Chapter 3: The First Harvest
The title "Grim Reaper" lodged in his mind. His eyes wandered to his hands, which were now pale. He couldn't feel the rush of blood through his limbs.
His eyes widened. His hand lunged to his chest, reaching to feel his heartbeat—but nothing registered. No tempo, no beating... just a stillness.
He steadied his mind. Was this another quirk or side effect of being a Grim Reaper? Well, it was better than wearing a dark cloak, faceless with only crimson eyes—like the earlier guy.
But scratch that. He *was* a Grim Reaper now, a creature from myths and fiction.
He focused on his senses.
For a long moment, there was only the overload.
The rustle of a wool coat from across the room was a roar of static. The clink of a glass was a gunshot. He could see the individual fibers in the wood grain of the table, the slow, lazy dance of dust caught in a beam of light—each mote a tiny world.
Was this another Reaper quirk? He loved it. His eyes surveyed the entirety of the pub. Chillingly, he could make out figures hovering above their heads.
Was it their lifespans?
[Natural Causes: 41 Years, 2 Months, 1 Day]…
[Illness: 2 Weeks, 5 Days]*…
[Traumatic Injury: 3 Hours, 16 Minutes… 15… 14…]
His eyes, against his will, snapped back to the soldier in the corner. The man was laughing now, slapping his friend's back, a cloud of cheap beer-mist hanging in the air before him. The crimson numbers above his head pulsed like a sickening heartbeat: *03:15:32*.
A cold that had nothing to do with the January air seeped from Lynch's own bones. This was real. This was his reality now. He wasn't Arthur Lynch, the war correspondent. He was Entity 4062, a Grim Reaper.
"Hey. You okay, friend?"
The voice was gruff and concerned. Kenji the bartender was leaning over the bar, a dirty rag in his hand, his brow furrowed. Floating above his kind, grizzled face was the serene, pale white timer: [Natural Causes: 22 Years, 4 Months, 12 Days]
A surge of elation washed through him. Thankfully, this dear friend had enough time left. His main focus, though, was the soldier. "His time..." he subconsciously muttered.
Kenji's frown deepened. "Time? It's almost ten. You sure you don't want some water? That last whiskey hit you hard. You've been muttering to yourself for five minutes."
Muttering, huh? Right. He'd been having the most important conversation of his life with a damn Reaper—there was no doubt he would have looked like a drunk to everyone else. He managed a tight nod, waving Kenji away. The bartender retreated, his timer bobbing gently with his movement.
*03:14:01*
This was insane. He was sitting here, watching a man's death clock tick down, and he was supposed to… what? Wait for it? Greet him? Usher him?
"You're the cosmic bellhop. It's a service!"
The former Reaper's cheerful, bro-like voice echoed in his memory, now feeling deeply, profoundly grotesque. There was nothing cheerful about this. This was a front-row seat to a snuff film where he was the designated cleanup crew.
He inhaled deeply.
He pushed himself up from the booth, his legs unsteady. He needed air. Real air, not this stale, tobacco-thick blanket. He needed to get away from that pulsing red countdown. He threw a few more coins on the bar—not even looking at what they were—and stumbled out into the biting Hiroshima night.
The cold was a physical slap, a welcome one. It cleared the whiskey fog but did nothing for the new, permanent filter over his vision. The street was a parade of notifications and banners flaring before his widened eyes.
A woman hurrying home: *[Childbirth: 9 Months, 6 Days]*.
An old man shuffling along: [Organ Failure: 1 Year, 8 Days]
A group of young factory workers, their timers a cluster of [Industrial Accident: 6 Months] and [Sickness: 1 Year, 3 Months].
It was like he was in a city of ghosts, still breathing, completely unaware of the spectral obituaries hovering over their heads.
How the hell did that cozy Grim fellow endure this for a century? No wonder he ended up a smiling geek.
He walked aimlessly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The silver American dime he'd fished out earlier was a cold, hard circle against his fingers. A thought was forming in the confines of his mind.
Could he perhaps warn them? The soldier with three hours—could he walk up to him and say, "Hey, pal, you're going to die in three hours?" Would that even work? It might earn him a punch.
Then an ethereal voice tore through his subconscious with a warning.
[Host 4062, should you advise a victim against their end, you shall cease to be a Reaper and pay for your crimes before the Angel of Death. I suggest you heed this advice...]
A chill shivered down his spine. Was this some inlaid user manual of sorts?
"What are you...?" he questioned subconsciously, guessing this was the way to talk to it—and perhaps avoid concerning stares.
[I am many things, but to you, dear Host, I am no more than a compendium. Just call me the Reaper System.]
"Just call me Arthur, please—instead of 'Host.' It makes me feel like some biological specimen."
[Okay, Arthur. Any more questions? And just so you know, the countdown of those about to meet their demise will always be on display in your subconscious... Reaper Lynch]
And as if confirming her words, his eyes noticed the streak of crimson countdown—red, gleaming figures.
"00:05:44"
The timer was down to minutes. He still didn't get it—how the hell was he supposed to reap the soul or whatever?
[That, Soul Reaper Arthur, you shall know at the appointed time.]
He found himself on a bridge overlooking one of the city's many canals. The water was black, reflecting the sliver of a moon and the faint, mandated blackout lights of the city. He leaned on the cold railing, trying to breathe, to make the numbers go away. They didn't.
"00:02:17."
He was close. Lynch could feel it—a strange, magnetic pull, like a compass needle swinging toward true north. He turned, his new senses zeroing in on a narrow, unlit side alley that ran alongside the canal, a gash of deeper darkness between two warehouses.
"00:01:59."
His feet moved without his permission, like he was a function, a program executing its primary command.
"What's happening... System?"His voice frantically tore through his subconscious.
[Arthur... The Reaping process has begun. It seems the host is not yet mentally ready, so I took over all biological processes. I apologize for doing so against your wish]
Damn. Even his right to movement was being breached.
He sighed, repeating in his mind like a mantra: "All for an eternal Paradise... All for an eternal Paradise..."
His body moved to the mouth of the alley, pressing itself into the shadows. The sounds of a scuffle reached him, amplified by his Reaper hearing. A grunt of pain. The tearing of fabric. A low, threatening voice.
"—just the money, then. Don't be a fool."
*00:00:31.*
Lynch's heart—wait, did he even have one anymore?—was a frantic drum against his ribs. This was it. Not a bomb. Not a glorious battle. A stupid, pointless mugging in a dirty alley. A life measured in seconds, about to be snuffed out for a handful of yen.
*00:00:10.*
He saw the glint of a knife under the sliver of moon.
*00:00:03.*
A choked cry.
*00:00:01.*
*00:00:00.*
The crimson numbers flashed once, a final, violent burst, and then vanished.
The pull in Lynch's chest became an irresistible yank. He stepped into the alley.
The mugger was already gone, a shadow melting into deeper shadows. The soldier was on his knees, then slumped forward onto the cobblestones, a dark, slick pool spreading around his midsection. His friend had long fled.
Lynch approached, his footsteps silent. He felt a profound, unsettling calm descend upon him. The panic, the fear, the moral revulsion—it all receded, replaced by a deep, resonant certainty.
Like this was his purpose.
Like he felt strangely at home.
He stood over the body. Something was happening. A faint, ethereal light began to seep from the soldier's chest, a glow that coalesced, swirling into a sphere about the size of a baseball. It was beautiful—a miniature galaxy of shimmering, silver-white light, pulsing with a soft, warm energy. Inside the glow, he could see faint, fleeting images: a woman's smile, a child's laughter, a flag waving in the sun. A life, condensed.
His hand moved, not entirely his own. His right arm lifted, and from the empty air, the haft of his scythe materialized in his grip. It was cold and solid, a tool. He didn't swing it. He simply guided the tip of the blade toward the shimmering orb.
The moment the pale metal touched the light, the orb solidified, the images vanishing. It was now a perfect, smooth sphere of pearlescent white, cool to the touch. It floated gently and settled into his open palm. It was weightless, yet it held the density of an entire human existence.
A single line of text, crisp and impersonal, appeared in the corner of his vision.
[Souls Harvested: 1/1000]
The body on the ground was just a body now. An empty shell. The person—the soul—was in his hand.
He expected to feel revulsion, sadness—but he felt... nothing other than control. No returning to his body, which now felt lighter and more compact, like he'd just gotten a buff.
As if reading his mind, the System's voice chimed.
[You've gained a plus point in Agility—a gift from the Angel of Death for every soul taken]
Oh... so he also gained buffs as part of the journey? Then reaping tens of thousands of souls would mean tens of thousands of points. He'd probably be a god before even attaining Paradise.
But what was the point of gaining all these buffs when he was just going to reap souls and such?
He was about to ask his System when his brain registered some jagged footsteps in the tunnel. He squinted his eyes, his hyper sight focusing through the darkness.
His eyes went bloodshot as they landed on a creature: a gray, rotting humanoid twice the size of a man. Thin, gray arms extended across equally thin, long legs to its clawed feet. Its head was like an inverted cone, with only one huge red eye and a maw of teeth dripping black viscera onto the floor.
What in the hell was that?
The creature twisted its head at an odd angle, as if noticing his form. Then, with a crazy smirk, it tore toward him...