Prologue
Death was murdered.
The one who killed him now rules over corrupted souls.
And the only man who can stop him…
Was never supposed to live that night.
Chapter 1
Azrael Luca had dug hundreds of graves.
But this was the first one that looked like it had already been filled.
The cemetery was silent.
Not peaceful silent.
Heavy silent.
The kind of silence that made the air feel thick.
Azrael drove his shovel into the damp soil.
The metal blade sank into the earth with a dull thud. He lifted another pile of dirt and tossed it onto the growing mound beside the grave.
Another grave.
Another night.
Most people hated working in a place like this.
Azrael didn't.
For seven years he had been the gravekeeper of Black Hollow Cemetery. He knew every crooked stone, every cracked angel statue, every narrow path between the graves.
The dead never caused trouble.
The living did.
He paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Thick clouds hid the moon, leaving the cemetery buried in gray darkness. Only a small lantern hanging from the iron gate gave off a weak glow.
Tomorrow morning there would be a funeral.
A man named Harold Bennett.
Sixty-eight.
Heart attack.
Azrael had dug hundreds of graves like this one.
Death never waited.
The shovel struck something hard.
Clang.
Azrael froze.
"That's strange."
There shouldn't be anything there.
He knelt and brushed away the dirt with his hands.
Wood.
Dark wood.
A coffin.
Azrael blinked slowly.
"…That's not possible."
This grave had been empty yesterday.
Carefully, he cleared away more soil until the entire lid appeared.
The coffin looked ancient.
The wood was nearly black, covered in strange cracks that looked more like veins than damage.
Azrael stared at it.
Someone would have had to bury this during the night.
But the cemetery gates were locked.
And he had the only key.
For a moment he considered leaving it alone.
Then curiosity won.
He grabbed the edge of the lid.
The wood felt cold.
Too cold.
With a slow pull, the coffin opened.
The lid creaked loudly in the quiet cemetery.
Azrael leaned over and looked inside.
His heart nearly stopped.
There was a body in the coffin.
But it wasn't like any corpse he had ever seen.
The figure wore a long black cloak that seemed to swallow the faint light around it. The fabric looked ancient, older than the cemetery itself.
The body's hands rested calmly on its chest.
And between those hands…
Was a scythe.
The blade curved like a crescent moon, long and thin, made from dark metal that seemed almost alive.
Azrael stared at it.
"What kind of burial is this…?"
The corpse's face was pale and perfectly still.
Not rotting.
Not decayed.
Just still.
Like it had been waiting.
A strange pressure formed in Azrael's chest.
Slowly, he climbed out of the grave.
Something about the coffin felt wrong.
Ancient.
He turned toward the tombstone at the head of the grave.
And froze.
Because words had been carved into the stone.
Azrael was certain the grave had been empty earlier.
But now the letters were clear.
Cold.
Sharp.
THE REAPER HAS FALLEN.
Azrael stared at the message.
"…What?"
A sudden wind rushed through the cemetery.
The trees shook violently.
Leaves scattered across the ground.
Azrael slowly looked back into the grave.
The body hadn't moved.
The scythe still rested in its hands.
"This has to be some kind of joke."
But no one was laughing.
He stepped closer again.
The air felt colder now.
The scythe seemed to pull his eyes toward it.
Something deep inside him whispered.
Touch it.
Azrael hesitated.
Then he reached down and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
The moment he lifted the scythe—
The world stopped.
The wind vanished.
The leaves froze in midair.
Even the distant sounds of the city disappeared.
Azrael's heart began to pound.
"What…?"
Then he heard them.
Whispers.
Thousands of voices speaking at once.
Soft.
Desperate.
"Help us…"
"We're lost…"
"Please…"
Azrael spun around in panic.
The ground between the graves began to move.
At first he thought it was fog rising from the soil.
Then shapes appeared.
People.
Dozens of pale figures slowly rising from the earth.
Their bodies were transparent.
Their faces hollow.
Ghosts.
Azrael stumbled backward.
"No… no, this isn't real."
One spirit stepped forward.
A woman with empty gray eyes.
"You can hear us."
Azrael stared at her, trembling.
"How are you…?"
The ghost pointed at the scythe.
"That."
Azrael slowly looked down at the weapon in his hands.
Behind him, the body inside the coffin suddenly began to crumble.
The cloak turned to dust.
The bones cracked and collapsed.
Within seconds the corpse vanished completely.
The coffin was empty.
Azrael felt a cold chill crawl down his spine.
"What just happened?"
More ghosts appeared between the graves.
Their whispers filled the cemetery.
"Death is gone."
"He was murdered."
"The Soul King has broken the balance."
Azrael shook his head.
"I don't understand any of this."
The woman stepped closer.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Without Death…"
"The dead cannot leave."
Azrael looked around at the growing crowd of spirits.
Hundreds of them now.
Watching him.
Waiting.
The scythe suddenly felt heavier in his hands.
"What does this have to do with me?"
The ghost answered softly.
"Because the scythe has chosen."
A deep rumble echoed across the sky.
Far away—
Something roared.
A sound filled with hunger and fury.
The ghost's hollow eyes locked onto Azrael.
"You are the new Reaper."
Azrael stared at the weapon in disbelief.
"I think you chose the wrong person."
The ghost slowly shook her head.
"No."
Her voice trembled.
"Because the Soul King already knows."
Azrael felt dread crawl through his chest.
"Knows what?"
The ghost slowly pointed toward the dark horizon.
"That Death has been replaced."
The distant roar came again.
Closer now.
Much closer.
The ghost whispered one final warning.
"And now…"
"He is coming for you."