The night was silent.
Too silent.
Edrin's lungs heaved as he staggered through the ruined street, blood dripping down his side. Broken houses leaned like corpses of a forgotten village, the moon smothered by thick clouds. He didn't hear the cries of survivors, nor the footsteps of enemies. Only the weight of silence pressing down on him.
And then—he felt it.
A chill swept across his spine, deeper than fear, sharper than steel. It was the kind of cold that didn't belong to the living. His knees weakened, not from his wound, but from the invisible presence that now walked beside him.
> "Your time is over."
The voice was not a whisper. It wasn't a shout either. It was a decree, echoing directly inside his skull.
Edrin turned, and his breath froze.
A figure cloaked in shifting starlight stood at the end of the street. Its face was hidden beneath a silver mask, its body wrapped in robes that shimmered like the night sky itself. And in its hand—it held a scythe forged from crystallized constellations, its blade humming like a thousand dying stars.
He had heard the legends.
The Astral Harvesters.
Beings older than kingdoms, older than gods. They did not kill; they collected. Souls that strayed too far from their destined time were plucked like overripe fruit. Their judgment was absolute.
And tonight, it was his turn.
"Wait," Edrin rasped, pressing a trembling hand to his bleeding side. "I—I can't die yet. Not like this."
The Harvester tilted its head slightly, as though curious at his plea. Yet its voice carried no emotion.
> "Your thread is cut. Your essence belongs to the Astral Archive."
"No!" The word ripped out of him like fire. His knees buckled, but he forced himself upright. "I still have reasons to stay! My sister—she's still out there! If I die now, she'll—she'll—"
The Harvester stepped closer, each movement weightless, like it floated rather than walked. With every step, stars dimmed in the sky above.
> "Your mortal attachments are irrelevant. Souls do not bargain."
But Edrin did not kneel. Even as his vision blurred, even as the shadow of the scythe fell over him, something inside his chest burned.
A heat.
A defiance.
A refusal.
When the scythe swung down, it should have cleaved his soul clean from his flesh. It should have been painless, swift, inevitable.
Instead—
The blade shattered.
The street quaked as fragments of cosmic glass scattered into the air, dissolving into sparks. The Harvester froze mid-motion, its head jerking toward Edrin in silent disbelief. For the first time in eternity, an error had occurred.
Edrin's body collapsed, but his soul did not leave. Instead, a blinding light erupted from within his chest, like a sun tearing through chains. His scream echoed into the void, half agony, half rebellion.
The Harvester staggered back, whispering in a language older than stars. Its mask cracked. Its robes flickered. And then—its form dissolved, scattering into a trail of stardust, retreating to the heavens.
Silence returned.
But not the same silence as before.
Edrin lay on the broken cobblestone, chest rising and falling. His wound still bled, yet he was alive. He touched his chest, where the scythe had struck. Instead of emptiness, he felt a pulse—louder, heavier, foreign.
Not his heart.
Something else.
Something astral.
> "Impossible…" The Harvester's fading voice echoed in the distance. "A soul that refused to be reaped…"
And then it was gone.
Edrin awoke hours later.
The village was colder, darker, emptier. Yet the wound on his side had closed into a scar. He dragged himself to a half-broken well and stared at the reflection in the water.
His eyes were no longer just brown.
They glowed faintly with silver constellations, shifting like galaxies.
And behind his reflection, for a brief second, he saw chains of light binding something vast and ancient—locked inside his chest.
His lips trembled.
"What… am I now?"
Far above the mortal realm, in a domain beyond stars, the Astral Council convened. Cloaked figures of light filled a chamber carved from the void, their voices overlapping like an eternal choir.
One Harvester knelt at the center, its mask cracked, its scythe broken.
> "Error," it reported, its voice trembling in shame. "The soul of Edrin Kael resisted the Harvest. He remains in the mortal plane, bearing fragments of astral essence."
The chamber stirred, galaxies rippling at the revelation.
> "A soul that defies Harvesting?"
"It must not be allowed."
"He is an anomaly. A danger."
And in the shadows beyond the Council, something stirred—an entity older than even the Harvesters themselves. Its voice rumbled like collapsing worlds.
> "Then let the anomaly grow. If he resists the scythe… let us see what destiny he forges. A soul unbound will either shatter creation—or reshape it."
Back in the mortal world, Edrin clenched his fists.
He didn't know why the Harvester failed. He didn't know what power had taken root inside him.
But he knew one thing:
He was no longer prey.
And for the first time in history…
a soul had slipped the grasp of the Astral Harvesters.
Edrin tried to stand. His legs wobbled like they belonged to someone else, trembling under the unfamiliar weight pressing against his chest. Every breath he took made the strange pulse inside him louder—like a second heartbeat that wasn't his.
He stumbled toward the broken well again and gripped its edge, staring down at his reflection. The constellation in his eyes shimmered brighter this time, not fading away.
"No," he whispered, voice hoarse. "This isn't real. This is some dream. Some fever before death."
But when he pressed his palm against the water's surface, ripples spread out, and light spilled from his fingertips. Actual light, faint but undeniable. The well glowed as though tiny stars had been dropped inside it.
Edrin staggered back, heart racing. Fear clawed at him, but beneath that fear was something far more dangerous—curiosity.
"What did you do to me… Harvester?" he muttered.
The question had no answer, but in the silence of the night, he felt eyes watching him. Not from the village. Not from the ruins. From above. The stars themselves seemed sharper, almost alive, their cold gaze following his every move.
A howl broke the silence.
Not a wolf. Not anything natural.
From the edge of the shattered street, a creature dragged itself out of the shadows. Its body was twisted, made of flesh and darkness, its eyes burning with pale fire. It looked half-born, as though torn from a nightmare. The sight churned Edrin's stomach.
He recognized it.
A Remnant—a husk left behind when a soul was improperly harvested. He had seen them before, wandering ruins, driven only by hunger.
But this one wasn't wandering.
It was looking directly at him.
The Remnant shrieked and lunged.
Instinct screamed at him to run, but his body was too weak. The creature's claws slashed through the air—only to collide with something invisible. Sparks of silver light erupted, forming a barrier around Edrin's body.
The Remnant screeched, recoiling.
Edrin's hand trembled. He hadn't moved. He hadn't done anything. Yet the astral energy inside him had acted on its own.
"Protecting me…?" he whispered.
The Remnant attacked again, and this time, the light surged outward from his chest, striking the creature like a wave of fireflies. The monster convulsed, its form unraveling into dust, leaving nothing behind but silence.
Edrin collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. Sweat poured down his face. The glow around him faded, but the echo of power still pulsed in his veins.
He looked at his hands.
He had just destroyed a Remnant without lifting a weapon.
His lips parted in disbelief.
"What… have I become?"
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, the stars shifted. The Astral Council's judgment had already begun.