The Power of Death Scythe!

The Blonde-haired man barely managed to dodge the gleaming scythe that sliced through the air just inches from his body. His heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled backward, putting as much distance as he could between himself and James. His breathing was ragged, and he instinctively touched the wound on his chest; a wound that, though not deep, still bled profusely.

"What... what's happening?" he gasped, eyes wide with confusion. His hand came away from the wound slick with blood, but it wasn't the injury that troubled him. There was something else. He could feel his strength draining, a creeping weakness spreading through his limbs. His mind raced.

How can this be? It's just a flesh wound! Why do I feel so weak? Poison? No, it can't be...

His gaze snapped back to James, who stood a few yards away, watching him intently, cold eyes tracking his every movement. The Blonde-haired man's heart sank as he looked down at the broken sword in his hand, its shattered blade a pitiful defense against the deadly scythe. Fear took hold, and he made a split-second decision. Without hesitation, he turned and bolted, his mind screaming one command: 'Survive'.

But James had no intention of letting his prey slip away so easily. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he watched the man flee. "You think you can escape?" he muttered under his breath. With a sharp kick off the ground, he was in pursuit, his black robes billowing behind him as he closed the gap.

"Don't push your luck!" the Blonde-haired man shouted over his shoulder, desperation creeping into his voice. His legs pumped furiously, but each step felt heavier than the last. "I'm a member of the Mercenary Association! If you kill me, they won't let you get away with it!"

James's reply was a chilling laugh, his voice cutting through the night air like a blade. "I've already killed Harvey," he sneered. "What makes you think you'll be any different?" Without breaking stride, he raised his scythe and swung it in a deadly arc toward the fleeing man.

The Blonde-haired man's legs faltered as the blade came down, and though he twisted at the last moment to avoid a fatal blow, the scythe still bit deep into his flesh. He cried out in agony as the weapon carved a deep wound into his side. Staggering, he clutched at the wound, feeling his body grow even weaker. His movements, once sharp and agile, were now sluggish and desperate. He could feel his strength draining away, faster now, like water slipping through his fingers.

"It's not too late to stop!" he cried, his voice hoarse with pain. "We're close to the camp, people will hear! If you don't stop, you'll—"

His plea was cut short as James's scythe swung again, this time aimed at his leg. The blade sliced clean through his right calf, severing muscle and bone with ease. The Blonde-haired man screamed as he collapsed to the ground, his leg a bloody ruin. His world spun, the pain overwhelming, and the weakness now spread through his entire body like a poison.

James approached slowly, his expression cold and indifferent, as if this was nothing more than another routine task. The scythe hung lazily in his grip, its edge gleaming with fresh blood.

"Enough with the talking," James said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. He knelt beside the man and pressed the tip of his scythe to the Blonde-haired man's skin, drawing a thin, deliberate line across his chest; a shallow wound, almost casual, as if he had all the time in the world.

The Blonde-haired man's breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as he felt his life slipping away. "Why..." he whispered, barely able to form the words. But James didn't answer. He didn't need to. His eyes said it all, this was the end.

The Death Scythe wasn't just any weapon; it drained the very life force of those it touched, slowly sapping their Life force with every strike. Even the slightest graze from its edge could spell doom. Top-tier G-level creatures, formidable as they were, couldn't survive a single touch from this cursed blade. Lower F-level beings could withstand three or four strikes at most, but each one left them weaker than before.

James stood over his prey, cold eyes calculating. He was curious: how many hits could a mid-grade F-level fighter endure before succumbing to the scythe's insidious effect? He glanced down at the Blonde-haired man, who was visibly deteriorating. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, and the sense of weakness that had started as a faint discomfort was now a heavy weight pressing down on him.

The Blonde-haired man could feel it too; the creeping numbness that gnawed at his very core. His vision blurred, and his limbs felt like they were filled with lead. If this continued for two or three more strikes... No. He couldn't afford to think that far.

"Stop! Please, stop!" he cried, his voice breaking as he slapped his hands against the ground in a desperate plea. Panic bled into his words. "I shouldn't have gone after Harvey; no, no, I shouldn't have even thought about taking your storage bag! It was my mistake! Please, just let me go! I swear, I'll never do it again!"

James looked down at him with a sneer, entirely unmoved by the man's pathetic begging. "Your voice," he said, his tone sharp with disdain, "is annoying." Without hesitation, he swung the scythe again, the blade cutting into the Blonde-haired man's flesh with terrifying ease.

The man yelped in pain but quickly silenced himself, clasping a trembling hand over his mouth. He dared not make another sound, but the truth weighed heavy on his mind: one more touch from that cursed scythe and his life would be snuffed out. He didn't need to say it; both he and James knew it.

James crouched down, bringing the cold, gleaming edge of the scythe to rest beneath the man's chin, the tip brushing his throat. Leaning in close, his voice was barely a whisper, soft yet filled with malice. "If you were in my place," he asked, the words drifting like poison into the man's ear, "would you let me go?"

The Blonde-haired man froze, his mind spinning. He raised his head, eyes widening in shock as he saw the face looming over him. James's face seemed almost inhuman, like something stitched together from straw, and those glowing, blood-red eyes burned with a cruel light.

The Blonde-haired man opened his mouth to respond, to beg for his life one final time, but the words never came. James didn't wait. With a swift, merciless motion, he lifted the scythe, poised for the final blow.