chamber. Lara's scream cut the silence as she rushed to him, her hands frantic against his wound. She glared at the Reaper, fury burning in her eyes, but the man didn't even bother to look back.
The rest just stared. They hadn't even seen the strike. One moment Ben was standing—next, broken.
The Reaper turned, purple eyes gleaming, and faced the elders.
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a warning.
"just sit back and enjoy the show.
It's going to be a good one."
The chamber reeked of tension. High-ranked demon hunters stood shoulder to shoulder, cloaks heavy with the scent of ash and blood. Whispers snapped between them like brittle twigs, panic biting through their composure.
At the edge of the circle, a man lingered in silence. His frame was unremarkable, swallowed by the same black uniform as the rest—yet something about him bent the air, an unseen weight pressing on the lungs of anyone too close.
His lips curved, slow and deliberate, into a smile. His voice—deep, resonant, the kind that rattled bone more than it touched the ear—slid out like a verdict.
"This will be one fight… I wouldn't skip for abillion souls."
Heads turned, the words slithering through the crowd like smoke. The man nearest him scowled, masking unease with bravado.
"Hey," he snapped, eyes narrowing. "What's so funny?"
The smile didn't fade. The figure turned—slowly, deliberately—meeting the man's gaze. Silver washed his pupils in a way that wasn't natural, wasn't human. Cold flooded the hunter's chest, freezing his voice. His body betrayed him—head jerking forward in a false nod, then snapping away as if afraid to keep looking.
Sweat trickled down his temple. His throat bobbed. He couldn't breathe right.
"Hey—are you okay?" another hunter whispered, concern breaking through. But the man didn't answer. His lips stayed tight, eyes wide, fixed anywhere but to his right. His trembling shoulders said enough.
That whisper of a smile still lingered. Until it didn't.
When Hal turned, the space was empty. No man. No presence. Just an absence that felt heavier than a body could ever be.
Reaper's eyes, sharp and unblinking, drifted across the chamber. They landed briefly on that hollow gap, narrowing as if something in him knew, some instinct screaming that space wasn't empty at all. But the glance was fleeting. He dismissed it, tilting his head back toward the council's arguments.
His lips curled"wherever you are Daemon Mornach...hope you're ready to meet The Reaper"
**********
Back at Graysons mansion
Stone paused mid-stride.
The night air felt heavier than it should, thick as though the world itself was holding its breath. His chest tightened—not from fear, but from a weight pressing down on him, unseen, unspoken.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing into the dark horizon. For a moment, it was as if something beyond the veil of this world was watching. Not just watching—waiting.
A faint shiver threaded down his spine. He forced a crooked grin, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Something's coming…" he murmured under his breath. "Something big."
The silence didn't answer.
But his instincts screamed.