Necromancer (3)

Five years.

It's been five years since the world gave me the nickname "Reaper." I didn't pick it, but damn, it stuck like blood on a blade. Not that I care. Let them call me what they want. The name keeps the cowards in check and the fools out of my way—mostly.

For five years, I've been laying low, focusing on what matters. Cultivation? Sure, I've made progress, breaking into SSS+ rank and standing on the precipice of master rank again. But that's not where my energy has been. The dungeon near the countryside—that's been my sanctuary. No big names sniffing around, just a human mayor with an SS+ rank who's too busy being mediocre to be a threat.

I've turned the dungeon into my domain. The main chamber serves as my lab—a mess of herbs, bubbling vials, rune smithing tools, and artifacts in various stages of creation. I even added a small chamber for… darker work. Experiments. Soul studies. It's not like I'm dragging innocent people in there—only the filth of the earth. Monsters. Criminals who make your stomach churn just hearing about their crimes. People humanity wouldn't miss.

Like this bastard in front of me now.

***

The man—a generous term for the pile of human waste trembling before me—was once an SSS- ranked mercenary. Now? He's just a screaming wreck. I leaned against my scythe, Reaper's Kiss, watching him squirm.

"You know," I said, "I used to think people like you were a rare breed. Cannibalizing children, killing for sport. Turns out, you're not special. Just another sack of flesh with a broken moral compass."

He whimpered something incoherent, maybe a plea. I didn't care. His hands, trembling and broken, twitched toward my ankle. Ah, the desperation of a cornered rat.

"You don't get to touch me," I muttered, slamming my boot onto his wrist. The crunch was satisfying, almost therapeutic. "You've lost that privilege."

I tilted my head, watching the glow of his soul grow brighter with every ounce of agony I inflicted. That was the secret most didn't know. Pain—pure, unfiltered pain—could refine a soul. Make it burn hotter, shine brighter. And I needed it at its peak.

He screamed again, thrashing despite his shattered limbs. His mind was slipping into madness, the primal fear overtaking whatever sense of reason he had left. It was almost admirable. Almost.

"Enough of that," I said, raising Reaper's Kiss. The scythe hummed with soul magic, laced with death mana. A combination that shouldn't exist, but here it was, singing in my hand. One clean slice, and his body crumpled.

His soul remained, floating before me like a wisp of light.

"Perfect," I whispered, reaching out. The wisp flickered, resisting for a moment, but I pulled it into my collection with a simple gesture. To my right, a faint shimmer revealed the dozens of other souls I'd gathered, all swirling in silent torment.

I turned to my latest creation—a sword. It wasn't flashy, just a long blade inscribed with runes and faintly glowing with stored power. It wasn't meant for combat; its purpose was far greater.

***

The sword was my magnum opus—or, at least, the start of it. Five years of work had gone into this project. Five years of alchemy, rune-smithing, and experimenting with soul magic.

It wasn't much of a weapon in the traditional sense. Sure, it was durable, but sharpness? Cutting power? Negligible. Its true strength lay in its core: a lattice of runes designed to absorb and store souls.

I held it up, examining the faint pulse of light within the blade. The criminal's soul shimmered inside, barely noticeable among the dozens already trapped there. This was just the beginning. I'd test its limits, see how much it could hold.

Ten thousand souls. That was the goal.

It was limit the sword can handle, so the powerful the souls the better.

***

The sword in my hand gleamed faintly, the runes etched along its blade glowing with a soft, eerie light. It wasn't much to look at—its design wasn't meant for beauty or intimidation. It was functional, durable, and most importantly, a vessel. A creation meant to collect and store souls.

I'd spent the better part of half a decade crafting it, pouring every ounce of my alchemical knowledge, rune-scribing expertise, and trial-and-error experimentation into it. The sword could hold up to 10,000 souls, no more. The limit wasn't arbitrary—it was all the material could bear without shattering under the weight of the raw essence it would contain. The stronger the soul, the better, but any soul would do in a pinch.

Testing it had been simple enough. The man lying lifeless at my feet, a wretched creature of SSS- rank, had been more than sufficient proof that the artifact worked. His soul lingered above his corpse for only a moment before being drawn into the sword, the faint hum of its runes confirming the absorption.

"Perfect," I muttered, turning the blade in my hand.

This wasn't just a tool; it was a trump card for the future. The calamity still loomed on the horizon, vague and ominous, but always there. The strange, fragmented words I'd heard before each death in my past lives still haunted me, tantalizingly incomplete. I had a hunch that, in this life, I might finally see the full text. Perhaps the answer to defeating that damn disaster lay within it. But I wasn't about to bet everything on hope. No, I needed insurance.

The souls collected by the sword would serve a greater purpose later—if not directly by me, then perhaps through the lich I planned to enlist. It was all part of the plan, though I'd been dragging my feet lately when it came to cultivation. That would need to change. I couldn't remain stagnant any longer. It was time for the Reaper to step back into the game.

My enemies wouldn't provide me with a warm welcome, but that suited me just fine. Nobles would tremble, and their treasuries would suffer my wrath. Generous donations from their ill-gotten wealth would accelerate my climb to peak Master rank. Five years—five years was all I needed to reach the summit of this stage. After that, I'd have an entire decade before the calamity struck. Plenty of time to gather souls and prepare for the endgame.

Unlike my past lives, though, I wasn't planning to let the calamity dominate my every waking thought. This time, I was taking a different approach. I'd use this life to gather what I needed and enjoy some respite along the way. No more shackling myself to humanity's survival—especially when it had spat on every effort I'd made before.

High-humans, in particular, had failed me in ways I'd never forgive. The very thought of their sanctimonious arrogance was enough to sour my mood. If someone stood in my way, I wouldn't hesitate. No more agonizing over whether they might be useful for the calamity. If they crossed me, they'd die. Simple as that.

"Carefree," I said aloud, the word tasting foreign on my tongue. I gave a bitter chuckle. "We'll see how long that lasts."

Still, the thought of living on my own terms, unburdened by the weight of humanity's expectations, had its appeal. For now, I would focus on my goals: cultivation, preparation, and a touch of revenge where necessary. The calamity could wait