Chapter 14: The Reaping Begins

  The bell rang.

  Chains moved first — not with speed, but purpose.

  Dillion dashed to the right, Swift Boots activating. One of the glimmering links whipped past him and cracked into the ground, leaving a long, jagged scar in the stone.

  He circled, trying to close the distance — but every path was cut off by precise, lightning-fast strikes.

  Voss didn’t chase.

  He commanded.

  Two chains struck low, one high. Dillion ducked, slid, and barely blocked with Shield Guard — the impact reverberated through his bones.

  He grunted, forced to retreat.

  Voss finally spoke. “You’re fast. But speed can’t outrun inevitability.”

  Dillion didn’t answer.

  He aimed two fingers — Pew. Pew.

  High-pressure water bullets launched toward Voss’s head and shoulder. The first was blocked by a chain. The second grazed his arm.

  Voss flinched — surprised, but not impressed.

  The crowd gasped.

  Dillion smirked and dropped a Fog spell, the mist spilling out around him in an instant.

  “Don’t hide,” Voss muttered.

  But Dillion wasn’t hiding.

  He was stalking.

  Within the Fog, he moved like a shadow, striking from odd angles, each time aiming for a red-glowing Weak Point. One water bullet hit true, slamming into Voss’s thigh. Another scratched across his shoulder. Small wins, but they added up.

  Chains lashed through the Fog — wide arcs, frantic slashes.

  Dillion ducked behind a pillar of stone, his heart pounding.

  “Keep calm,” he muttered. “Don’t just survive. Outthink him.”

  But Voss changed tactics. The chains began to spin, forming a whirlwind around his body, carving away the Fog like a knife through fabric.

  “Come out,” Voss growled. “Or I’ll drag you out.”

  Dillion dashed again, another Fog cast blooming around him — but Voss was faster this time. A chain coiled low, grabbed Dillion’s ankle, and yanked.

  Dillion slammed into the ground, groaning.

  The chain reared back for a second strike — but Dillion rolled, cut it with his knife, and darted into new cover.

  “Same trick. Again and again,” Voss said. “You’re a novelty. Nothing more.”

  Dillion crouched in the Fog, jaw clenched. “Then let’s change the trick.”

  He gathered the mist into a tight sphere in his palm — not a projectile, not a weapon. A delivery system.

  He hurled it at Voss’s feet.

  The orb burst on impact, not with force — but with smoke.

  A dense bubble of Fog erupted around Voss, cutting off his vision.

  This was the opening.

  Dillion surged forward, shield raised.

  Shield Bash.

  Voss didn’t see it coming.

  He was launched backward, crashing through the edge of the Fog bubble, chains flailing.

  But Dillion wasn’t finished.

  Pew. Pew. Pew.

  Three Finger Pistol shots struck the chains mid-air, forcing them off target.

  Dillion sprinted — blade in hand.

  The knife gleamed, wrapped in faint mist and Soul-light.

  He leapt, spinning in mid-air — eyes locked on the Weak Point pulsing red just beneath Voss’s collarbone.

  One clean strike.

  THUNK.

  The blade drove deep.

  Voss gasped — then glowed.

  His body pixelated, unraveling into a burst of blue and black fragments. His Soul Gem floated in the air like a falling star before clinking to the arena floor.

  Silence.

  Then:

  ?? “HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! VOSS OF THE GLIMMERING CHAIN… DEFEATED!”

  ?? “WATER GUN MOVES ON TO ROUND THREE!”

  The crowd erupted.

  Stomping, shouting, chanting his meme name with pride.

  Dillion stood in the fading Fog, shoulders heaving, blood pounding in his ears.

  And for the first time…

  He raised a fist to the crowd.

  The roar of the arena still echoed in Dillion’s ears as he walked through the arched corridor that led beneath the coliseum. His heart was still pounding, his limbs shaky with adrenaline — but his steps were steady.

  He’d done it again.

  Another win. Another Soul Gem in hand.

  And now… even he had to admit it:

  He was good.

  “Hey, ‘Water Gun,’” came a teasing voice.

  He turned just in time to catch May running up, breathless and wide-eyed.

  “That was insane!” she said, slapping his arm. “You just dismantled Voss!”

  Dillion gave a tired laugh. “I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off.”

  “You shouldn’t have pulled it off,” she said, still grinning. “That was supposed to be impossible. I was already thinking of what flowers I’d put on your grave.”

  Before he could answer, the shadows shifted.

  Two figures stepped forward from a side corridor — both cloaked in gray and white.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  One was tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably commanding. A long mane of white hair flowed from under his hood, and the same ivory mask from the outpost fight covered his face. His Soul Gem hovered near his chest — black with flecks of silver.

  The other figure walked beside him, silent, mask still hiding her features — but Dillion recognized her instantly. The masked girl. The one who’d saved him from Gnarlfang.

  He straightened slightly.

  The older Soul Warden looked him over.

  His gaze wasn’t hostile — just... assessing.

  Finally, he spoke, voice low and grizzled. “Where did you get that armor?”

  Dillion blinked. “What?”

  “Your armor,” the man said again, eyes narrowing. “The under weave — it’s old Sorian make. Not from any Outpost vendor. Those runes… they’re carved by hand. Who gave it to you?”

  Dillion glanced down. His light armor — the set Stark had gifted him — was scuffed from the fight, but the etchings beneath still glimmered faintly with residual power.

  “I… It was a gift,” Dillion replied carefully.

  The man tilted his head. “From whom?”

  Dillion hesitated. The masked girl shifted slightly but said nothing.

  “Just… someone I trained with,” he said at last. “He’s gone now.”

  The older Warden looked at him for a long beat, then finally gave a small nod — not of satisfaction, but of warning.

  “Be careful, boy. There are people in this world who don’t part with power for free. Not without a purpose.”

  Dillion’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “Even more dangerous, then.”

  The masked girl stepped forward slightly, her white Soul Gem glowing faintly like a heartbeat in the dusk.

  “You fought well,” she said simply.

  Dillion looked at her. “Did I pass your test?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Instead, the older Warden turned, cloak sweeping behind him. “Come,” he said to her.

  She followed without a word.

  But just before she disappeared into the shadows, she looked back at Dillion — for only a second.

  Long enough for him to see something flicker in her eyes.

  Not fear. Not judgment.

  Curiosity.

  Dillion and May made their way down the stone steps that led from the Arena’s inner tunnels into the administration wing. Spectators and competitors bustled around them, some cheering for Dillion, others whispering about “the blue-marked rookie” who took down Voss.

  May walked slightly ahead, but every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’re walking funny,” she said.

  “I just fought a guy made of metal chains,” Dillion muttered. “I think I’m allowed to limp a little.”

  They reached the prize clerk’s desk — a long, rune-etched counter manned by an official in gray robes. The woman looked up as Dillion approached and immediately pulled a crystal tab from beneath the desk.

  “Dillion Rogers?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Congratulations on your win,” she said with a nod. “Your Soul Gem has been credited for the victory. You’ve received a Black Medium Gem for defeating Voss, and you’re also being awarded ten Soul Points for combat excellence and crowd engagement.”

  Dillion blinked. “Crowd engagement?”

  “You’ve got a nickname now,” the woman said dryly. “That’s worth something.”

  “Water Gun,” May muttered, shaking her head.

  The clerk slid over a small parchment.

  “This contains the bracket update,” she added. “Your next match will be tomorrow morning.”

  Dillion scanned the paper — then froze.

  May leaned over his shoulder, read the name, and instantly turned pale.

  “Andrew Cane?” she said, her voice suddenly tight. “That Andrew Cane? The same guy who poured beer on my book and threw you out of a bar?”

  “Yeah,” Dillion said, staring at the name. “Guess so.”

  “He’s top 1000. That’s not just a rank, Dillion — that’s a career. People like him don’t fight for practice. They fight to win, and they don’t care what gets broken along the way.”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, he folded the parchment slowly and slid it into his pocket.

  “Let’s get some rest,” he said.

  They checked into a small inn just a few blocks from the Arena — quieter, away from the chaos. Their room was modest but warm, with a pair of small beds and a single glowing lantern hanging from the ceiling. Dillion dropped his shield against the wall and sank into the mattress like he’d just removed a mountain from his shoulders.

  May sat on the edge of her bed, staring at him.

  “You’re not afraid?” she asked.

  “I’m not excited,” he said, “but I’m not afraid.”

  She watched him for a moment longer. “You’ve changed.”

  “I think I’m just catching up to myself.”

  Elsewhere in the Capital

  Beneath the arena, far below the public corridors, a cold chamber flickered with blue torches and stone-carved sigils.

  Four figures stood in silence.

  The Soul Wardens.

  One wore flowing black robes and a helm shaped like a blade’s edge.

  Another leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, his white Soul Gem glowing through his open chest plate.

  The third — tall, elegant, face hidden behind a clown mask — tapped a long cane rhythmically against the floor. He was the Arena announcer, though few knew the full truth.

  And the fourth stood quietly in the back — the masked girl. White light hovered just above her chest.

  They had gathered for a single reason.

  The Arena.

  The tournament had always served as both bloodsport and scouting ground — a tool for finding potential threats, outliers, and irregulars within Eden’s grand experiment.

  “I reviewed the brackets,” said the announcer, his voice echoing beneath the mask. “Rogers is progressing faster than expected. But he’s still manageable.”

  “Agreed,” said the Warden in robes. “But the Cane boy…”

  They all went silent.

  “He wasn’t invited,” the armored one muttered. “His presence wasn’t sanctioned.”

  “Top 1000,” said the masked girl. “And no longer bound by any guild. He does as he pleases.”

  “That’s the problem,” said the clown-masked announcer, tilting his head. “Cane’s reckless. He kills indiscriminately. He stirs the system.”

  “And if he wins this bracket,” said the robed Warden, “his visibility becomes a liability. Earth will start paying attention.”

  They stood in silence for a moment longer.

  Then the decision came.

  “We’ll execute a Reaping.”

  The girl lifted her head.

  “You want me to do it.”

  “You know him,” said the masked announcer. “And your soul mark gives you permission.”

  The girl nodded once, her eyes unreadable behind the mask.

  Soul Reaping wasn’t just punishment.

  It was judgment.

  A ritual where a Warden severed a player’s Soul Gem from the protection of Eden — leaving them vulnerable. Mortal. Real.

  Once Reaped, a player could no longer dematerialize. No longer log out. They bled. They suffered. And if killed in Sora…

  They died in both worlds.

  The room darkened, as if Sora itself recoiled.

  “Reap him before the match begins,” the announcer said. “We need Rogers incase the Walker Fails"

  The girl turned and walked toward the spiral stairs.

  Her white Soul Gem pulsed once — faint, but steady.

  She said nothing.

  But something in her steps had changed.

  The training yard behind The Iron Dagger Inn was empty, saved for one man.

  Andrew Cane stood shirtless beneath the moonlight, fists taped, sweat dripping down his back as he hammered blow after blow into a leather striking post. His muscles twitched with rage and rhythm — equal parts warm-up and ego boost.

  Kid’s got heart, he thought, but I’ll break that too.

  His grin widened as he imagined tomorrow’s match. One clean hit. That’s all it would take.

  He reached down for a flask resting on the bench and tilted it back — until something cold swept through the air behind him.

  A breeze.

  No, not a breeze.

  A presence.

  His skin prickled.

  Cane turned around sharply. Nothing.

  The torches flickered, casting shadows that seemed to bend just slightly wrong. The hair on his arms stood straight.

  He reached for his sword.

  That’s when she spoke.

  “You’re not meant to be here.”

  Cane froze.

  A figure stood across the courtyard — still as stone, half-cloaked in white, a soft glow pulsing from her chest like a heartbeat made of light.

  She stepped forward.

  Her mask — smooth and pale — glinted under the moon.

  Cane narrowed his eyes. “You lost, sweetheart?”

  No response. Only silence… and that haunting white glow above her chest. He recognized it now.

  A Soul Gem… White?

  The rarest type. He’d only seen a few in his time in Sora.

  She took another step forward.

  “I’m not here to fight you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

  Cane tilted his head. “Then what? You a fan?”

  A pause. Then:

  “I’m here to give you a choice.”

  He laughed. “A choice?”

  She nodded. “Forfeit your match tomorrow. Log out of Sora. Stay out — for a while.”

  Cane blinked. “You’re serious?”

  Dead silence.

  He scoffed. “You think I’m backing down from some no-name Blue Mark rookie ‘cause a masked freak shows up spouting riddles?”

  Her posture never changed.

  “You don’t understand what’s at stake,” she said. “This arena... it's being watched. Your presence has disrupted a balance that can’t afford to shift.”

  Cane slung his blade onto his shoulder. “I don't care what you're balancing. I'm here to win, and tomorrow I’m going to turn that shield kid into paste. Maybe you can watch.”

  She was quiet for a long moment.

  Then her voice came again — lower, colder.

  “Refuse… and I cannot protect you.”

  He smirked. “From what? You?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Instead, she stepped even closer. Her mask only a few feet away now, and for the first time, Cane saw her eyes through the slits — human, but ancient.

  “I am not your enemy yet, Andrew Cane,” she whispered. “But if you intend on stepping into that arena… I will be.”

  Cane gripped his sword tighter, but something inside him — something primal — urged him to run.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said, trying to sound bold. “You can watch from the stands while I crush your little Blue Mark toy.”

  She tilted her head slightly, as if disappointed

  “So be it.”

  She raised her hand, and her white Soul Gem flared like a star.

  “I will now begin the Reaping.”

  Before Cane could even move, she blurred.

  One moment she was standing a few feet away. The next — her hand was inside his chest, phasing through armor, flesh, and bone.

  His breath caught.

  Eyes wide.

  He couldn’t move.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  Her hand emerged, clenched tightly around a glowing red Soul Gem — his.

  He fell to his knees, gasping, the strength in his limbs evaporating like mist.

  “What… what did you…?

  Cane clutched at his chest. “What is wrong with me?”

  Her voice didn’t waver.

  “You are no longer under Eden’s protection. You will not dematerialize. You will not respawn. You will feel pain. You will bleed. And when you die…”

  She stepped closer, mask inches from his face.

  “…you will stay dead.”

  He collapsed fully now, body shivering.

  The cold realization that caused him to laugh hysterically as his mind couldn't process the feeling of his untethered body

  Then silence once again,

  Cane's face frozen in shock as he was now looking at his own body,

  it happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process that his head was just sliced cleanly off his body

  The masked Warden took no time to end Andrew Cane's life,

  as she clicked her tongue in annoyance,

  she conjured up purple flames to erase the Existence of Andrew Cane

  As she walked off into the darkness of night.

  The sounds of a sleeping town resumed.