"You misunderstand me, Milo," he says, each word cutting through the charged atmosphere. "This isn't a cultural discussion. This is your reality." He rises smoothly from the chair, moving with an unnatural grace that makes your stomach twist.
"The Javanese belief system isn't some primitive superstition." His shadow stretches impossibly long across the cracked linoleum as he approaches. "It's a survival guide for the dead." The last word hangs between you, thick with meaning. Your heart hammers against your ribs.
"You're telling me I'm dead," you say, backing away until your shoulders hit the wall. "But I feel everything. I think. I... I can still hurt myself." Your fingers dig into the wallpaper behind you, tearing the edges loose. Kwanase tilts his head like a bird studying prey. "Then try it. Try to cut your hand and see what happens." He exhaled more smoke from his mouth.
Your breath catches as you look down at your hands, fingers still twitching against the wallpaper. Without thinking, you grab the steak knife from the kitchen counter and slash it across your palm.
White-hot pain explodes as the blade bites deep. Blood wells up instantly, bright red and warm—too warm, like it's fighting to stay inside you. You gasp, staring at the gash, feeling the agony pulse through your nerves. But as you watch, the wound doesn't gush. The blood slows, then stops completely.
Your pulse thrums in your ears as you stare at the cut. The blood remains frozen in place, suspended in midair like droplets of red glass. Your breathing quickens as you realize what's happening—no, what's already happened.
You're not bleeding. You're bleeding out. The blood should be pouring, but it's not. It's crystallizing, turning to something solid and inert, as if your body is rejecting its own life force. "The knife's still sharp," Kwanase notes dryly, watching with detached interest.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you watch the impossible happen—the suspended droplets of blood suddenly reverse direction, flowing back into the wound like time running backward. The pain intensifies as your flesh knits together with a series of audible clicks, like stitches being pulled tight. Your skin becomes translucent, then transparent for one horrifying moment as you can see the muscle and bone beneath reweaving themselves.
You stumble forward, retching, but nothing comes up. Your body has already processed everything it needs from the spilled blood.
The nausea passes, leaving behind a dull ache in your hand as you flex your fingers. The gash is gone—your palm appears smooth, unmarked, as if the cut had never existed. But something fundamental has changed. Your fingers feel lighter, as if the very blood that once flowed through them has transformed into something else entirely.
Kwanase steps closer, the shadows from the single bulb overhead stretching long across his face. His presence presses against you, not physically but spiritually. "You see now. Your physical body can't die or be destroyed because you've been chosen as the fifth god of death. You're my successor, and I'm here to give you what you need before I pass on the mantle." He stubbed out his cigarette.
The walls of the dormitory seem to close in around you as Kwanase's words settle like a physical weight. Your hand twitches again, phantom pain still echoing where the cut had been. This isn't just a story—this is your life now, a reality that defies everything you've ever known.
"The knife would have killed you if you were fully alive," Kwanase continues, voice like dry leaves in winter. "But you're not. You haven't been for some time." His black eyes bore into yours. "Listen kid.. my body and soul will be vanished today. Take this ancient sword with you." The ancient sword thrums with dark energy as you take it, its weight settling into your hands with an inevitability that chills you. The metal hums faintly, almost alive, as Kwanase's fingers linger on the hilt before releasing it.
"What do you mean your body and soul will be vanished?" You speak hoarsely, the words scraping your throat like sandpaper. Your fingers trace the sword's edge, careful not to cut yourself again. The metal is warm despite the cold air, vibrating slightly against your palm. "Because, this is my last day as the god of death. The world choose you after i failed in my duty." He lights up a new cigarette.
The cigarette smoke curls between you like a ghostly veil, burning your throat and making your eyes sting. The ancient sword feels alive in your grip, humming with a vibration that thrums through your bones. You're still staring at your unmarked palm, tracing the line where the cut had been with your thumb.
Kwanase exhales a stream of smoke, watching you with those black eyes that seem to swallow all light. "You want to know how long I've been here, Milo? I stopped counting after my first hundred years. Unlike our predecessors, who lived as god of death for nearly fifteen centuries, I'm tired now. So tired of fighting those demons alone."
The cigarette smoke hangs in the air between you, thick and acrid. Your uncut palm still tingles where you'd touched the knife, as if the blade's energy remains embedded in your skin. Kwanase's words sink into you like cold water into cracked earth—hundreds of years spent alone in this role, holding back the abyss with nothing but his own failing strength.
You swallow hard, throat tight. "Fifteen centuries," you echo hoarsely. The number staggers you. "Milo Angglas, I know you have questions about this, lots of them. But I'm sorry, my son – my time has come." Kwanase finally found peace in death. His body vanished into ash, leaving only his clothes and his half-burned cigarette.
The room feels smaller now, emptier somehow, though nothing has changed. The ancient sword lies across your lap, still humming faintly as if speaking to you in a language only death understands. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, dissipating slowly, Kwanase's final presence in this world. You clutch the sword tighter, fingers digging into the worn leather of the scabbard.
"You're just going to leave me here with this?" Your voice cracks slightly.
Your hand tightens around the scabbard until your knuckles whiten. The leather creaks under the pressure. Smoke from Kwanase's abandoned cigarette curls into the empty space he occupied just moments ago.
"God damnit." The words come out raw and guttural, like you're choking on them. You slam the scabbard down on the table, sending a shockwave of vibration through the cheap particle board.
...
A half-empty bottle of instant coffee trembles.
The sword doesn't move.
You're alone.
Really alone now.