Final Phase
The scythe boy stepped through the grand gates of the colosseum, his demeanor calm yet calculating. The circular arena was alive with tension, more than 150 examinees scattered around in loose groups, the sheer scale of the space making them look in
significant. He moved without a sound, his sharp eyes sweeping across the crowd.
Unbeknownst to them, more than half bore the invisible mark of his scythe. They neither felt it nor saw it, but to him, it was as clear as a constellation in the night sky.
The mark wasn't physical—it was a claim, a signature that bound them in ways they couldn't comprehend. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. They were his prey now, whether they realized it or not.