Chapter 7: Futility Or Fulfilment
January 1945, Hiroshima Red Cross Hospital, TB Isolation Room.
His keen eyes surveyed the room: one bed, one patient. The frail boy—no more than eighteen, maybe eighty pounds now—lay under a threadbare blanket. His skin stretched tight over sharp bones, eyes sunken like dark pits, lips cracked and stained red from coughing blood into the ragged cloth clutched in his fist. Each breath came wet and labored... and slowly, fainter.
00:00:34
Through the glass panel in the door, his parents stood in the corridor. His mother's hands pressed against the cold surface, her face a mask of anguish; the father stared at the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat. They hadn't been allowed in for over a week—contagion rules, ironclad and merciless.
A doctor entered, knelt by the bed, and held the boy's thin hand. He muttered a quick prayer: "Lord, take him easy. He worked till he dropped." He made the sign of the cross on the boy's forehead, stood, and left the way he had come.
00:00:29
The door clicked shut. Just the two of them now.
The boy's eyes flicked around the empty air, as if sensing something unseen. Then another cough doubled him over, wracking his fragile frame. His heavy, failing gaze glanced toward the direction of his parents—his mother's eyes teary, her figure crumpling helplessly against the door. Her voice collapsed into a wail, piercing the sterile silence; the father wailed silently, his hand crumpling his cap in a futile grip.
00:00:09
The boy receded his gaze, his dying eyes now resting on Arthur's form. Within those almost lifeless depths, he saw a glint of surprise... then slowly, resignation.
And then the boy's features moved.
00:00:04
The frail boy smiled...
He smiled, yet tears streamed down his cheeks.
00:00:02
Finally, he closed his eyes, the smile lingering even as the tears flowed unchecked.
His chest gave one last heave... and then no more.
00:00:00
He was gone.
Another victim of the tuberculosis that had claimed more than half a thousand over the past year alone. Arthur gritted his teeth silently, his hands clenched by the bedside. This boy probably slaved away in the student labor corps—overworked drills, dust-choked fields—until the infection took hold.
[Reaper Lynch, I suggest... ]
He ignored the system for a moment.
"Tell me, system... how do you view human life? Do you deem it a futility or a fulfillment?"
[I am no more than an algorithm. I possess not the emotions or information to compound an answer. Reaper Lynch, I know you are heartbroken by this, but I suggest you reap his soul... before a Soulless shows up. ]
He heaved a sigh, the weight of the moment pressing down.
"Two kids died earlier today. This is the third... in a single night. No meds, only near-useless thoracoplasty, artificial pneumothorax." His head hung low as he swung the scythe out of oblivion—it seemed to materialize whenever he projected its image in his mind. "Kids deserve a future... a dream. Marriage, having their own kids. But the war, the plague... it takes it all away. Replaces it with fear. With... death."
The mother's wails intensified, piercing the room through the door. Arthur could see nurses emerging from a corridor, hurrying toward the isolation ward.
"Rest in peace, kid." He made the sign of the cross on his own form, a small gesture of respect.
His scythe swung horizontally, swiping through the miniature galaxy emanating from the cracks of light in the boy's chest. It solidified into an orb, and before his eyes, memories replayed within it—joyful ones: times in a sun-dappled corn farm, his father handing him a typewriter, since he aspired to be a writer.
"System, what happens next?" Speaking of that, what the hell had happened to the last soul? Had he lost it? But it showed Soul Reaped: 1/1000
Before his eyes, the solidified orb flew into his chest. His eyes widened, hands racing to his sternum.
[Souls Reaped: 2/1000]
[Soul 2/1000 has been stored within your vessel. ]
Well, that wasn't much of an answer.
[ Arthur Lynch. A Reaper's physical form is the vessel for harvested souls until their final processing. It is the most secure storage method. Or do you wish to ferry it to the Underworld? ]
Nope. The name itself was discouraging enough to cement his choice. The Underworld... its laws varied across religions and cults, but one thing was common: treacherous dread.
[You have gained a plus one point in Stamina—a gift from the Angel of Death for every soul taken. Or do you wish to transfer it elsewhere? ]
He whispered a "no," his eyes wandering to the nurses now entering the room. They wore accurate protection: white masks covering nose and mouth, gloves pulled tight over their hands, gowns tied securely to ward off the invisible killer.
"This means job done for the night, right?"
He cracked his shoulders, phasing out of the room into a lightless corridor that felt unnervingly spooky. He'd heard stories of ghosts lurking in such hallways—chilling tales from his correspondent days.
[You could say so, Reaper Lynch. The next estimated death is in 11:05:43. ]
He sighed as he approached the door. Things were going too smoothly—no Soulless around. Well, that was good...
[The Soulless are drawn to intense feelings of regret, hate, and vengeance before death. The kid... he had none. ]
"I see." A sad smile strewn across his features. Did he really have no regrets? Only those without hope possess no regrets...
[I must say, Host, you seem to be adapting far better than I had speculated. Just in case you feel burdened, I offer anti-depression therapy. ]
His form stopped meters before the glass door. He could see the equally dark street beyond.
"Seriously?! You also offer therapy?!" His voice died down, returning to his initial reverie. "Well, I don't probably need it. Had a lot in my early days at the camp—saw many more deaths as a correspondent. Death was a constant occurrence... and so..." He shrugged. "The product of it all is right here before you."
He resumed his walk toward the glass door.
[But it doesn't change the fact that it hurts... right? ]
"No... it doesn't, especially if you lost your parents, watched them chopped before your eyes after being tortured... your only sister taken from you." His hand held the door knob, slightly trembling. "So yeah, it still hurts. That never changes... but the way you view it does." Then he replied with a faint smile. "Just speaking for someone..."
[Oh... then do I feel receptors of pain from you and activation of the amygdala for sadness? ]
His figure emerged from the open door.
"Just shut up, bot, and play along." He stood on the concrete veranda of the Red Cross Hospital. "You know, system, concerning my extraction of the Soulless essence—is it actually not normal?"
[That I cannot deduce. Reapers are not commissioned by the Lord to extract the essence of Soulless. Thus, I deem it an anomaly or a glitch. ]
His brain deduced: If a reaper gained one point per soul reaped, then his predecessor would have had to reap 19 souls to gain the 19 points from earlier... but he'd just gained them—alongside a new aspect—by killing a single Scavenger or whatever that creature was.
Which meant, if he killed more Soulless—which would be easy with his new stats—he could absorb their essence. Hell, he could be on par with an Apparition before tomorrow's end. His survivability against other Reapers would skyrocket. A sure path to survival. This ability was a hack, in some way. He just had to...
"Hey, system... tell me, where are these Soulless gangs mostly based? I mean the lower echelons."
[they lurk mostly in graveyards and cemeteries. Also near light sources—they confuse it with hope. Why ask? What do you plan to do, Host? ]
He wasn't getting any sleep this night. Certainly not any.
"Tell me, system... the coordinates of the nearest cemetery around."
As a war correspondent, the best they were at was maneuvering the odds. And he was going to do just that.