"AARGH!!!"
"Shh! Little Timmy, stop being dramatic. I'm just pulling a katana out of your stomach. You act like I'm tearing you in half or something."
Kaladin wheezed. His entire body was on fire—metaphorically, but at this point, he wouldn't be surprised if it was literal too. He had stupidly assumed that when the psycho con artist said he'd heal him, it would be something cool. Something fast. Something magical.
Like a snap of the fingers. A little sparkle. Maybe even a lazy whoosh!
But no.
No.
Of course not.
Because that would be too easy. And if there was anything Kaladin should have learned in this nightmare rollercoaster of a day, it was that this walking scam artist in human form was never going to make anything easy.
And now? Now he was facing the consequences of his stupidity.
Psycho McGee, aka Scammer Supreme, had hopped to the other side, grabbed the katana's handle—and pulled.
"ARRRGHHHHH!!!"
Kaladin's scream wasn't just loud. It was the kind of unholy noise that would make banshees jealous. A scream so gut-wrenching that even the psycho man winced and paused mid-yank.
"Are you okay, little Timmy?"
Kaladin's brain short-circuited.
"YOU ARE LITERALLY RIPPING MY ORGANS OUT AND YOU'RE ASKING IF I'M OKAY?! YOU SADISTIC FREAK!"
The psycho man just shrugged.
"Well, if you have enough energy to yell at me like that, I'd say you're fine. Just a little dramatic, I would say."
Then he flashed a dazzling, 1000-watt psychopath smile. Every perfect tooth on display, like a toothpaste commercial sponsored by pure evil.
Kaladin just glared.
If looks could kill, this bastard would be twelve feet under with a katana stuck where the sun didn't shine.
'Stupid bastard! I swear I will screw you over…'
Kaladin's inner monologue was already drafting a detailed revenge plan, complete with bullet points, a PowerPoint presentation, and a dramatic final monologue.
Meanwhile, the psycho con artist just smiled—a smile so smug it could have paid rent in Kaladin's soul.
"There, there. Just a little more and… done!"
"Mmmhmm!!!"
With a wet, disgusting plop, the katana finally slid free from his gut, like some cursed Excalibur, except instead of crowning a king, it just crowned Kaladin as the biggest loser of the day.
Blood gushed from the wound, though at this point, he'd lost so much already he was surprised he hadn't been mailed a "Congratulations on Your Death" certificate.
"Is it… ha… over…?"
Kaladin wheezed, staring at the sky like some tragic war hero in a cheap drama. He just needed a violin soundtrack, and he'd have the perfect death scene.
"Yep. Now all that's left is to seal your wound and make you okay okay."
That sounded good. That sounded hopeful.
That meant no more pain, right?
Wrong.
Psycho McGee grinned and suddenly pressed two fingers against Kaladin's solar plexus.
Kaladin tilted his head down. He saw the fingers. He saw them pressing. He should have been concerned.
But honestly? His spine was shattered, his legs were useless, and his brain had tapped out ten minutes ago. How was he gonna run?
And so, like a man who had given up trying to escape his fate, he just accepted it.
And then—
Something warm.
Something familiar.
It wasn't just warmth. It was childhood memories. It was a cozy blanket on a winter night. It was freshly baked bread and a mother's hug. It was comfort.
Kaladin blinked.
This lunatic? Comforting??
What kind of scam was this?
"What the—"
Kaladin gawked as his gaping wound started knitting itself shut—like some invisible grandma had decided to crochet his intestines back together with supernatural precision.
"What... is this...?"
A tremor rippled through his shattered spine. Then, like someone had just slapped some industrial-strength glue on it, his bones snapped back into place.
And then came...
The tingling.
Oh, sweet heavens, the tingling.
It crawled over his skin like a thousand tiny ants tap-dancing their way through his nervous system. But compared to the pain from earlier? This was a VIP spa treatment.
The numbness was gone. The agony was evaporated. The exhaustion was completely wiped clean.
His body was becoming whole again, like some budget protagonist in a shonen anime finally unlocking his true potential.
His once-dead muscles jolted awake like they'd just been hit with an electric bill they forgot to pay. His legs—previously about as useful as soggy noodles—twitched, then moved.
He wiggled his toes.
They wiggled back.
It was happening. It was really happening.
And then—just when he thought this weird rollercoaster of pain and miracles was over—something bloomed.
From the point where the psycho man's fingers touched, a red-hot dot appeared. Then, like ink seeping into water, it bled out into a pattern—a five-petaled flower, shimmering with iridescent colors.
Warm. Soothing. Like an angel's kiss. It even evaporated the wetness from his body, just like that.
Whatever the hell just happened, one thing was clear:
Kaladin felt incredible.
"Who are you...?"
Kaladin asked as he stood up, cracking his back like an old man after a nap on a bed of bricks. The boy who had been one scream away from death's door was now suddenly spry, like someone had just hit "undo" on his tragic ending.
He twisted his neck left and right, stretched his limbs, and blinked at his healed body in disbelief. Resurrected, rebooted, and rehydrated—he felt brand new. Suspiciously new.
Of course, he wasn't stupid. Nobody gets a miracle without a price tag dangling off it like a clearance sticker. This wasn't charity. This was clearly the setup for a cosmic sales pitch. But still... why him?
He wasn't some chosen one or prophesied savior. He was just a sixteen-year-old delinquent-turned-small-time-mafioso, known for smuggling more pills through hallways than the school nurse. His résumé included: truancy, drug distribution, and getting stabbed. Nothing heroic in sight.
The psycho man, now looking dramatically windswept despite there being no wind whatsoever, hopped to his feet.
He strolled over to the edge of the floating staircase, hands behind his back like some anime villain on his lunch break, and peered into the abyss below.
For the first time since this whole fever dream began, he didn't say anything.
The silence hit harder than a slap. The man's whole vibe shifted—the chaotic clown act paused, and something cold rolled into the air.
Deathly cold.
Like the world just held its breath, waiting for a punchline that wasn't coming.
"I go by many names..."
Kaladin raised an eyebrow. Great. The weirdo was doing a dramatic monologue now.
The man turned to him slowly, and for once, he wasn't wearing that usual "I-just-licked-a-battery" psycho grin. No, this time, it was a soft, almost nostalgic smile—the kind you'd give someone right before pushing them off a cliff… politely.
Then, with the flair of a discount anime villain, he lifted his hand and dramatically tipped down those ridiculous glasses on his nose.
That's when the air turned colder than a teacher's stare during exams.
Kaladin's heart did a nervous somersault. The man's eyes were just... wrong. Not in a screaming-demon-worms sort of way, but something subtler.
They looked normal—except for the crimson red pupils. Not just red. Red like fresh blood, red like guilt, red like a parent's rage when they find out you skipped school.
But it wasn't the color that made Kaladin's lungs forget how to work. It was the depth.
Looking into those eyes felt like leaning over a well that had no bottom.
Something ancient and terrifying grinned in that silence.
He gasped, finally putting two and two together and realizing he'd been hanging out with something way above his pay grade. Way, way above.
He should've guessed it sooner, but hey—he'd been a little busy with the whole "dying" thing.
The man raised his arms with theatrical flair, like he was announcing himself at a talent show.
"Some call me Azrael. Others go with Thanatos, or Morrigan. A few call me Yama. And of course, the crowd favorite... Grim Reaper."
He took a tiny step forward, lips curling into that familiar grin again.
"But you, little Timmy... you can call me... Death."
At the same time, Kaladin heard a voice in his head, followed by a series of words that suddenly appeared in front of his eyes.
[Death has chosen you, Kaladin…]
[Death has engraved you…]
[Wherever you go, the scent of Death will linger upon you…]
[You have been promoted from mere mortal to Disciple.]
[Death bestows upon you a gift…]
[New Skill Acquired: Limitless Grace.]
[Speak 'Stats' to reveal your status.]