Reincarnated as a Death : vengeance against the Creator

The road to Torael was shrouded in mist, as if the mountains themselves wished to hide what lay beyond them. Reyan rode ahead, his cloak damp from the chilled air, eyes fixed on the winding path. The further they went, the quieter the land became. Not silent in the way of peace, but in the unsettling hush of withheld breath. Even the birds did not sing here. Selene rode beside him, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her other gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles paled. Aesthera followed, reviewing the last dispatch from the emissary Kera before she died. The final lines etched into the crystal were vague but chilling—"No name. No light. No grief. Only the question."

They arrived at Torael by dusk. The village was nestled between jagged ridges and covered in a haze of fog. It looked like any other forgotten mountain town: wooden homes, stone roads, a dried-up well, and the faint sound of wind brushing through weatherworn banners. But something about it was wrong. No one greeted them. Doors remained shut. Windows were covered in cloth. Reyan dismounted in silence and stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "We come from the Sanctum. We are not enemies."

An old man finally emerged from a crumbling house, hunched over and wrapped in a fur cloak. His eyes were tired—not from age, but from fear long endured. "You shouldn't have come," he rasped. "It's too late."

Selene stepped forward. "We heard of a child. A boy. One born without a shadow."

The man's eyes widened, and he crossed himself with shaking hands. "Don't speak of him. The mothers wail at night now. The trees whisper his name, and no one ever taught it to them."

Aesthera moved calmly, unrolling a small scroll inscribed with truth-sealing runes. "Please. We're not here to harm him. We need to see him before someone else finds him."

The man hesitated, glancing toward a stone house at the edge of the village. "He's in there. Locked in since the night he was born. No one's dared open the door in weeks."

As they approached the house, Reyan felt a pull—not of magic, but of something older. Like gravity, but emotional. The closer he got, the heavier his heart grew. Not pain. Not fear. But the raw density of unanswered sorrow. A child born with no shadow... could only mean one thing. Haldran had left behind a seed of himself—a vessel untainted by divine law or mortal memory. An echo that would become flesh.

The door creaked open at Reyan's touch. Inside, the room was cold and bare. A single bed. No blankets. No warmth. And in the far corner sat the boy.

He could not have been older than five. Pale skin, silver eyes, hair the color of faded ink. He did not blink. He simply watched them with the patience of something ancient. He cast no shadow, even in the light that filtered through the small window. And yet, he wasn't monstrous. He wasn't even afraid.

He tilted his head as they entered and spoke in a voice that was too calm for a child. "You're not like the others."

Reyan stepped forward cautiously. "You know us?"

The boy nodded. "I dreamed of you. In a place with no floor. No ceiling. You were angry, but also... sad."

Aesthera knelt carefully. "Do you know your name?"

He looked at her, as if confused. "I don't think I was given one. They all call me 'That Thing.' Or 'The Mistspawn.'"

Selene's expression darkened. "You're not a thing."

"I'm not sure I'm a boy either," he whispered. "I don't remember being born. I don't remember crying. But I remember the silence. It's always there. Inside."

Reyan knelt before him. "What do you remember the most?"

The boy blinked once. "A question. One word. It repeats in my mind every time I sleep. Why."

The room fell still.

Selene looked to Reyan. "He's not fully connected yet. He's... incomplete."

Aesthera added, "Which means Haldran hasn't claimed him. Not yet. But if that question deepens—if he begins to believe in the emptiness—he'll become the next Codex."

Reyan looked into the boy's eyes. "You're not alone anymore. You don't have to become what he made you for."

The boy's voice was softer now. "But if I'm not meant to forget... what do I do with everything I feel, but don't understand?"

Reyan didn't answer immediately. He stood, turned to the others, and spoke firmly. "We take him to the Sanctum. He'll stay with us. Among memory. Among truth. Haldran wants him to become the embodiment of grief without meaning. We'll make him the child of understanding instead."

But outside, in the woods just beyond the village, a figure watched—cloaked in rags and ash. One of the Grey Hands. His face was twisted by ritual, but his eyes burned with certainty. He turned into the trees, whispering, "The Codex awakens. The boy will forget them all."

They left Torael before dawn. The mist had not lifted, but Reyan knew it wouldn't. The boy, whom they now called Kael, walked silently between Reyan and Selene, his bare feet making no sound on the stony path. Despite his age, he did not complain of hunger or cold. He didn't shiver. He simply observed, as if the world itself was a puzzle he'd been forced into without ever being taught the rules. He didn't ask for the name he had been given. He accepted it. Kael. A name with weight. A name that gave him form.

Aesthera rode ahead, her magic constantly sweeping the surroundings. The presence of the Grey Hands was undeniable. The dead woods they passed were covered in strange markings—spirals and slashes burned into bark. They were not language, but emotion made manifest. Frustration. Grief. Resentment. Even the birds avoided the branches. "We're being watched," she whispered to Reyan. "I can feel the pull. Haldran's trying to find him."

Reyan nodded. "He won't get him."

But as they crossed into the valley pass, the shadows grew thicker—not from the setting sun, but from something more primal. A stillness overtook the wind, and Kael's small hand tightened around Selene's fingers. His eyes flicked to the trees. "They're near."

Before Reyan could react, the Grey Hands emerged—eight of them, dressed in colorless robes, faces hidden behind masks shaped like mourning tears. They didn't speak. They knelt, forming a circle around Kael, heads bowed as if in worship.

Selene drew her sword instantly. "Back away from him!"

But one of the cultists raised a hand—not in threat, but reverence. "He does not belong to memory. He is the unwritten."

Aesthera conjured a barrier, a dome of violet light encircling the group. "They're not here to fight. They're here to convert him."

Kael stared at the masked leader. "You know me?"

"We know what you will become," the cultist said. His voice was soft, like distant weeping. "You are the Silence Born. You are the Last Codex. You are the page that never had to feel."

Kael took a step forward, his fingers twitching as if pulled by invisible thread. "Why do I feel so heavy around you?"

"Because we offer the freedom of forgetfulness," the cultist answered. "Memory binds you. Meaning traps you. Come to us. Be free."

Reyan stepped in front of Kael. "No."

The cultist rose, his mask glinting. "You cannot protect him from what he was created to become."

"I don't intend to protect him from it," Reyan said. "I intend to redefine it."

Without warning, the cultists lunged—but not with weapons. They cast forth waves of emotion, raw and unfiltered—projected sorrow, rage, abandonment. It struck the barrier like a tidal wave, cracking Aesthera's shield with a sharp groan.

Kael cried out. He clutched his chest and fell to his knees. "It hurts!"

Reyan dropped beside him. "Then name it! Don't let it become you—make it yours! What do you feel?"

Kael trembled, tears streaking down his pale face. "It's like I'm being torn into pieces!"

"You're not!" Selene shouted. "You're choosing who you are now—every moment, every word! Say something, Kael! Anything!"

And he did.

"I'm Kael!"

The shadows recoiled. The emotion magic surged—and shattered against a flare of light from the boy's body. It wasn't divine. It wasn't arcane. It was identity. His first act of will.

The Grey Hands screamed as if struck by truth itself. Aesthera's barrier flared back into life. Selene charged forward, driving the cultists into retreat. No sword was needed—their magic could not survive where a name had been spoken with conviction.

Moments later, the forest was empty. The mist lifted slightly.

Kael, breathing hard, looked up at Reyan. "Did I... stop them?"

Reyan touched his shoulder gently. "You chose not to become what they wanted. That's stronger than any spell."

Kael's small fingers clutched Reyan's sleeve. "Will it always hurt like this?"

"Yes," Reyan said. "But you'll never face it alone."

They reached the Sanctum by nightfall.

Word of Kael's stand had spread before them. The Archive glowed with renewed energy. Dozens had gathered under the Memory Tree, waiting. Selene led Kael into the circle of light where Reyan had once spoken his truth.

He turned to the people. "This boy was not born from memory. He was born from silence. But today, he chose to speak. To remember."

Aesthera stepped forward. "Let this be our lesson. Haldran does not need to strike with weapons. He plants questions. Doubts. And he waits."

Reyan looked at Kael, who now stood taller than before. "But so can we. We can plant names. Stories. The will to fight grief not with denial, but with remembrance."

The crowd murmured with awe and hope. The Archive pulsed once—and a new line appeared in its stone surface.

Kael. The boy who remembered before he was ever taught how.