Chapter 62 - ReaperHollow NightIt’s safe to say something has been amiss with me ever since I entered this sunless realm. No - perhaps it would be more accurate to say that whatever had been off with me from the beginning—from seven years ago—was now being hauled to center stage.

  I notice now how each step through this Hollow Night feels like a premonition, as though the very fabric of this pce recognizes me and reaches out to me. I reflexively glide through the shadows, effortlessly sensing every shift, every subtle twist of this reality, as though I’d been born into it. The darkness bends and sways around me, as if to accommodate my path, almost bowing to my presence.

  It’s just my body adapting quickly for the sake of survival, I tell myself. It’s the familiarity I’ve gained over time.

  But even as I try to rationalize it, I know the truth is buried within me somewhere, gnawing and cwing at me. The undeniable fact that this pce feels more like home than any pce in real world ever has.

  I leap across a gap in the crumbling cityscape, watching as the Hollow Night’s twisted architecture warps in the corner of my vision. Nothing about these ruins should be navigable. And yet, I trace the routes as if they’ve been etched into my mind for years. I scale walls that should be impossible to climb, descend depths that should feel like falling into an abyss but only feel natural underfoot.

  I know I shouldn’t be able to move with such ease, but something inside me stirs, a quiet thrill surfacing at how right it all feels.

  That journal had cracked something open within me. The words were a fire I couldn’t resist, a bridge between now and… then. I was sure I had answers within reach, and yet they remained shrouded, a memory encased in smoke.

  Seven years I’d tried to forget, but the familiar phrases, the names, the secrets—they’d called to me as I read.

  Back in the present, I halted my nightly hunt’s progress, perching on the top of a streetlight as a sudden tremor caused the lights to quake. Piercing through the fog of my thoughts, lucid as the gre of a mirror, there he was.

  Even from here, I felt the energy rippling in the air, some dreadful metamorphosis emanating from Scarecrow. I could practically see him in my mind’s eye, twisted and unrecognizable, allowing his nature to overtake him. Anger licked at my chest, unsettlingly fierce. I realized he was about to break our promise, the one we’d made at the park, and something primal within me stirred—a cold resolve that wouldn’t allow it.

  I pressed forward, the weight of my purpose intensifying with each step. My path bended, honing in on his position across the sprawling darkness. But as I shifted course, moving to close the distance, I felt an unfamiliar presence—an abrupt halt in the rhythm of the shadows’ constant movement. Someone, or something, stood in my way.

  The figure materialized out of the shadows of a nearby rooftop, its stance tense, gaze fixed on me. They’re holding something long and barrel-ended. There’s a precision to their stance, a calcuted stillness that suggests they’ve been waiting. Observing. I narrow my eyes, watching the way the dark clings to them, lending an ominous quality to their aura. I know an enemy when I see one.

  “Out of my way,” I attempt, my voice echoing sharply in the vast silence around us. My patience for obstacles was admittedly waning, fraying with the call of Scarecrow’s betrayal in the distance.

  But the figure didn’t respond. Instead, they shifted slightly, their stance unfaltering, making it clear that they have no intention of letting me pass. The air grew tense, a palpable charge hanging between us, as if the Hollow Night itself was holding its breath, anticipating the csh to come.

  I take a step forward, fingers tracing the handle of my weapon, my pulse thrumming with a controlled intensity. The figure mirrors my movements, their posture calcuted, predatory. They raise what I now realize is some kind of rifle, and hold it steady, pointed directly at me.

  I then feel an instinctive lightness in my feet as my stance widens. A stray thought whispers through my mind—Why does this feel so familiar? The skill, the instinctual knowledge of where to pce my steps, how to draw my scythe without hesitation.

  I shake the thought away. There will be time for questions ter.

  In a single breath, the tension snaps, and we engage in an instant. I perform a ghastly weave to the right just as a bullet erupts from the red line of sight heading my way, and then leap in my rival’s direction. They manage to duck just as my scythe carves a clean gash into air, and in a split second I feel its gun push up against my stomach.

  I manage to bend backwards far enough to escape from the counter with a long red cut across my torso as the bullet trails through my flesh like sand, just narrowly missing my jugur.

  Smarting slightly from the swift manoeuvre, I leap back and observe. My opponent doesn’t speak, but I can sense some kind of determination regardless, and cold, unyielding focus. A kind of intensity that mirrored my own. They are now looking back at me. We circle each other, our steps measured, a deadly rhythm forming between us.

  A sense of purpose is surely flowing through me, one that’s both terrifying and exhirating. Instead of questioning why I feel so alive in this moment, I only press harder, the thrill of the fight pushing me onward.

  For now, in this space between shadow and steel, my hesitation vanishes.

  The silence between us grows heavier, thick with the promise of violence. I feel a predatory instinct thrumming beneath my skin, urging me forward, but I hold back, watching my opponent. They remain silent, gun poised, their gaze calcuting. There's no sign of fear—only the cold confidence of someone who's studied death and learned to dance with it.

  A thin smile curves my lips.

  The Hollow Night has its own kind of rhythm, a pulse beneath the surface of reality, quickening as I lunge forward. In a fsh, the crack of another gunshot shattered the silence. I twist mid-stride, narrowly avoiding the bullet, the air beside my face searing from the closeness. My scythe arced in retaliation. Its deadly curve swept toward their throat.

  But this ‘Deadeye’ of sorts was quite quick. They drop into a roll, slipping beneath my swing, and I catch a glint of metal strapped to their belt—multiple glints, in fact. A series of devices, each one primed and ready for whatever chaos they intend to unleash. They leap up, levelling another weapon at me—a smaller, sleeker gun. This one hums ominously, a faint blue glow charging along its barrel.

  I rush forward, trying to close the distance before they fire, but Deadeye presses a button on their wrist, and a small orb springs from their belt, skittering across the ground. In an instant, it detonates, releasing a blinding fsh of light. I stagger back, momentarily blinded, cursing as the light burns into my vision.

  A sharp pain erupts in my side, the biting cold of a bullet slicing through me. I grit my teeth, snarling, and push through the pain, summoning souls from my stock to use as sacrifices for the slow healing of my wounds and forcing my vision to clear. Deadeye stands a few paces away, gun still trained on me, the faintest hint of satisfaction present in their demeanour.

  A dark, unhinged sound echoed around us, and I almost don’t recognize it as my own ughing.

  Deadeye doesn’t respond. Instead, they toss another device onto the ground, and a thin line erupts between us—a tripwire, almost invisible. Clever. I could admire that, if I weren't so intent on tearing them apart in that moment.

  I lunge again, this time moving erratically, a zigzag pattern to throw off their aim. Another bullet whizzes in the thin space between my left upper arm and rib, close enough that I can feel its passage. They’re quick, precise, calcuting - but so am I.

  I swipe my scythe low, cutting the tripwire cleanly, then dart forward as Deadeye reloads, their stance hardening. They throw something small and metallic into the air—a disk that hovers above us, projecting an array of red ser sights that track my every movement. I feel a faint prickling along my skin as the sers fixate on me, marking me as their target.

  A trap.

  With a grin, I pivot, slicing my scythe through the air in a wide arc. The bde cleaves through the disk, shattering it, and the sers flicker out. Deadeye steps back, their hand reaching for another gadget, but I’m faster. I close the distance between us in a heartbeat, swinging my scythe down with lethal intent.

  They dodge, barely, the bde grazing their shoulder, sending a thick line of their essence spilling across the floor. They stumble, and for the first time, I see a fsh of something in their sharp crimson eyes—something that might be fear.

  It thrills me.

  They scramble back, pulling out another weapon—a dagger this time, sharp and glinting. They lunge, aiming for my throat, and I parry with the shaft of my scythe, sparks flying as metal cshes against metal.

  The world around us blurs, fading into the background as we exchange blows, a vicious dance of death. My heart pounds, a relentless rhythm that matches the tempo of our strikes. The movements flow from me naturally, effortlessly, as though they were etched into my bones.

  The scythe sings through the air, and Deadeye barely manages to sidestep, rolling to avoid the lethal edge. They toss another grenade at my feet, but I kick it aside before it can detonate, the explosion echoing harmlessly off to the side. They’re running out of tricks, I can tell.

  And I’m only getting started.

  I pivot sharply, using the momentum to bring my scythe around in a deadly arc. Deadeye blocks with their dagger, but the force of the blow sends them stumbling. I press the advantage, striking again and again, forcing them back, watching as the cracks begin to show in their defense.

  Finally, they falter and give in to a split-second of hesitation. It’s all I need.

  In one fluid motion, I consume a sizeable chunk of my souls and feel an unspeakable strength rip through my muscles. I toss my scythe aside entirely and send a fist flying into their head. A sickening crack whips across the space as Deadeye is sent whistling like a bullet across the nightscape, and, even more surprisingly, I am following just in front of its travel path, sailing like a bullet with a strong leap.

  Deadeye’s body hurtles through the air, but I’m faster. I nd directly in their path, pivoting mid-air to deliver a savage kick to their midsection. They don’t even have a moment to react before my heel sms into their torso, sending them plummeting downwards with bone-shattering force. The ground buckles beneath them, cracks spider-webbing out from the point of impact as they crash down, and yet—I’m not done.

  I barely feel myself touch the ground before I’m on them again, driven by the torrent of souls thrumming within me, each one adding to the bloodlust that surges through my veins like wildfire.

  Deadeye manages to cough, trying to raise an arm in defense, but I’m already there, grabbing them by the colr and yanking them up like a ragdoll. Feeling a deranged grin forming on my lips, I unch them upward, sending their body careening through the air once more. I leap after them, closing the gap in an instant, and drive a knee into their back, bending their form around me in a sickening arc before hammering them downward again with both fists.

  The impact splits the ground open as Deadeye’s body sms into the rubble, yet somehow, they’re still breathing, still conscious, their body a disfigured, dazed mess. I can’t help but feel a twisted sense of admiration, a brief flicker of respect for their resilience—right before I’m overcome by the urge to shatter it.

  They try to rise, trembling hands gripping the ground. I’m already there. My hand closes around their head, lifting them up, savouring the way their body dangles, helpless, before I throw them forward, sending them crashing through the concrete remains of a wall. Dust and debris explode outward, and for a brief moment, everything is silent.

  I tear through the haze of dust and rubble, smashing my fist into their stomach with enough force to drive them through the remains of another building. The walls crumble, colpsing in a wave of destruction that echoes through the Hollow Night like thunder. I chase after them, following the path of chaos, the thrill growing with every ruin I carve through, every blow that echoes with the finality of death.

  Finally, Deadeye crashes down onto the open pavement, body broken, their essence pooling beneath them. The souls I consumed pulse within me, demanding more, urging me to savor every second of this, to take them to the absolute brink.

  I descend on them with an animalistic growl, fists pummelling into their form over and over, each punch resonating with the sick, wet crunch of breaking what felt like bone and torn flesh. Deadeye’s face is a mask of agony, but I barely notice. I’m lost in the rhythm of violence, the power coursing through me, each blow feeding the insatiable thrill that has overtaken every part of me.

  The ground beneath us buckles with each strike, craters forming under the relentless assault as I drive Deadeye further and further into the concrete, practically burying them alive. Their face is unrecognizable now, but still, I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

  It’s only when the ground itself begins to crumble, threatening to give way beneath us, that I pause, panting, feeling the st flickers of their life slipping away under my hands.

  My fists are dripping with bits of them, my own knuckles bruised, skin torn, yet I barely feel the pain. All I can feel is the overwhelming satisfaction, the primal, animalistic joy that settles over me in the aftermath.

  I lean down, close enough to see the faint remnants of life still clinging to them, and whisper softly, almost lovingly, “Sleep.”

  With one final, brutal strike, I end it, feeling the st life shudder out of their body. The familiar, silvery mist of their soul rises from the ruin that was once Deadeye, drifting toward me. I let it merge with the others, a quiet, hungry hum emanating from my scythe as it absorbs the essence, growing stronger, sharper.

  I then stand upright and reach out, materializing my scythe and touching the weapon gently, feeling the faint pulse of the spirits within. I focus on a particur orange wisp near the base, a warm, lingering, almost rejuvenating glow that flickers in response to my touch. Leaning down, I whisper to it, my voice soft, almost reverent.

  “I promised I’d bring you back home, child,” I murmur, feeling a strange pang of emotion—a mixture of regret and determination. “Just a little more, and we’ll be there.”

  The orange glow pulses, as though acknowledging my words, and I feel a renewed sense of purpose settle over me. There’s more to do, more souls to cim, more power to gather.

  The Hollow Night was far from over, and there were more souls yet to be cimed.

  Fortunately, I knew just where to find some.