CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE: THE SCYTHE'S JUDGEMENT

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply as I steadied my breathing. The world around me faded, swallowed by an endless void. The air was thick, pressing against my skin like unseen hands testing my presence. In front of me, though I could no longer see it, the Death Scythe rested, waiting.

Focusing, I reached out—not with my hands, but with my mind.

A cold sensation slithered through my veins, seeping into my very being. The moment my consciousness touched the scythe, an invisible force pulled me in. The weight of existence itself seemed to shift, and suddenly, I was falling.

Darkness.

It wasn't empty—it pulsed, alive, shifting like something watching me from all directions. Whispers crawled along the edges of my perception, too faint to understand but impossible to ignore. The darkness wasn't just surrounding me. It was testing me.

A slow, bone-deep chill settled in my core as a presence emerged from the void. Not a voice, not a being—just an overwhelming sense of something other.

My pulse pounded in my ears. I willed myself to stand firm, to hold my ground, but the weight pressing down on me only grew heavier. The scythe wasn't just a weapon—it was something beyond my understanding, something that had once belonged to Seth, something that had chosen him.

But it had never chosen me.

And now, I had to prove myself.

I clenched my fists, steeling myself against the oppressive force threatening to crush me. If the Death Scythe wanted a fight, I would give it one.

Because I wasn't leaving without it.

"You've finally come."

The voice resonated through the void, deep and unwavering, carrying the weight of centuries. It was neither loud nor soft, but absolute—an undeniable presence that wrapped around me like the very shadows I commanded.

I opened my eyes, yet I saw nothing. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction, thick and impenetrable. There was no floor beneath me, no air to breathe, and yet I stood, unshaken. I knew I wasn't alone.

"For generations, I have awaited the one who would truly claim me. Tell me, Liam Remmick… are you worthy?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You're a weapon. Since when do weapons question their wielders?"

A low hum filled the void, like distant echoes of clashing steel. "A weapon is only an instrument when it serves without question. I am not an instrument."

I stayed silent, watching, waiting.

Then, the darkness shifted. No, not darkness—shadows. They swirled, condensed, forming images like ink bleeding through water. And then I saw it.

The past.

A man stood before me, wreathed in shadow and light. His presence was immense, his posture regal. His hands, wrapped in swirling tendrils of darkness, crafted something from the void. A scythe.

"Alphonso Remmick," the voice of the Scythe intoned, "the first Guardian. The one who forged me."

The image flickered, shifting seamlessly to another. Alphonso stood taller now, the scythe gripped tightly in his hand as he cleaved through monstrous figures wreathed in unnatural flame. His expression was unreadable—calm, determined, resolute.

Then another Guardian. And another. The memories bled together, passing through time like flowing water. Each wielder carried the scythe differently, wielded it uniquely, fought their own battles, bore their own burdens. Some carried it with pride, others with quiet reverence.

Then came Seth.

I inhaled sharply as I saw him. The same carefree grin, the same untamed energy, but his eyes—his eyes were serious in battle. He spun the Scythe effortlessly, shadows bending to his will as he cut down his enemies with precise, elegant movements. He was powerful. He was—

Gone.

The image faded, replaced once again by the endless void.

"Each Guardian has left their mark upon me," the Scythe continued, "and I upon them. Now, I ask you, Liam Remmick—will you leave yours?"

I clenched my fists. "What does that even mean?"

The void pulsed, the weight of the Scythe's presence pressing into my chest. "It means to wield me not as a tool, but as an extension of yourself. To not merely command me, but to understand me. To forge a bond beyond steel and shadow."

I exhaled slowly. The Scythe wasn't asking for control. It was asking for trust.

I smirked, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah, sure. I'll wield you as an extension of myself. Sounds easy enough."

The void trembled. Shadows pulsed and twisted, almost like they were breathing. Then, right in front of me, the darkness shifted—molding itself into a figure. My figure.

I tensed, instinctively taking a step back. My muscles coiled, ready for a fight. But the other me didn't attack. It just stood there, watching me with sharp, knowing eyes.

"How do you believe you can wield me when you cannot even control your own emotions?"

I stiffened. The words weren't mocking. They weren't cruel. They were patient. Calculated. Like the Scythe wasn't doubting me—just stating a fact.

I scoffed, crossing my arms. "Control my emotions? What does that have to do with anything?"

The other me didn't move, but the weight of its presence pressed down on me. "A weapon bound by rage will shatter. A weapon bound by grief will break. You carry both, yet you refuse to face them."

The shadows around us stirred. I felt something crawl beneath my skin—not pain, not fear, but something deeper. Something I wasn't sure I wanted to confront.

The other me tilted its head, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "Do you know why I allow you to carry me around like some mere trophy?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Allow me?" I echoed, scoffing. "You're just a weapon. You don't get a say."

The shadows pulsed—once, twice—before settling again. The other me didn't react to my words, just kept watching me with an unsettling patience. "And yet, I do. If I did not, you would not be holding me at all."

I clenched my jaw, but I had no retort for that. I had never thought about it before. The Scythe had always been there, always responded when I summoned it. I had assumed it was just mine to use. But now, standing before this version of myself, I wasn't so sure anymore.

The other me smirked, arms crossed over his chest as he eyed me with something close to disappointment. "You are beneath me," he said, voice smooth and unwavering. "You are incapable of standing in my presence, let alone wielding me as your own."

My teeth clenched, heat bubbling in my chest. "And yet," I shot back, "you still answer my call each time I summon you."

The smirk didn't fade. If anything, it deepened, as if he had been waiting for me to say that. "That is because he asked me to."

My irritation faltered. "...What?"

The darkness around us shifted, rippling like ink in water. "The Kovo," the other me clarified. "Seth spoke to me before his death. He knew you would need me for your journey, knew I would cbe beneficial to you and he asked that I allow it."

The air thickened. The moment stretched between us, heavy with something unspoken. Then, without warning, the void around me trembled, and a vision unfolded before my eyes.

Seth stood before the Death Scythe, gripping it firmly, his expression unreadable. "When I die," he said, voice quieter than usual, "let Liam take you."

The Scythe pulsed. "The boy is not ready."

"He never will be if you don't give him the chance."

I watched, frozen, as Seth exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. "He's stubborn. He's reckless. He has no patience, no control—but he's my nephew. And one day, whether he's ready or not, he'll need you."

The Scythe was silent for a long moment before responding. "And if he fails?"

Seth smiled—small, almost sad. "Then he'll try again. And again. Until he gets it right. That's the kind of person he is."

The vision blurred, fading like smoke.

I stood there, stunned, as the other me tilted his head. "Now tell me, Liam Remmick," he said, "do you still believe you wield me on your own merit?"

I swallowed, my fingers twitching at my sides. Seth's voice still echoed in my head, his unwavering belief in me pressing against my chest like a weight.

I looked at the other me—at the Scythe taking my form. It stood there, waiting. Expecting something.

"I don't care how it happened," I muttered. "You're with me now. That's what matters."

The other me chuckled. "Is that so?"

Before I could react, the world around us shifted again. The darkness peeled away, unraveling into something else entirely. A new vision formed before me.

I saw an ancient battlefield, drenched in blood and fire. In the center of it all, a lone warrior stood, his body covered in wounds, his grip tight on the Death Scythe. His presence was overwhelming—his shadow stretched long, his eyes burning with an unshakable resolve.

Alphonso Remmick.

The first Guardian. The one who forged the Death Scythe with his own hands.

I watched as he swung the weapon, his movements swift and merciless. With every strike, darkness erupted, swallowing his enemies whole. The Scythe didn't just cut flesh—it consumed souls.

And yet… there was something else. A connection. A bond. Alphonso didn't just wield the Scythe—he spoke to it, understood it.

The vision shifted again, flashing through time. I saw the Scythe passed down from Guardian to Guardian, each one forging their own bond with it. Some wielded it with honor. Others with desperation. Some were swallowed by its power.

Then, finally, I saw Seth.

He was younger in this memory, training alone in the Shadow Realm. He spun the Scythe with ease, his movements controlled, precise. Unlike Alphonso, he didn't wield it like a weapon of war. He moved like a dancer, fluid and natural.

"You're more than a weapon," he murmured, running a hand along the Scythe's dark blade. "You're a part of me."

The vision faded, leaving me in the void once more.

The other me watched me carefully. "Do you understand now?"

I exhaled, my mind racing. "You're not just a tool," I said slowly. "You're—"

"A legacy." The other me stepped closer. "A reflection of the one who wields me."

I clenched my fists. "And what about me? What do you see in me?"

The other me smirked. "That is for you to find out."

Then, without warning, the void collapsed around me. The darkness shattered like glass, and I felt myself being pulled back—back into reality.

My eyes snapped open. I was still seated in meditation, the Death Scythe resting before me. But something was different.

For the first time… I could feel it.

A pulse. A presence. A bond.

And in the back of my mind, a voice whispered.

"Now, let us begin."

The moment the words left his mouth, the world around me shifted. Darkness pulsed, alive and restless, before tearing open like a festering wound. From its depths, they emerged—ghouls, twisted and rotting, their hollow eyes locked onto me with mindless hunger. Their bodies dripped with decay, yet they moved with unsettling speed, clawing forward with jagged, unnatural movements.

I didn't hesitate. My grip tightened around the Death Scythe, and I lunged, slicing through the first one with a clean, precise arc. The blade met its target, but the moment I should have felt resistance—there was nothing. The ghoul split in half, yet it did not fall. Instead, the severed parts slithered back together, knitting itself whole as if my attack meant nothing.

"What the hell—" My words were cut off as another leapt at me. I barely dodged, twisting out of the way as its claw grazed my shoulder. Pain flared hot and sharp. The shock of it almost made me drop the scythe. Gritting my teeth, I steadied myself and swung again. And again. And again.

It was useless.

No matter how many times I cut them down, they wouldn't stay dead. The Scythe, my supposed weapon, felt heavy in my hands—just a slab of cold steel. It wasn't responding, wasn't cutting the way it should. My frustration mounted.

"What the fuck is this?!" I growled, dodging another swipe. I pushed forward, hacking at them with everything I had, but nothing worked. Their numbers didn't dwindle. Their attacks only got fiercer.

I tried harder.

I fought, forced my way through, ignoring the burning in my muscles and the blood staining my skin. But with every attack, I felt the weight of the weapon dragging me down, resisting me. My movements became sluggish, my body screaming in protest.

Then, a clawed hand raked across my back.

A searing, agonizing pain exploded through me, and I staggered forward, nearly collapsing. The wounds weren't just in my mind—I felt them, real and brutal, and they weren't healing. My breathing was ragged. My vision blurred.

Still, I refused to fall.

I forced my body to keep moving, pushing past the exhaustion, but my swings were getting weaker. My legs felt like lead. My grip on the scythe was slipping.

Another ghoul slashed at me, carving deep into my side. I gasped, stumbling to one knee. Blood dripped from my fingers, pooling beneath me. My strength was fading fast, and no matter how much I willed myself to keep going, I knew—I couldn't win like this.

The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me whole was the ghouls closing in, and the Death Scythe, still as lifeless as before, slipping from my grasp.

Then, everything went black.

A Week Later

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the ceiling—plain, white, unfamiliar. The second thing I noticed was the dull, aching heaviness weighing down my entire body, pinning me in place like a lead blanket.

I tried to sit up, but pain flared through me instantly, sharp and unforgiving. A hiss slipped through my teeth as I slumped back against the bed.

That was when I saw her.

Nicole was curled up in a chair beside my bed, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. Her breathing was slow and steady, her arms tucked under her head like a pillow. Strands of her dark hair clung to her face, and despite the uncomfortable position, she hadn't moved.

I blinked, my mind sluggish, trying to process what I was seeing.

"She never left."

I turned my head slightly—Helen stood at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, watching me with a knowing look.

"You've been unconscious for a week," she continued. "The wounds from that test didn't just disappear when you left. Your body had to recover, and she was here the whole time. Every single day."

I stared at her, then back at Nicole.

Helen smirked. "When she wakes up, you should at least appreciate her."

Then, without waiting for my response, she turned and left, leaving me alone with the quiet sound of Nicole's breathing.

I sighed, letting my head fall back against the pillow. A whole week? That explained the stiffness in my muscles, the way my body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of beasts.

My gaze drifted back to Nicole. Her posture was tense even in sleep, as if she'd been on edge for too long and couldn't fully relax.

She really hadn't left my side.

I swallowed, unsure how to feel about that. Gratitude? Guilt? Annoyance? A mix of all three?

I shifted slightly, wincing at the soreness, and in that moment, Nicole stirred. Her brows furrowed, her lashes fluttering as she groggily lifted her head. Sleep still clung to her eyes as she blinked at me, her mind catching up to reality.

Then, all at once, she shot up in her chair.

"Liam!" Her voice was hoarse, like she hadn't spoken in hours. Relief flooded her expression as she leaned forward, gripping the edge of the bed. "You're awake."

"Yeah," I muttered, voice rough. "Apparently, I've been out for a while."

She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging. "A week."

"So I've been told."

Nicole stared at me, something unspoken flashing in her eyes. Then, before I could react, she smacked my arm. Not hard, but enough to be annoying.

"You idiot," she muttered. "You scared the hell out of me."

I blinked at her, caught off guard. "What—"

"You just collapsed out of nowhere! No explanation, no warning, nothing!" Her voice wavered between anger and something softer, something vulnerable. "Do you know what that felt like?"

I opened my mouth, hesitated.

"I—"

But before I could find the words, Nicole exhaled, shaking her head. "Never mind. Just… don't do it again."

I didn't promise anything, but I also didn't look away.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The weight of the past week settled between us, thick and unspoken. Then Nicole sat back with a huff, arms crossed.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

I sighed. "...Thanks for staying."

She blinked, as if she hadn't expected me to say that. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a small, tired smile.

"Damn right," she muttered.

I exhaled. "Next time, my well-being shouldn't disturb you. Prioritize yourself."

Her smile faltered, and a small frown took its place. She studied me, the warmth in her expression cooling into something more serious.

"Don't say that," she muttered.

I raised a brow. "It's the truth."

"No, it's not," she snapped, gripping the edge of the bed. "You think I should've just left you here? Pretended like it didn't matter?"

I sighed. "I'm saying you shouldn't put me before yourself."

She shook her head. "And I'm saying you don't get to decide that."

Silence stretched between us.

Nicole exhaled sharply and looked away. "Whatever. Just… don't be reckless again."

I didn't answer.

Nicole let out a small sigh, rubbing her temples as if trying to ease the frustration I'd just caused her. I wasn't trying to upset her—I was just being honest. There was no reason for her to sit by my bedside for a whole damn week.

After a moment, she glanced at me again, her voice quieter. "You scared me, Liam."

That made me pause.

She wasn't looking for pity. There was no expectation in her voice, no demand for me to apologize. Just a simple truth.

I looked away. "…I didn't mean to."

"I know," she said softly.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Then Helen walked in, hands in her coat pockets, looking as casual as ever. "Glad to see you two having a heartfelt moment, but Liam needs rest."

Nicole straightened, nodding reluctantly. "Right."

Helen smirked at me. "And you—don't think this gets you out of training."

I scoffed. "I can't even sit up properly, and you're already talking about training?"

Helen shrugged. "Life moves on, kid." She gave me a pat on the shoulder—one that stung a little more than it should have—before motioning to Nicole. "Come on, let him get some sleep."

Nicole hesitated but eventually stood. Before leaving, she turned to me one last time. "Just… take it easy, okay?"

I didn't answer, but I didn't need to. She understood. As the door clicked shut behind them, I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. I had a lot to think about.

I stared at the ceiling, my mind restless despite the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The Death Scythe's words echoed over and over. The memories it had shown me, the truth behind Seth's final wishes—it all refused to leave me alone.

How do I make it kneel to me?

I clenched my fists, frustration boiling inside me. The scythe had mocked me, rejected me, told me I was beneath it. And yet, it still answered my call. Why? Because Seth willed it? Because it was pitying me? No—I couldn't accept that.

I needed to find a way to make it acknowledge me. Not as a placeholder. Not as a burden. But as its rightful master.

I replayed the battle in my head—the undying ghouls, the weight of the scythe in my hands, the way I failed, over and over. I had treated it as a tool. Just another weapon. But it wasn't. It was something more.

But what?

I exhaled sharply, my body aching from the mere act of thinking too hard. I could feel my consciousness slipping, my limbs growing heavy. Even my stubborn willpower wasn't enough to keep me awake any longer.

As my eyes finally shut, my last thought lingered in the darkness—

I will make you mine.

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