Long ago, in a time before kingdoms raised banners and before demons carved their hatred into the land, there was a man. A legend whose name would echo through the ruins of history itself.

  Edward Kitzu.

  The First Mage. The First Hero. The Founder of Magic.

  They say he struck down the Great Beast that once tormented the world —but in doing so, Edward’s final breath became a curse and a blessing both.

  At the site of his death, deep in the heart of what would one day be called the Ashia Plains, the magic he unleashed bled into the earth itself. From that sacred ground grew the Tree of Life —a monument to his sacrifice.

  Mana — the blood of the world — spilled outward from that place, shaping every hill, river, and star above.

  Where the mana ran thick, great civilizations blossomed. Where it ran thin, poverty and decay followed.

  Thus the land of Urgnard was born. A land divided — by power, by fear, by blood.

  Now, centuries later, the world teetered once again toward oblivion.

  Demons, once beaten back by Edward’s sacrifice, had begun to stir beneath the charred soil of Zathe, their corrupted homeland.

  And humanity, fractured and squabbling, was too blind to see the noose tightening.

  The Tree still stood — vast and mighty —its roots burrowing into the bones of the earth, its branches reaching toward forgotten heavens. Protected by the Elves and Fairies of Ashia, its mana kept the world breathing, even as greed and darkness festered in every corner of Urgnard.

  And in the shadows of one broken city, a new kind of legend was stirring.

  ?The shattered ruins of Ugrax stretched for miles — a once-proud theocracy now rotting from the inside. The crimson banners of faith still hung from the broken spires, but they were little more than lies flapping in the wind.

  The citizens, the poor and downtrodden, whispered in hushed voices about a figure that had begun to haunt the alleys and bloodstained streets.

  The Black Reaper.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  A man cloaked in darkness, whose crimson eyes glowed like dying coals beneath a cracked porcelain mask.

  A man who struck down corrupt priests and generals with silent, merciless precision.

  A man who left no trace but the corpses of tyrants.

  Some called him a demon. Others, a savior.

  But to Yaragi Nozen, he was simply himself.

  A weapon sharpened by betrayal.

  A man who had nothing left to lose.

  High atop the crumbling rooftops of Ugrax, Yaragi crouched beneath a shattered bell tower, the night wind stirring his black cloak around him like the wings of a carrion bird.

  Beneath his mask, his crimson gaze swept over the streets below —the same streets that had once been filled with laughter and prayer.

  Now they crawled with guards —the elite enforcers of the High Priest, armed with blessed blades and false righteousness.

  And Yaragi knew tonight, they were hunting him.

  Again.

  He didn't flinch.

  He didn't run.

  He simply waited.

  He flexed his fingers once, the mana ring on his hand prickling his skin with its sharp hidden needle, drawing fresh blood to the surface.

  The blood obeyed his will —forming into thin, glistening tendrils that slithered across his wrists and down to his Soulshadow Urn daggers.

  They drank the blood hungrily, their edges humming with invisible hunger.

  Yaragi exhaled slowly, feeling the familiar coldness settle into his bones.

  “Fine.” he murmured to no one.

  Tonight, another piece of this corrupt kingdom would fall.

  Movement below.

  The guards — seven in total — moved like sharks through the darkness, armor clinking softly, torches painting trembling shadows across the crumbling stones.

  Yaragi watched them funnel into the narrow alley he had prepared.

  His trap.

  Earlier that evening, he had slaughtered a pack of stray beasts —not for cruelty, but for necessity. Their blood had soaked into the cracked stones, hidden beneath scattered debris.

  Waiting.

  And now — as Yaragi raised a single scarred hand — that blood answered.

  With a soft hum, sharpened spikes erupted from the ground —piercing the guards from below, splitting armor and bone with grotesque precision.

  They didn't even have time to scream.

  Yaragi dropped into the alley with the soundless grace of a falling crow.

  The bodies of the guards slumped around him, blood seeping into the cracked earth.

  For a moment, silence reigned.

  Then, footsteps — light and cautious — echoed from the shadows beyond.

  Yaragi tensed.

  More coming.

  Good.

  He welcomed it.

  Because this city deserved better. Because the Tree still stood, and the demons still stirred, and the world still wept for heroes that no longer existed.

  Because he would carve justice into the bones of Urgnard himself if he had to.

  One body at a time.