Shimmer

The world starts, the world ends. Every living thing returns to death's cold embrace. A man dies, a group wittles, a nation crumbles and a species goes extinct.

What lies beyond is for every person to judge, heaven and hell or simply just nothing. Perhaps they never worried about what was on the other side in the first place. Life can blind even the wisest of men, usurp the wariest of hearts and pry apart the strongest of them.

Humanity is now gone, with the undying fires coming to a close. Their life of post-mortalism has been snuffed out when the Everlasting Phoenix died. The believers blamed the heretics who doubted immortality. Fingers pointed to no end, quarrelling like animals in the wild again, a bloody march was set.

And, in the midst of it all, Baelz, the amalgamation of chaos, grew strong. She influenced the rise of anarchy over the world until there was nothing left to burn their ire.

The world has returned to mother nature, the civilisations that once were land stamps are but ruined. Standing between the tilted buildings of the dunes was a person wearing a white cloak. The sun's rays reflect upon the weathered fabric, the old asphalt staining his bare feet, his hands touching a monument in the heart of the city.

Worshippers of the holy fire, praying to a statue of longevity, conquering even the grim reaper itself.

Worshippers of a candle that they thought won't burn out, preying on the weak-willed that fear death, succumbed to the grim reaper in the end.

He retracts his hand, a slight twitch over his inked fingers. Such was a strange duality that intruded his thoughts, believing that steel wouldn't rust, believing that leaves wouldn't wither. Mortality.

He rolled over his black sleeve, the drawings upon his hand that crawled up to his forearm revealed under the sunlight. Strange blotches with foreign patterns and lines, a flower's drawing of sort nestled on his hand. The further up his arm it went, the more it covered his pale skin.

No recollection of it, not even a foggy image to lead him to a dead end. That sense of loss, coming into existence without even knowing. People existed but from the abandoned and destroyed buildings, civilization was long beyond anything now. There were creatures who roamed and hunt, some even hunted him.

The ground shook and trembled. The foundation of the haunting city trembles beneath its hollow weight. The cloaked man had long lost his balance, now laying on the ground as the world began to fall apart in front of his eyes.

A tall shadow casts him from the sun, the little integrity the skyscrapers had must've given out as the man bear witnessed his doom falling atop him. Several hundred metric tons of concrete and steel crushed his bones and organs, asphyxiating dust overwhelming the blood that would've splattered.

After his burial was sure-given, the dunes stopped shaking, the grainy sand settling atop each other nicely. To blame mother nature would be of assurance. Her fury comes seldom, but anger her man should not. The rage she brings can come beyond thunderstorms and whirlwinds, leaving the unwisely dead in its wake.

They say the dead are escorted to the afterlife by a grim reaper, an idea of fantasy for those usurped by immortality, an uncommon tale among them in which they laugh. A laugh that no one hears anymore, only the wisteria of winds through the valley of the lands.

Between the fallen skyscrapers and the pelting sand landing on her bright veil, a grim reaper of such tall tales approaches the rubble. The grim reaper adorns herself in dark clothing, though one would not imagine a black mare like her to be across the dry deserts in broad daylight, much less one with long locks of pink hair.

The grim reaper grazed the sand beneath her feet, naturally unhinged by the heat and the suffocating smell that still lingered. The only thing the grim reaper could even theoretically smell was the fresh corpse lying beneath the rubble of a building.

Stretching her arm outwards, the grim reaper produces her fabled scythe from myth atop the collapsed building. A stray soul lies dormant beneath it, several thick layers of concrete was merely a sheet of paper for the grim reaper's scythe.

An ominous chill within the scalding heat, the grim reaper's scythe peaking over the sun before delivering a swing upon the mortal soil. Then, a shrill screech roared across the valleys of sand and streets.

The grim reaper's scythe was deflected. It was burning.

The cold iron chine was melting onto the concrete, slipping between the cracks. Beneath them lies a faint glow, smoke rising from the debris, the grim reaper's feet burning as if she was standing on top of a bonfire. The broken pieces of metal and tactile began shifting.

Discarding the useless scythe, the grim reaper lunged off the toppled building and into the sand. Another explosion followed, another shriek thundering through the dead city of the dunes. The grim reaper cared not for the shrapnels or her eardrums bursting from the boom and proximity, her eyes were only locked at the creature that spawned from the rubble.

A phoenix bursting through the beams and debris, breaking as if it was merely eggshells for a newborn hatchling. The firebird soared towards the sky, no less than the tallest skyscrapers before diving downwards into the ground before emitting another deafening screech.

The grim reaper covered her eyes, a light far too bright for mere mortal eyes to witness. The glory of rebirth, the infamous words that spread among other reapers alike. When a soul persists, they resist the grim reaper's strike. There were only a few who could, only a few who would.

When the shine finally subsided, when the sands finally unveiled themselves from the flames, there was but a sleeping man, dreaming.

Frustrated, the grim reaper dusts the irking sand off her regal shoulders before pulling forth another scythe. The grim reaper marched towards the sleeping man, a sudden air of coldness permeating the air. A frigid wind that would even put out the sun itself.

The edge of the scythe hovers over his neck, mere centimetres away from tearing the skin and drawing blood from the flesh. The grim reaper stood still, both hands firmly gripping the handle. Though some may see the act of pressing a sharp edge over one's throat as a threat, the threat is shrugged off when the wounds would only cover themselves up again.

But for the stabbing feeling of pride, the grim reaper still tried.

Blood spilt, staining the sands and flowing beneath what the eye can see. Puddles upon puddles of molten metal, puddles upon puddles of innards and organs. Buildings began crumbling beneath the wave upon wave of flames of rebirth and when they did, they merged with the sand. Even then, the sand itself hardened itself into glass.

The grim reaper tried whatever method she had to separate the soul from the body yet all laid to be in vain.

In the end, even the grim reaper's anger burned out when the moon rose to replace the sun, hanging over a city of ashes swept into the wind. Next to the sleeping man, the grim reaper sat defeated on the platform of glass that had formed.

The grim reaper had been staring at his face for a long while. The cloaked man was resting still with a pleasant expression as if all of the disembowelment and disfiguration was just a bad dream. A memory that he'll forget the moment he wakes up.

A sigh escapes the grim reaper's cold lips, deciding to avert her eyes upon the horizon. Once tall structures of human accomplishments were now nothing but cinders and dust thanks to her tireless efforts. Whatever relics that still reside around them were now long gone, only the gale knows what tales they told.

Then, besides the crackling of dead embers and the haunting desert howls, the grim reaper heard a grumble from the sleeping man.

His eyes slowly opened, fixated at the glossy night sky and the dead stars that reflect from it.

"Finally awake, huh." The grim reaper said. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

The man's head tilted, finally recognising that there was someone else with him this time. He quickly sat up, the grains of sand sliding off his back as he scrambled for words to speak. It's been so long.

"I…" He choked, his mind only having just awoken. The grim reaper only gave a sidelong stare, disinterested out of pride and ego.

"You've got a name?" The grim reaper asked. The man once again stopped to think. From the day he woke up in this desolate world, traversing through barren continents and only meeting nothing but animals, he never stopped to think about who he was.

"Nothing?" The grim reaper eyes narrowed, impatient.

"...No."

The grim reaper looked away, "I thought so."

A resounding silence followed after. The man was only staring down at his hands, still inked the same despite how many times they were sliced off from his body. The clothing he adorned, the cloak around his shoulders, the auburn gem attached to his chest. Everything was just there the moment he was conscious, yet not a clue of his identity and purpose.

"...What about yours?"

"Hm?"

"What's your name?"

To that, the grim reaper laughed before standing up. "We agents of death aren't born with a name. But if you must…"

She twirls her scythe, pirouetting around her entire body without even damaging her clothing or her pale skin. Dancing, as if it was an extension of her entire being.

The chine stops in front of the mystical moon in a dramatic fashion, the grim reaper stands atop a mound of sand.

"Call me Mori Calliope."