Chapter 43: Kiss of Death

The battlefield was chaos, but within it, a silence began to form—unnatural and cold. The air thinned. Shadows thickened. And in their midst, a figure stepped forward, every motion deliberate, inevitable.

Death had arrived.

It took the face of a beautiful young woman. The army was enchanted by its beauty, drawn toward it not with fear, but awe. Dressed in a wedding gown darker than the void, its eyes were empty galaxies—depthless, uncaring. Its presence stilling time itself. Around it, soldiers stopped mid-swing, their bodies frozen in the moment between breath and silence. With a soft move of its hand, everything fell lifeless around it, like puppets whose strings had been cut.

Hanz exhaled slowly, sensing the chill crawl into his bones. He stepped forward.

"You took too many of mine," he said, gripping his spear.

Death tilted its head. "They were never yours to keep."

No more words. The duel began.

It was meant to end in an instant. That's how Death believed it would be. It appeared before Hanz without warning.

"I will end this with one Kiss," it murmured softly but coldly. Not as a threat. As a fact.

Hanz felt soft, cold lips press against his own.

He blinked.

For a moment, the world was gone. His body did not breathe. His heart did not beat. He stood suspended in a void of nothing.

His soul was torn from his flesh.

He appeared in a small restaurant. There was no pain. Only the scent of cinnamon, fresh bread, a hint of thyme.

He opened his eyes. The world was soft. Golden light flooded the small restaurant around him. Wooden beams. A humming stove. A window open to birdsong and breeze. A home.

He wore a soft white shirt, sleeves rolled. His hands—scarless. He wasn't a warrior here. He was a chef. A gentle one.

The door chimed.

"You opening up or just daydreaming again?"

Josh grinned, flipping a chair backward to sit in it. He looked younger. Free. No blood on his hands.

Misa entered, brushing hair from her face. "I brought the herbs you like," she said, holding up a basket. She kissed his cheek. Her warmth lingered too long.

More voices arrived.

Moros helped light candles on each table.

Sandro brought wine. "Don't ask where I got it."

The Doom Master came quietly, placing a flower on the windowsill. No mask. No power. Just tired eyes and a faint smile.

Even the ones who shouldn't be here were.

Old warriors. Fallen friends. The dog Hanz lost as a child.

They were all here. Laughing. Eating. Happy.

He cooked. They praised him.

Josh threw a towel at him.

Sandro actually laughed.

And it kept going.

Days passed.

He taught Misa to make dough.

Helped Moros pick tomatoes from a garden.

Argued with Josh over who made better steak.

Sat under a sky full of stars with no war, no loss.

There was music, warmth, hope.

He even dreamed within the dream—dreams of children running through the restaurant, calling him "uncle," of Misa humming lullabies, of quiet, peaceful years.

But then—

Something wrong crept in.

The fire wouldn't light one morning.

Josh said the same sentence twice, word for word.

Moros's eyes didn't blink.

Misa's shadow split in two for a second too long.

Hanz looked into the mirror above the stove—and saw not himself, but his armored, bloodied reflection—eyes full of war, not peace.

He started to shake. Dishes fell. The illusion tried to hold him.

"Don't go, Hanz." Josh pleaded. "You're happy here."

The others nodded. "You don't have to suffer anymore."

Even the Doom Master spoke: "Let the world end without you. It already has."

And for a heartbeat, he wanted to.

But the mirror cracked. And through it, he saw it all—Death, towering over his limp body, the real world torn and screaming.

Then, from the dying ember inside his chest—Doom's power flared.

The restaurant caught fire, not with heat, but with truth.

He stood in the ruins of the dream, surrounded by ashes of love and memory.

From deep inside him, a black flame surged outward. Doom's mark, dormant until now, screamed against Death's grip. Shadows writhed beneath Hanz's skin, burning with defiance.

Death flinched. Its hand, still resting on Hanz's chest, smoked as if scorched by the abyss itself.

"You… were kissed," Death whispered. Not confused. Offended. "None survive."

Hanz didn't speak. He drove his spear forward, fast and clean.

Death parried, but not without stagger.

"You are tainted," Death said. Its voice had changed—no longer calm, but tightening. "That power is not yours."

"It is now," Hanz answered, eyes glowing faintly with the same abyssal hue as the Doom Master.

Tears rolled down his face. "I won't forgive you!"

He took stance with his spear, muscles coiled.

Death's perfect face cracked with fury. Its elegance shattered. Its limbs grew long and stick-like, fingers needle-thin and twitching. Its mouth split open unnaturally, revealing a mass of twisting tongues and jagged teeth. Its voice shrieked—not in speech, but in pure rage.

"How dare you, mortal? I am Death! I am the end of all!"

It rushed him, transformed and grotesque, slashing with elongated claws that screamed through the air.

Hanz's body didn't move. It danced.

He shifted under the strike, twirling low, spear sweeping wide, dragging lines through the ground. A burst of Doom's shadow followed each motion. He launched himself into a rising spiral, spear spinning around him like a second limb.

Death's claws missed. Hanz's feet slid along the battlefield dirt. Time bent around his will.

Internally, he wavered. A storm raged.

Why fight? What's left? They're gone. That dream... it could've been real enough.

But then he remembered Josh's laugh. Not the illusion's. The real one. The broken, bloody, stubborn one. He remembered Misa's final scream. Moros yelling at him to run. Hanz's hands shaking in helpless rage.

The fire in him turned to wrath.

Death struck his chest. Its needle-like claws pierced through. But his heart didn't beat. It had already stopped.

Doom's shadows bled from the wound, wrapping around the limb.

With a roar, Hanz engaged every muscle in his body. His form blurred. The next instant, Death was no longer whole.

Sliced in pieces. A thousand cuts in one motion.

Hanz stood in the aftermath, spear dripping with black essence, chest heaving from effort, though no blood pumped within him.

He looked at the sky.

His comrades still fought. Still bled.

He tightened his grip on the spear.

"Huh. What am I doing…?" He smirked "Till the Doom supports in me life, I'll fight."

With those words, he ran into the center of the war, toward the screams, toward the hope of saving one more life.

Behind him, from the fragments of Death, Life appeared.

"So you were defeated?" it said with a smirk.

"Don't talk to me!" Death snarled. It had shrunk—now a small child, trembling, drained of millennia of gathered energy.

"The cut, made with Doom's powers… it won't heal. I—Death—almost died."

Life patted Death's head.

"Don't worry. I'll avenge you."