The True Grim Reaper
"Boom!!!"
The crescent moon of sword energy crashed into the crowd like a divine sickle reaping wheat. The mansion courtyard—once lit by hundreds of torches—was swallowed by blinding white light.
In an instant, the flames outside vanished.
When Yang Ning landed beyond the mansion gate, there wasn't a single native within several hundred meters. Only a river of blood, thick with severed limbs, stretched in every direction.
The villagers who had earlier hurled mud and curses now trembled in primal terror. Wherever Yang Ning turned his gaze, weapons clattered to the ground—followed by knees.
They knelt in waves, faces pressed to the earth, begging for mercy.
Yang Ning remained expressionless. He remembered their hatred, their arrogance, their blind devotion to monsters. Pity? No.
Religious fanatics who dehumanized others didn't deserve forgiveness. They were better off as nourishment.
"Heh."
He swung Kotetsu again.
The Starfire Blade's ranged strikes tore through flesh like paper. These bodies—unarmored, unhardened—couldn't withstand even a glancing hit.
When he finally cut down the last of the group before him, the remaining natives snapped out of their paralysis.
They screamed—scrambled to their feet—and fled on all fours, scrambling into the jungle like frightened animals.
Yang Ning followed at a leisurely pace, blade in hand, cutting down stragglers without hurry.
He lost track of time. Of numbers.
All he knew was that the path behind him looked like hell—blood pooling in rivulets, limbs scattered like broken twigs.
Finally, the survivors stopped running.
But they didn't scatter.
They didn't hide.
They all rushed to the Black Stone Temple.
Yang Ning nearly laughed.
Their "Grim Reaper" was probably still sulking in his mansion, questioning his existence. What use were these people to him now?
He looked at the crowd huddled before the temple gates—elders, children, all trembling together like livestock awaiting slaughter.
For a moment, he felt something close to pity.
So he gave them a choice.
"I'll give you a chance to live," he called out, voice sharp but clear.
"Go to Hei Lu's house. Capture that so-called 'Divine Messenger.' Each of you stabs him once. Do that—and I let you go."
"I'll count to ten. Those who want to live—step forward."
It was a simple task. In his eyes, he was already being merciful. Even people from a peaceful age could do this—especially after what that old man represented.
"Ten."
Silence.
"Nine."
Their eyes burned with contempt.
"Eight."
No one moved.
"Seven… six… five… four…"
Still, not a single soul stepped forward.
"Three. Time is running out."
Not one. Young or old—they all wore the same expression: defiance, hatred, unwavering faith.
"Two."
"One!"
Just as he raised Kotetsu—already regretting his misplaced leniency—their reaction stunned him.
They didn't cower.
They taunted.
"You vile sea scum! You think we'd betray the Divine Envoy? Dream on!"
"That's right! Just wait—Chief Hei Lu will execute you in the cruelest way!"
"No! We shouldn't kill him—we should fatten him like a pig, drain his life force daily until he begs for death!"
"Yes! If I'm chosen for the Divine Kingdom, a sea rat like him will only be fit to lick my toes!"
Yang Ning stared, almost disbelieving.
Who was the real monster here?
Was brainwashing this absolute?
He slapped his own cheek—shaking off the foolish flicker of mercy.
Then, without another word, he swung.
Scorching white sword energy carved through the air. Blood sprayed. Stone walls cracked.
He cut again. And again.
Half the crowd was already dead when—
Creak…
The gates of the Black Stone Temple opened.
Yang Ning paused, squinting.
Standing in the archway was Hei Lu—bare-chested, muscles gleaming, carrying a wooden box barely a meter long.
So he'd been hiding.
Yang Ning almost admired his nerve—showing himself without Arthur.
Was this loyalty?
No. This was arrogance. Hei Lu believed he could win.
"Outsider," Hei Lu bellowed, "you've angered me—and the gods!"
"The Temple of Death doesn't worship a mere vessel like Arthur. We serve the true God of Death!"
He kicked the box open.
Inside—packed tight—were hundreds of tiny, crystalline, jade-like beads.
Yang Ning didn't wait.
Villains die from monologues. Heroes die from hesitation.
He wasn't either.
He raised his hand—and unleashed a blade of white-hot energy straight at Hei Lu.
But the natives—just moments ago fleeing in terror—rushed forward.
Dozens threw themselves in front of Hei Lu, shielding him with their bodies.
"Don't underestimate the bond between us and Lord Hei Lu!"
"Huh?"
For a split second, Yang Ning felt like the villain.
But it didn't matter.
If they wanted to die for him—so be it.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Two more slashes. The natives became a mound of flesh between Yang Ning and his target.
Hei Lu wasn't idle. While they bought him time, he shoveled beads into his mouth, swallowing them whole—no chewing, no pause.
By Yang Ning's sixth strike, the box was empty.
"Get out of the way!"
A roar split the air.
Wind pressure blasted outward—clearing a circle of corpses and blood.
And from the center rose a monster.
Six meters tall. Muscles swollen, pulsing with fluorescent green energy. Veins like ropes. Eyes burning with rage.
Hei Lu spread his arms, voice shaking the earth:
"I am the true Grim Reaper!"
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