The Curse Remains

The river was as violent as ever. Fingers clawed at the muddy bank, slipping once, twice, before finally gripping a rotted wooden post. Reith dragged himself upward, body trembling with exhaustion, not pain. Blood trailed in the current behind him, a crimson ribbon staining the moonlit water.

He collapsed onto the old dock, his back pressed against damp planks. His breaths came ragged, shallow. He looked down at the scythe’s black handle jutting from his shoulder like a flagpole. The wound itself did not hurt—but his body was sluggish, weaker, his vision dim around the edges.

With mechanical calm, he reached across his chest, jaw tightening not from agony but effort. One sharp pull.

The blade tore free with a wet snap. Blood spilled fresh, splattering the boards, seeping through the cracks into the river below. The scythe clattered against the dock and bounced once before settling, faintly glowing under the moon.

Reith blinked, swaying where he sat. He could not feel the fire others would scream about, but he saw the way the world tilted, how shadows smeared across his sight. He knew the danger—not pain, but the creeping dark that came when the body bled too much.

Still, inch by inch, he rose to his knees and retrieved the scythe.

The wound in his shoulder slowed him. His legs were leaden. Every step was a battle not with pain but with balance, with blood loss. He planted the weapon against the ground like a crutch, dragging himself forward. Beyond the dock rose a humble farmhouse, its roof patched with straw, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight.

He hesitated.

The memory of the crowd—screaming, cheering for blood—flashed before him. He had seen their faces twisted with hate, their joy in watching Gladius trying to kill him. He could not predict this house would be different.

But his body had limits even if his nerves did not. He staggered to the farmhouse’s front steps, leaned against the wall, his shoulder leaving a red smear. Blood dripped steadily onto the porch.

He raised the scythe, angling its curve across the door frame. Its edge gleamed faintly in the candlelight spilling through the cracks. Then, with the minimal amount of strength he had left, he knocked.

For a moment there was silence. Then a muffled voice inside.

“Zaik, open the door. See who it is.”

Small feet padded across the floor. The latch clicked. The door reeked as it opens inwards.

A boy—ten years old at most—stood there, wide-eyed.

Before he could speak, the scythe’s blade slid up, curling against his throat. Its curve left just enough space for him to breathe. The boy froze, pinned between the weapon and the doorway.

Reith’s voice was low, hoarse. “Get. Your father.”

The boy whimpered. Behind him, the man’s voice came again, impatient. “Zaik? Who is it?”

Zaik’s eyes watered. He didn’t answer.

The man appeared—broad-shouldered, weary with years of work. His face turned white at the sight.

“You,” Reith rasped, pressing the blade a fraction closer. “You will help me. Or your son dies.”

The farmer’s jaw clenched as he spotted the scythe. His son’s throat pressed against the faintly glowing edge. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands. “Alright. Alright.” The man swallowed his salavia before he continued. “Don’t hurt him, i can help. Come inside.”

The kitchen smelled of old bread and lamp oil. The farmer cleared a table with hurried motions, sweeping tools and cloth to the floor.

“Lay down,” he said.

Reith hesitated, but exhaustion toppled choice. He slumped onto the table, still clutching the scythe. Blood pooled quickly against the wood, dripping to the dirt floor. “I’ll sit”

The farmer lit another candle, shadows leaping against the walls. His eyes narrowed as he gathered a needle, rough thread, strips of linen. “I’ll stitch you up. But you’ll need something for the pain.”

Reith met his gaze, flat and cold. “I don’t need it just start stiching.”

The farmer froze. His hand lingered on the vial he’d lifted from a shelf. “…You will feel allot of pain, are you sure?.”

“Yes it wont be a problem.” Reith’s grip tightened on the scythe. “Get to work.”

The farmer’s hands trembled, but he obeyed. He threaded the needle and pressed it to torn flesh. His son flinched at the sight. But Reith did not twitch.

“I must admit i am no professional, hehe”

Reith did not flinch. His eyes remained locked on the farmer’s face, steady, unblinking, as the man sewn up the wounds.

Reith behavior started to unsettled the farmer more than screams would have.

He tried again, offering with a nod towards the syringe. “You could take that. For the bleeding, for rest.”

Reith’s tone sharpened. “No.”

So the man grew cunning. When Reith’s eyes blurred with weariness, the farmer just as he had sewed up the biggest wounds reached for some alcohol to clean it all, and with quiet effectiveness he pushed the syringe into his arm, the sedative begun to disappear from the syringe.

Reith noticed. His eyes narrowed, his breath sharpened. His limbs grew slack too fast.

“No—”

With sudden force he shoved the farmer back, the scythe flashing upward. Before crashing into the floor spilling what was left onto the floor.

“You dare drug me?!” His voice tore through the house like thunder. He swayed on his feet, not from pain, but from the sedative seeping through his system.

The boy cried out and ran to his father. The farmer shielded him, hands raised though his whole body shook.

“Please! I only—only wanted to save you! You’re bleeding out!”

Reith staggered forward, scythe raised, vision doubling. The blade wavered as though it weighed a hundred pounds. His breath rasped. His eyes burned with fury, but the dark closed in.

And then—

Crash.

The sound shattered the standoff.

All three turned toward the windows. From outside came splintering wood, animals screaming, fences being torn down. Shadows flickered unnaturally across the fields.

The farmer’s face drained of color. He whispered, “Reapers.”

Reith braced on the window, swaying. His blurred sight caught shapes swarming the farm. Human, fast—very disorganized, most held what seemed to be a copy of Reith’s own weapon.

The farmer clutched his son. “We need to leave. Now.”

He dragged the boy toward the back door, glancing once at Reith before vanishing into the night.

Reith remained, scythe dragging in one hand, his knees buckling. His strength drained with every heartbeat.

The front door splintered.

The Reapers poured in, shadows made flesh. Cold air flooded the room with them. Their ember eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

Reith sank to the ground, body refusing him. The scythe slipped from his hand, clattering beside him.

One crouched, voice dry as withered leaves. “The body does not break. The curse remains.”

Another leaned in, teeth too sharp, grin too wide. “Still breathing uh?.”

“Is he one of us?”

Reith’s vision collapsed into black.

“I do not care, take him with us”

“Yes Sir”

His last sight was their shadows stretching across him, reaching for his bloodied body.