Human Ancestor

It had been a year since Xiavar had achieved strength, breaking through once more to SSS rank. The air around him felt heavier, charged with power that whispered of destruction and rebirth. This night, under the pale moonlight, a group of six assassins surrounded him in the desolate valley. Each was a peak SSS- rank human, renowned warriors who had earned their places as generals and strategic weapons for their respective kingdoms. But the most formidable among them was their captain, a woman who stood six feet tall with a commanding presence. Her golden hair shimmered in the moonlight like a halo, but her eyes burned with cold disdain. She was his aunt, his mother's sister—a high-human of SSS+ rank, teetering on the edge of master rank.

Xiavar stood still, his dark cloak fluttering in the wind as the woman stepped forward. Her voice, sharp and cutting, carried across the valley.

"You are a stain on our bloodline," she spat. "A mistake born of your mother's folly. A hybrid, a disgusting mix of human and high-human. You've tainted our noble house, and for that, I'll erase you. No one must ever know of your existence."

Xiavar's silence was deafening, his crimson eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the assassins uneasy. His lack of response only fueled their disdain, and they interpreted his calm as resignation to his fate.

"Attack!" she commanded, her voice echoing like a death knell.

The assassins sprang into action, their movements precise and practiced. Fireballs hurtled through the air, while swords and axes imbued with fiery enchantments sliced toward him. Their strikes were coordinated, designed to leave him no room to maneuver. Yet, Xiavar remained silent, his scythe materializing in his hands—a weapon forged from pure soul magic, its dark edges glinting ominously.

***

The first clash was deafening, a cacophony of steel meeting steel, flames roaring, and the dull thud of earth-shaking impacts. Xiavar moved like a shadow, weaving between the attacks with an economy of motion that belied his strength. His aunt watched from the rear, her white flames flickering in readiness, analyzing his every move.

The assassins were relentless. One lunged at him with twin daggers, their edges glowing with fire enchantments. Xiavar sidestepped, the blades grazing his arm, leaving a shallow burn. He gritted his teeth but didn't falter. Instead, he used the momentum to pivot, bringing his scythe in a sweeping arc that seemed to miss—until the assassin froze, eyes wide in horror as his body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

The scythe hadn't touched his flesh, but his soul had been severed.

"Soul magic…," one of the assassins hissed, retreating slightly. "Be careful! He's targeting our souls!"

The remaining five adjusted their strategy, attacking from multiple angles to overwhelm him. Two fireballs exploded near his feet, forcing him to leap into the air. A spear thrust aimed for his chest, and he barely managed to twist his body mid-air to avoid it. The spear nicked his side, drawing blood. But Xiavar used the pain, letting it sharpen his focus. He landed on the ground with a roll, immediately launching a counterattack.

His scythe hummed with soul magic as he infused it with precision, targeting the next assassin. The man raised his shield in defense, but it was futile. The scythe passed through the shield like it wasn't there, striking the man's chest. His body remained upright, but his lifeless eyes told the story of his soul's demise.

***

"Enough!" his aunt roared, her white flames igniting the battlefield with a blinding light. The remaining assassins regrouped behind her, their confidence bolstered by her intervention. She stepped forward, her aura oppressive, and the air around her crackled with heat.

"You may have some skill," she admitted grudgingly. "But you are still a mistake. And I'll prove it."

Her holy flames surged toward him, a tidal wave of purifying fire. Xiavar raised his scythe, channeling his soul magic into a barrier. The flames collided with it, and for a moment, it seemed as though his shield would hold. But cracks began to form, and he was forced to disperse the energy, letting the flames scorch his left arm. The pain was excruciating, but he used it as an opportunity to close the distance between them.

"You're predictable," he said finally, his voice cold and cutting. "Relying on brute strength and noble blood. But strength without strategy is meaningless."

He feinted to the left, drawing her flames in that direction, before darting right. His scythe lashed out, aimed at her midsection. She blocked with a fiery barrier, but the impact sent her skidding back, her golden hair disheveled.

The assassins joined the fray, their synchronized attacks forcing Xiavar to remain on the defensive. He dodged a flurry of strikes, allowing some to connect—a slash to his thigh, a punch to his ribs—but each time, he positioned himself advantageously. He used their aggression against them, redirecting one's attack into another's path, sowing chaos in their formation.

***

The battle reached its crescendo. Xiavar, battered and bloodied, stood in the center of the alleyway, his crimson eyes glowing with unyielding determination. His aunt and the remaining assassins encircled him, their breaths ragged but their resolve unbroken.

"You've fought well," he admitted. "But this ends now."

He raised his scythe high, channeling both soul and death magic into its blade. The weapon pulsated with dark energy, the air around it distorting as if reality itself were recoiling. He whispered the name of his ultimate technique: "Reaper's Mercy."

A sphere of fused soul and death magic formed above the scythe, its surface writhing with ethereal tendrils. He hurled it toward the group, and despite their best efforts, they couldn't escape its pull. The sphere detonated upon contact, releasing a wave of energy that passed harmlessly through their bodies. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing had happened. Then, one by one, they collapsed, their souls obliterated.

Only his aunt remained standing, her white flames flickering weakly. She stumbled forward, glaring at him with a mix of hatred and grudging respect.

"You… truly are a monster," she rasped before falling to her knees.

Xiavar approached her, his expression devoid of emotion. With a single swing of his scythe, he ended her life, her soul severed like the others.

***

The silence was deafening.

I stood amidst the carnage, the bodies of my enemies strewn across the rocky ground. The faint glow of their souls lingered in the air, flickering like dying embers before fading into the void.

Lenora lay at my feet, her golden hair matted with ash and blood, her once-proud face twisted in anguish. For all her strength and fury, she had fallen like the rest. Yet, a part of me hesitated. She wasn't just another assassin—she was family, my mother's sister.

And she despised me.

I knelt, unhooking the small, humming device from around her neck. Its faint blue light told me it had recorded everything—the clash, my techniques, my trump cards. Evidence that would condemn me to an even worse fate than exile.

With a sharp twist, I crushed it beneath my heel.

"Can't have the family knowing all my tricks," I muttered, though deep down, I knew it was too late. Someone would have felt the disturbance. Word would spread.

The coppery stench of blood hung heavy in the air as I methodically stripped the bodies. Gold, enchanted weapons, trinkets, even their cloaks—I took it all. Pride had no place in survival. Coins and gear could mean the difference between life and death in the days ahead.

When I finished, I stood back and surveyed the grim scene. Six lifeless forms, twisted and broken. My kin, my mother's blood. They had come to erase me simply because I existed.

I closed my eyes, reaching out with the part of me that thrummed with dark energy. The stolen souls hadn't gone far—they never did. They clung to this plane, aimless and raw, still tethered to their extinguished bodies.

A small flame of guilt flickered within me. Was this going too far? Did they deserve this? But then I remembered the hatred in Lenora's voice, the disgust in her eyes, and the deadly precision of their blades.

They had come to kill me, and I would not waste the opportunity their deaths had given me.

I whispered the incantation, low and guttural, the language of death rasping against my throat. Black tendrils of energy swirled from my fingertips, weaving through the air like serpents. The souls, glowing faintly in shades of gold and crimson, resisted at first, but I pulled harder, drawing them into my grasp.

One by one, they began to coalesce above their former bodies. The forms were ethereal, ghostly, translucent echoes of their physical selves. Their faces were locked in expressions of confusion, anger, or despair.

Lenora's soul hovered closest, her golden light brighter than the others, her ethereal form crackling with residual power.

"You should have killed me," I said softly, more to myself than to her.

She didn't respond. Souls rarely did at this stage—raw and untethered, they were stripped of most conscious thought. They were power now, tools for my survival.

I raised my hand and summoned the void, the pocket dimension I had shaped over lifetimes. A swirling vortex of black and violet opened before me, an endless expanse of shadow and whispers. With a flick of my wrist, I sent the souls into the void, sealing them away.

"Rest for now," I murmured, "but when I call, you will answer."

The empty bodies lay crumpled on the ground, devoid of any essence. It was time to erase the evidence.

I summoned a flame, dark and cold, a fire of necrotic energy that consumed flesh and bone alike. The bodies burned quickly, leaving no trace but ash. The acrid smoke stung my eyes and nose, but I didn't flinch. This was necessary.

As the last embers died, I stood alone amidst the desolation. The canyon walls cast long, jagged shadows across the ground, the only witnesses to the massacre.

The guilt clawed at me again it wasmt mine but this body's, a gnawing ache I couldn't quite shake. I tried to rationalize it—they had chosen to come after me, to end my life for no reason other than their twisted pride. They had called me an abomination, a stain on the family name.

"Guess I'm the family embarrassment," I said to the empty air, forcing a bitter laugh.

But deep down, I knew this was only the beginning. The Endian Kingdom wouldn't let this go unnoticed. Six elite assassins, a high-human among them, dead at the hands of the hybrid they despised.

The royals. The church. The family.

They would all come for me now.

With a final glance at the scorched ground, I turned and walked into the shadows.

***

Far away, in the grand halls of the Endian Kingdom's Latrey Noble estate, a group of high-ranking officials gathered around a projection crystal. The fight played out before them in haunting detail.

"He killed them all," one whispered.

"A hybrid… an SSS-ranked hybrid," another said, his voice trembling.

The patriarch of the family Latrey sat in silence, his hands gripping the armrests of his throne. Finally, he spoke.

"Send word to the church," he said. "Xiavar must be eliminated. At all costs."

Thus, the name "Reaper" spread across the kingdom like wildfire, and Xiavar became the most hunted man in the land.