<b>Chapter 196 </b>


    Noah stayed quiet for a long time after that, both of us just staring into the endless dark below. The pits shifted and breathed, the slow heartbeat of the Underworld echoing through the stone.


    Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Youing back to the packhouse tonight?”


    I rubbed the back of my neck, ncing toward the faint shimmer of the portal waiting at the edge of the cavern. The thought of walking into that house, of seeing her… no. Not yet.


    “Nah,” I said finally, my voice low. “I think I’m going to stay here for a bit. Maybe go and reap a few souls or something.”


    He huffed a shortugh, the kind that carried a mix of pride and worry. “Figures. Can’t sit still long enough to deal with your own head, so you’ll go knock sense into the damned instead.”


    “Something like that,” I said with a faint smirk.


    Noah stood, dusting off his hands before pping me solidly on the back. The weight of it was grounding, familiar. “You do what you need to,” he said. “Just remember I’m always here if you need to talk, okay?”


    “Yeah,” I murmured, nodding. “Thanks, Dad.”


    He gave me one of those small, quiet smiles that didn’t need words, then headed toward the portal. The light swallowed him whole, leaving me alone again with the hum of the pit and the ghosts of my own thoughts. For a moment, I just sat there, letting the silence settle. Then I pushed to my feet, shadows curling instinctively around my fingers as I reached for my scythe. <b>If </b><b>I </b>couldn’t fix what was breaking inside me, I could at least find something else to set right. And maybe, by the time the night was done, I’d have worked enough of this ache out of my chest to look at her again without falling apart.


    I pull my tablet up, and the list stares back at me, names, timestamps where life ended and memory got stuck. It’s methodical work. Brutal, but clean. A job that keeps my hands busy and my head from tearing itself apart. The coordinates ping, and the portal opens like a lung, cold air burning my face as I step through. The battlefield waits on the other side: a long–ruined stretch ofnd where witches and vampires tore each other apart generations ago. Bones half–buried in mud, splintered weapons, ragged banners still clinging to hopeless poles. The smell is always the same here, old blood, iron and rot, a tang that tastes like regret. Souls hang in the haze over the wreck, reying thest scrap of whatever hurt dragged them here. Some are shadows, thin and whispering; others are bright and screaming, trapped on the loop of the exact instant their heart stopped. It’s messy work. It’s sacred work.


    I move through them the way Xavier taught me, slow, hands empty until the moment I have to reach. I kneel by a witch whose eyes keep repeating the way her fingers slipped around the familiar de. She doesn’t see me at first; she’s in the loop. I touch the edge of her memory, warm and sharp, and say the words I’ve learned to speak like prayers.


    “It’s over,” I tell her. “Do you understand? You’re more than that moment.”


    Her eyes flicker. The loop frays by a millimetre. I offer the chance, gentle and blunt at the same time: “Are you ready?”


    Some mouths whisper <b>yes</b>. Some scream no. Some stay silent, and I have to wait until they make a decision. That’s the hard part, waiting for a soul to want the peace. You shouldn’t force it. Not really. You can only be patient enough to trust yourself when it finally chooses.


    When they nod, I swing the scythe. It’s a motion I know in my bones, practised until it’s smooth as breath. The de doesn’t cut flesh here; it severs the tether that keeps them looped to pain. Light res, the soul lifts like a bell being rung, and I shepherd it into the ribbon of pale light that carries them to the waiting room. The room’s always the same, soft, quiet, full of the murmured echoes of waypoints and the soulse through like travellers relieved to be moving on.


    <b>11:54 </b>Tue<b>, </b>Oct 7 <fn405a> Original content can be found at Find1Novel</fn405a>


    I work through the list. Witch after vampire after soldier, their stories flicker in my hands: a son who never saw his child, a woman who fought until there was nothing left, a priest whose faith shattered mid–battle. I give each theirst line, thest rity before transit. I don’t sermonise. I don’t lie. I tell them the truth, the way Noah told me to, sharp, honest, a hand extended so they can choose to take it. It’s physical, thisbour. Each reaping leaves a weight behind, like a stone lifted off a submerged shoulder. It doesn’t erase the ache of Macey’s face or the way she left tonight, but it slows the spin. It keeps my fists from finding the wrong thing to crush. When thest name on the tablet clears, I stand in the middle of the battlefield, the air cooling around me. The sun, or whatever light filters down in this ce, leans low, and for a moment, there’s a hush of something like absolution. I run my hand over the scythe’s haft, feeling the dents and the smudges of work. It’s honest. It’s necessary.


    But the hush doesn’t stay, I wait for that feeling that usuallyes, the small flicker of release, the quiet after I’ve done something good, something right. It doesn’te. My chest still feels heavy, the ache sitting just behind my ribs, the same restless burn that drove <b>me </b>down here in the first ce. I nce down at the tablet. The screen is clean. Listplete. For a second, I almost close it. Almost. Then I swipe down and refresh. A new line appears, new souls gged, new coordinates. Another portal blooms in front of me, humming like it’s daring me to step through.


    So I do. Another field. Different scent. This one reeks of ash and seawater, burned ships, merfolk dragged onto sand, witches drowned in salt. Screams still echo through the air like ghosts of thunder. I move through them in silence<b>, </b>the scythe heavy but familiar in my hand.


    The next.


    And the next.


    And the next.


    Every swing blurs into the one before it. Every soul feels the same: lost eyes, broken memories, relief, and release. And still, none of it helps. The ache doesn’t ease. The noise in my head doesn’t stop. The portal spits me out into what looks like an old city this time, with crumbling towers and cobblestones slick with rain. I reap a child still clutching a stuffed wolf. A witch whose grief has kept her looped for three centuries. A vampire still begging for forgiveness that will nevere. Their words filter through me like static, fading as the light takes them.


    Another portal.


    Another battlefield.


    Another soul.


    On and on and on, relentlessly I move, yet I still feel empty. I’m just lost without her.


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