The Reaper walked toward Genda's body, scythe dragging behind him, scraping concrete. Each step echoed through the warehouse. He stopped at the crater, staring down at what remained of his friend.

  Genda had never been a Candidate. He'd entered the Harvesting Game for money—nothing more. Votes he could sell to desperate Candidates. Money for his son's medical bills. Money to keep the only piece of his wife alive in this world.

  He really was the best of us.

  A tear slid down the Reaper's cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

  "You better be ready, boy," he said without turning. "There is no going back for you."

  He turned slowly as vapor escaped his mouth with each breath, his eyes locking onto Arata with the focused intensity of a predator that had finally found its prey.

  Then he ripped off his shirt.

  The number blazed across his chest.

  1178.

  Kuroda Shigure had spent ten years accumulating power. Ten years feeding the Master. Ten years harvesting souls.

  And now this boy thought he could win.

  The Reaper gripped the chain and let the scythe dangle before beginning to spin it in measured rotations, once then twice, with the metallic hum growing louder with each revolution.

  Arata opened his mouth. "1178... Impressive. How much—"

  The scythe flew.

  Faster than before. Faster than thought.

  Arata bent backward, spine arcing, the same evasion he'd used earlier. But this time the blade didn't miss. It kissed his forehead, splitting skin, drawing a line of blood that sprayed outward as the scythe continued into the darkness beyond.

  The Reaper yanked the chain. The scythe reversed direction, screaming back toward Arata's exposed throat.

  This time Arata moved with a sharp lateral dodge, his body twisting as the blade passed inches from his neck.

  Blood dripped down Arata's face as he touched his forehead, his fingers coming away red from where the scythe had grazed him.

  "ARATAAAA!" Takeda's scream came too late, as always.

  The Reaper caught his returning scythe with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving Arata for even a moment.

  How?

  Three throws. Three perfect trajectories. The scythe had been aimed with precision honed over a decade—angles calculated instinctively, speeds adjusted for maximum lethality. Yet the boy had evaded every strike. Not cleanly—he'd been touched once, barely, a graze across the forehead. But that should have been his head. Should have been his throat. Should have been fatal. The boy moved like he could see the future, like he knew where the blade would be before the Reaper himself did. It was impossible. Infuriating.

  "TELL ME YOUR SECRET!" he shouted, voice cracking. "WHO ARE YOU?!"

  Arata smiled.

  That same infuriating smile.

  "Who am I?"

  He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

  The number glowed against his skin. Clear. Unmistakable.

  1000.

  "A THOUSAND?!" The Reaper's voice broke. "You're a Candidate?! But I was told you were seventeen!"

  Arata stared at him, expressionless.

  "Well," he said quietly, "now that you know, I don't think you're walking out of here alive."

  The Reaper lowered his scythe slightly, his shoulders shaking with something that wasn't grief anymore. Broken laughter escaped his throat, jagged and hollow, never reaching his empty eyes.

  "You think you can beat me?" He started spinning the scythe again, faster, the chain links blurring. "You have an impressive thousand votes... but it's nothing compared to me."

  The Reaper had nearly two hundred more votes.

  "You think only votes matter, don't you," Arata said. His voice was cold and clinical, like he was explaining something obvious to a child who refused to understand.

  "That's why you're a piece of shit that couldn't protect those he cared about."

  Arata lunged.

  The distance between them vanished as the Reaper barely raised his scythe in time, the flat of the blade meeting Arata's fist in a clash that sent shockwaves through the warehouse.

  The impact drove the Reaper backward and lifted his feet off the ground as his body slammed into the wall with enough force to crater the concrete, spider-web cracks spreading outward from where he hit.

  He slumped in the depression, breath knocked from his lungs.

  "That's what you felt, Genda," the Reaper whispered, staring at the ceiling. "Glad to know you didn't die to some weak loser."

  He pushed himself out of the crater, concrete crumbling around him. His ribs ached. His arms trembled from blocking that single strike.

  The boy stood in the center of the warehouse, waiting. An aura radiated from him—not visible, but felt. Like pressure. Like heat. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

  One thousand votes.

  The number pulsed with power, manifesting in the space around Arata like a second skin.

  Despite everything—despite the hatred, despite Genda's death, despite the rage burning through his chest—Kuroda Shigure felt something else.

  Admiration.

  He spun his scythe slowly, studying it. The blade was hungry. The Master was hungry. It wanted this boy. Wanted to taste what made him different. Wanted to consume whatever fire burned inside him.

  The Reaper spun the scythe faster. A hundred rotations. Two hundred. Building momentum until the air screamed.

  From the moment Kuroda was born, he'd possessed an innate mastery of weapons. His family had called him a failure—unable to control metal from a distance like his sister, limited to only what he could touch. But what he could touch, he wielded with absolute perfection. Any weapon. Any blade. Any instrument of death became an extension of his will the moment his fingers closed around it.

  He released the scythe.

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  It flew like a missile, spinning, shrieking, tearing through the air.

  The ground exploded where Arata had been standing, sending chunks of concrete flying and filling the air with dust, but when it cleared, he was already ten feet away and moving. Without pausing, Arata dashed toward a thick metal support pillar that held up part of the warehouse ceiling, planning to use it to redirect his momentum and change his aerial trajectory.

  The Reaper had already withdrawn his scythe and thrown it again, the blade striking the pillar exactly where Arata's foot would touch. Metal shrieked against metal as sparks exploded in a cascade of white-hot light that illuminated the entire warehouse.

  Arata twisted mid-air and dodged the scythe by millimeters, continuing his charge without losing momentum. The Reaper's eyes widened slightly as he realized the truth—he wouldn't make it in time to withdraw his weapon.

  Arata spun once, then twice, building rotational force as he flew through the air before launching a devastating kick aimed directly at the Reaper's head.

  THOOM–

  "You didn't think this would hit, right?"

  The Reaper's hand shot up with casual ease and caught Arata's ankle, the impact not even making him shift his weight. Arata's eyes widened in shock as he realized how effortlessly his attack had been stopped.

  Before he could react, the Reaper's other hand grabbed the chain still connected to his embedded scythe and wrapped it around Arata's caught leg in one smooth motion. Then he started spinning.

  Arata became the weapon as the Reaper whirled him in a wide arc, faster and faster, using the same technique he employed with his scythe. The centrifugal force was crushing, and the world blurred into streaks of light and shadow as Arata spun helplessly through the air.

  The Reaper released him, and Arata flew across the warehouse like a missile, slamming into the far wall with catastrophic force. The wall didn't just crack—it exploded inward, creating a crater twice the size of the one Genda had made.

  The Reaper pulled his scythe free from the pillar and began spinning it again before throwing it with deadly precision. The blade screamed toward the crater where Arata's barely-conscious form lay, ready to end the fight.

  This sound.

  That was Arata's first thought as consciousness wavered. The distinctive whistle of the scythe cutting air. He'd heard it three times now. The sound of death coming for him.

  It's been a long time since I fought for real.

  ***

  [The school gym, years ago]

  Afternoon light streamed through high windows, casting long shadows across the rubber mats. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and determination as students gathered around the sparring area.

  Arata stood across from another student who was bigger, older, and more experienced, and they circled each other while the watching students remained silent, evaluating their techniques. Arata moved first with a feint followed by a real strike, but his opponent blocked and countered smoothly. They exchanged blows that were fast and technical, neither giving ground in the intense match.

  Then Arata made a mistake—a small one where his guard dropped for a fraction of a second. His opponent capitalized immediately with a hook to the ribs and a sweep that sent Arata hitting the mat hard.

  "Point!" the instructor called out.

  Arata stood slowly as his opponent helped him up, they bowed respectfully, and Arata walked off the mat. He'd lost.

  ***

  [Weeks later]

  This time the setting was different but the routine was the same—different gym, different opponent, but with the results reversed. Arata saw the opening first and exploited it cleanly, sending his opponent to the mat with a perfectly executed technique.

  "Point! Winner—Aoyama!" the instructor announced.

  Scattered applause echoed through the space as Arata bowed and walked off the mat. He'd won, but it didn't feel any different from losing.

  ***

  [The instructor's office, after evaluations]

  Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the small office with its cheap desk and even cheaper chair. "Aoyama," the instructor said without unkindness, "your evaluation shows an average fifty-percent win-to-loss ratio."

  Arata sat silently and listened.

  "If you don't try harder, you'll land in an average school. Is that what you want for your future?" the instructor continued.

  Why does he care? Arata thought. He'll probably forget about this conversation the next day.

  The instructor kept talking with words about potential, about effort, about not wasting talent, but Arata stopped listening because he understood something the instructor didn't.

  Winning didn't matter, losing didn't matter, and the fights themselves didn't matter. What mattered was the moment right before—when you decided whether to commit, whether to risk everything on a single strike, whether to bet your body against someone else's skill and hope you calculated correctly.

  That was the only moment that felt real.

  ***

  Why am I thinking about this?

  Arata's consciousness flickered. Pain radiated through his entire body. His back felt broken. His ribs screamed. Blood filled his mouth.

  I'm in the middle of a fight and his scythe will slice me any second now.

  The distinctive whistle grew louder.

  Oh well.

  ***

  BOOM.

  The scythe struck something solid as a support pillar exploded in its path, metal shrieking and collapsing in pieces that crashed across the warehouse floor. The Reaper squinted through the rising dust cloud.

  I missed.

  He knew it instinctively because his power allowed him to become one with his weapons—when they struck flesh and drew blood, he felt it. The scythe had hit only metal and concrete.

  But how? The boy had been barely conscious, lying in a crater, injured from the impact of being thrown.

  The dust cleared.

  Arata lay exactly where he'd landed. The scythe had embedded itself in the concrete directly above his head, blade buried deep, missing him by inches.

  Well, Arata thought, staring up at the weapon that should have killed him. I didn't have to move after all.

  He stood slowly. Blood ran down his face, his chest, dripping onto the concrete. His movements were stiff, pained. But he was standing.

  "YOU CAN'T AIM!" he shouted, grinning through the blood.

  The Reaper's jaw clenched. "Wh-What?"

  Arata lunged again for the third time.

  This time, he wouldn't miss.

  His kick came faster than before with all his remaining strength, all his accumulated power, everything focused into a single point of impact.

  The Reaper raised both arms to block as the kick connected and sent a shockwave rippling outward. The Reaper's feet slid backward across the concrete, leaving twin trails while his arms shook from the devastating impact.

  But Arata didn't stop.

  He landed and immediately followed with a punch. Then another. Then a kick. A combination that flowed like water, each strike setting up the next, each impact driving the Reaper further back.

  The Reaper blocked desperately. His arms were numb. His ribs ached. Each impact sent jolts of pain through his body.

  How? I have nearly two hundred votes more than him!

  The veterans watching from the edges of the warehouse stood frozen, mouths open.

  Takeda pressed himself against a pillar, unable to process what he was seeing.

  Is he... beating up the Reaper?

  ***

  I'm not done.

  The thought burned through Arata's mind with perfect clarity.

  His eyes glowed—not literally, but with an intensity that made them seem to. Confidence. Strength. Absolute certainty.

  He was unstoppable.

  His fist crashed into the Reaper's guard, the impact reverberating through bone as another punch followed, splintering something in the Reaper's forearm. A knee strike drove air from his lungs while an elbow split skin above the Reaper's eye.

  Each hit was punctuated by sound. By force. By the brutal reality of flesh meeting flesh.

  The Reaper's vision swam. Blood ran into his eyes. His arms felt like dead weight, barely responding to his commands.

  How?

  He'd accumulated 1,178 votes over ten years. Ten years of harvesting. Ten years of feeding the Master. Ten years of becoming something more than human.

  And this seventeen-year-old boy was beating him.

  ***

  Arata saw it—the opening.

  The Reaper's left side. His guard dropped for a fraction of a second, fatigue finally overwhelming skill.

  Arata pivoted, channeling every remaining ounce of strength into his right leg. Energy radiated from the limb, visible now, steam rising from overworked muscles.

  He kicked.

  CRACK.

  The sound echoed through the warehouse like a gunshot.

  Arata's foot connected with the Reaper's ribs. Bone shattered. The Reaper's body jackknifed, folding around the point of impact.

  Blood erupted from his mouth—not a trickle, but a spray, spattering across the concrete in a wide arc.

  The Reaper stumbled backward, clutching his left side. His legs shook. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each one sending fresh spikes of agony through his broken ribs.

  His eyes fell to the chain on the ground where he'd dropped it during the beating.

  His weapon. His power. Just a few feet away.

  He started to move toward it.

  "Don't even think about it."

  Arata's voice was quiet. Calm. Absolute.

  The Reaper froze.