Chapter 54: Arise

Ellen barely had time to react. The battle against the newly transformed wyvern—no, the Grim Reaper—had pushed her far beyond her limits. Her once-reliable scissors, her trusted weapon, lay shattered in the remains of their last clash. Now, all she had left was her own dwindling strength and the sheer will to survive. But it wasn't enough.

The power difference was becoming painfully clear. The Reaper was faster, stronger, and relentless. Each swing of its massive scythe came with terrifying precision, the weight behind each strike enough to carve through solid rock. Ellen's body bore the proof—wounds littered her frame, her breath ragged, her vision blurring. She knew she wouldn't last long like this.

Desperation clawed at her as she tried to catch her breath, to find a moment of reprieve, but her enemy refused to allow it. Before she could even process her next move, the Reaper moved—so fast it seemed to flicker out of existence, only to reappear in front of her. A cold hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground with ease.

Ellen struggled, her claws digging into the iron grip, but it was fruitless. The Reaper's strength was absolute. With a powerful beat of its massive wings, it ascended into the storm, dragging her helplessly into the darkened sky. Winds howled around them, lightning flashing in the distance, illuminating the Reaper's masked face. Ellen forced her eyes to meet its gaze, but the mask betrayed nothing. No emotion. No mercy.

Then, a voice echoed in her head.

Why do you hold back?

Ellen's eyes widened. The voice wasn't hers. It wasn't coming from the Reaper's mouth either, yet it reverberated within her mind with an eerie familiarity.

Why does the one I have chosen as my consort refuse to unleash her true power?

A shiver ran through her despite the pain. Consort? What the hell was it talking about? She tried to speak, but the grip on her throat tightened, choking any words before they could leave her lips.

The Reaper tilted its head as if observing her confusion, then the voice continued, softer now, yet far more insidious.

Perhaps I must force the monster inside you to awaken, my beloved.

Without warning, the Reaper clenched its grip even tighter and then dove, plummeting straight toward the earth. The wind screamed past Ellen's ears, her body struggling uselessly in its grasp. Then—

CRASH!

The impact was devastating. Ellen's body slammed into the ground with bone-shattering force, her frame bouncing off the cratered earth from the sheer velocity. Pain exploded through her, and before she could even process the agony, the Reaper was already upon her.

Its scythe flashed, a blur of deadly steel slicing through the storm. Ellen barely managed to move her arm to shield herself, but it wasn't enough. The blade carved into her, crimson spraying into the air. Another cut, then another. She could feel her skin being torn open, the deep wounds painting the battlefield in streaks of red. The next blow came in the form of a brutal punch, knocking her airborne once again.

Ellen's vision swam, her consciousness teetering on the edge, but the Reaper was not done.

It surged forward, seizing her by her shark tail mid-air, and with monstrous strength, it hurled her toward the nearest mountain.

The last thing she saw before impact was the Reaper's cold, expressionless mask, watching her fall.

Ellen's eyes snapped open, her consciousness returning in a painful rush. Every inch of her body ached, her head pounded, and her vision swam as she tried to push herself free from the rubble. Dust and debris clung to her tattered clothes, mixing with the blood seeping from her wounds. Half-buried in the shattered remains of the mountain, she gritted her teeth and forced herself up, gasping as pain lanced through her body.

The storm raged on above her, lightning crashing in violent bursts, illuminating the darkened battlefield. Her gaze lifted, and there it was—her grim reaper. It moved with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing ominously against the howling winds. The flickering light from the storm outlined its haunting figure—massive wings spread behind it like a god of death descending upon the fallen. Its mask concealed any semblance of emotion, yet she could feel its gaze locked onto her.

Then, the voice returned.

"Why do you hold back?" it whispered, deep and resonant, echoing inside her mind. "Am I not worthy of witnessing my consort's strength?"

Ellen's breath hitched at the word—consort? Confusion flickered in her exhausted mind, but before she could question it, the reaper came to a halt. It planted its scythe into the ground and crouched before her, lowering itself to her level. The movement was unnervingly gentle, its presence looming yet unthreatening in that moment. A clawed hand reached out, cupping her face with delicate care, its fingers cold against her bloodied skin.

It tilted its head, regarding her with something almost akin to curiosity.

Ellen's lips parted, her voice hoarse. "What... what are you talking about? Why don't you just kill me already?"

The reaper tilted its head further, as if puzzled by her words. The voice hummed again in her mind. "Kill you? I do not wish to kill you. And besides… you cannot die."

Ellen's heart pounded in her chest. Something about its tone sent a chill down her spine—an inevitability within its words that she couldn't comprehend.

"Why do you hold back, my beloved?" it whispered again, voice dripping with an eerie tenderness.

Before it could say more, the temperature around them plummeted. The storm above twisted, the rain shifting—freezing midair, turning into falling shards of ice. A sudden force slammed into the reaper, sending its head jerking to the side.

Mira stood before it, no longer a child, but fully grown—her adult form now taking shape. Her silver-white hair whipped wildly in the storm, her eyes burning with fury as she glared at the reaper.

"Don't you dare touch my mother." Her voice was laced with venom, her fists clenched.

The reaper remained unscathed, its mask slowly turning back to face her. It raised its scythe, summoning it back into its grasp. Then, it laughed—a deep, chilling sound, more felt than heard.

"Ah… you bring your offspring to fight for you?" it mused, amusement lacing its tone. "Tell me, Ellen… do you truly perceive this one as a threat?"

It gestured towards Mira with a lazy flick of its wrist. "You know as well as I do… she is not as strong as you. And when it comes down to it, the weak die, and the strong survive."

Ellen lay motionless, her body screaming in agony, her limbs too weak to obey her desperate will. All she could do was watch. Mira stood before her, fighting, defending, protecting—when it should have been the other way around. It should have been Ellen shielding her, reassuring her that she would be safe.

Then why?

Why was she still so weak?

Why did she still need saving?

Was everything she had promised just a lie? A fabrication of strength she didn't truly possess?

Ellen's vision blurred as her body trembled with exhaustion and frustration. She willed herself to move, to do something—anything—but she remained frozen, trapped within her own weakness.

Then came the scream.

Mira's scream.

Ellen's head snapped up, and her heart plummeted into an abyss of despair. The Reaper's scythe was buried deep in Mira's chest.

Ellen was stunned.

Her breath caught.

Something inside her cracked.

Then came the fire—the burning, all-consuming fire of rage.

With a furious roar, Ellen launched herself at the Reaper, her fist colliding with its face with such force that it was sent flying, disappearing into the storm. But that no longer mattered.

Mira.

Ellen fell to her knees, cradling Mira's small, trembling body. Her childlike form had returned, a stark reminder of her fragility. Mira's tiny hands clutched at Ellen's clothing, her body racked with violent tremors. Blood spilled from her lips, staining Ellen's hands, the ground—everything.

Her eyes, once filled with life, now flickered with terror.

Fear of death.

Fear of leaving.

She held onto Ellen as tightly as she could, as if seeking refuge, as if Ellen could save her. Ellen tried—tried to soothe her, to whisper that everything would be okay, that she was here, that she wouldn't let go. But her voice wavered, her words broken, choked with desperation.

It wasn't enough.

Mira's lips parted, struggling to speak, but her words never came. Her small fingers twitched, then went still.

Her eyes, once brimming with warmth and love, emptied.

The light in them faded.

Her final breath left her lips.

Ellen didn't register it at first. Her mind refused to accept what had just happened. Refused to believe that the warmth she held was already slipping away. That Mira—her Mira—was gone.

A hollow silence fell.

Then, a realization, cruel and unrelenting, struck her like a blade to the heart.

Mira was dead.

And it was her fault.

Ellen's entire world shattered. The chains holding her together snapped. Her mind fractured like brittle glass, pieces of herself breaking apart, scattering into an endless void.

She had failed.

She had lost the one she swore to protect.

And in that moment—Ellen Joe died alongside her.

Ellen knelt beside Mira's lifeless body, her hands trembling as she clutched the child's still-warm form. The world around her faded into a numbing silence. The storm still raged, wind howling through the mountains, but she couldn't hear it. All that remained were the whispers, slithering through her mind like venomous serpents.

"You could have saved her."

"You held back."

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Was it fear? Was it weakness?"

"You're not a hero. You're a coward."

Ellen did not argue. She did not deny it.

She was scared. She was always scared.

She had convinced herself that she was strong, that she was different from that helpless little girl who had barely survived the fall of the Old Capital. But it had all been a lie. She had buried her fears under forced nonchalance, under brute strength, under an unbreakable mask. And because of that lie, Mira was gone.

The whispers twisted, morphing into memories.

A different place, a different time.

Little Ellen—no more than ten—caged in a dingy room at an outpost beyond the still-rebuilding New Eridu.

They had taken her because she was different. Because she was Thiren. Because her biology was worth money on the black market. But before they could sell her, they wanted something else first. Fun, they had called it.

She had fought. With nails, with teeth, with raw desperation.

And when that wasn't enough—

She killed them.

When PubSec found her, standing amidst the blood and corpses, they did not see a terrified child. They saw a monster.

Their guns had not been pointed at her captors. They had been pointed at her.

She had stood there, covered in red, waiting for someone to say it wasn't her fault. Waiting for someone to tell her she wasn't a monster.

No one did.

And so she had learned.

She learned to hide. To make herself unnoticeable. To pretend she didn't care. She surrounded herself with people but never let them too close.

But she still wanted that sense of comfort.

She found it in Ruby, Monna, and Lynn. They were like the sisters she never had. And then she found it again in Victoria Housekeeping. Lycaon, Rina, Corin. They made her feel whole again, like she could have a family.

And Mira—

Mira had been the last piece of that fragile hope.

And now she was gone.

Ellen looked down at Mira's hollow eyes, eyes that would never shine with life again. The crushing weight of it all pressed down on her chest, stealing her breath. Something inside her cracked.

She let out a shuddering breath, but no tears came.

Instead, a voice, dark and hungry, whispered to her again.

"Let go."

The wind stopped.

The storm stilled.

The world held its breath as Ellen did the one thing she swore she never would.

She broke.

As Ellen finally surrenders to the voices, something inside her snaps. The fear, the hesitation, the chains that bound her—shattered. The very air around her distorts, a deep, resonant hum vibrating through the battlefield as Nihility itself bends to her will. The ground fractures beneath her as reality struggles to contain her presence. The moment she lets go, Ellen ceases to be what she was.

A monstrous transformation overtakes her. The small, stunted nubs on her forehead elongate into two imposing, black horns, curving like the great abyss itself. Beneath her original pair of arms, two more limbs sprout with agonizing slowness, their fingers stretching unnaturally as if grasping at the very threads of existence. Her eyes, once a stormy blue, darken into swirling abysses—black holes devouring all light, all warmth. Her face becomes cold, emotionless, an expression of utter emptiness that mirrors the void she now embodies.

Her tattered clothes shift, unraveling into strands of void strings before reweaving into an ethereal, otherworldly garb. A high-collared, sleeveless cloak of pure black with deep violet etchings drapes over her shoulders, the fabric moving as if alive, flickering between existence and nothingness. A form-fitting bodysuit of the same shifting material clings to her frame, intricate markings resembling constellations glowing faintly along her limbs. A long, flowing sash coils around her waist like a serpent, shifting between reality and the void, trailing behind her like the remnants of a dying star. And her scarf remains, but now darkened, woven into the very essence of her being.

She has become something beyond mortal comprehension. A God of the abyss. The Empty Queen. The True Emanator of Nihility.

The world quakes beneath her presence. The very balance of existence is threatened. The unseen forces that govern reality scramble to adjust, Ether levels across the world surging in a desperate attempt to prevent collapse. Hollows expand. Ethereals grow stronger. Those who wield Ether feel their power swell, yet it is not enough. The scales are still dangerously tipped, teetering on the brink of ruin.

Yet Ellen does not care. She moves with newfound purpose, stepping toward Mira's lifeless body, cradled in one of her four arms. With another, she places a hand against Mira's chest, her swirling void-like eyes staring deep into the abyss, searching—calling. And there, within the vast nothingness, she finds it. Mira's soul, flickering, lost, nearly swallowed by the same void Ellen now commands.

She does not allow it to escape. She reaches, and the soul trembles, startled, hesitant. But as it recognizes her presence—her warmth, her love—it stops resisting. Gently, carefully, she pulls it back.

Mira's body begins to mend. The deep wounds that marred her small form seal, but where once there was flesh, now remain faint black markings—permanent scars of what transpired. Her chest rises, then falls. Then again. A breath. A heartbeat.

Ellen watches in silence, a flicker of warmth returning to the depths of her void-consumed eyes. But only for a moment.

Her attention shifts. She turns to face the Reaper.

It stands there, unmoving, watching her with an eerie stillness. And then—it smiles. A slow, stretching grin that splits the shadows of its face.

"I am happy," it whispers, its voice resonating in the void between them. "My beloved consort is finally taking me seriously."