Mavobella: The Angel Of Death

Chapter 1

A breeze brushed against my skin, uninvited and prickling as if dressing up had become a mystery I couldn't solve. I shivered, rolling my shoulders and trying to shake off the chill, as if the action could somehow armor me against it. Putting myself together—no, that wasn’t right. It felt like I was dressing up as someone else. As if the girl in my mind, who used to laugh at death and scythe monsters with ease, was a ghost I hadn’t seen in years.

It wasn’t the lack of my scythe or the heaviness in my limbs; it was this empty feeling gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, like sand slipping away beneath a relentless tide. An instinct tugged at me to fill it, to anchor myself with anything tangible, but I kept coming up empty, drifting through my own mind as if the fragments of my memories were scattered ashes in the wind.

I knew better than to trust that emptiness. Memories are the hardest things to kill. I’d been hardened by every lesson the universe saw fit to throw my way. But there was something deeper here, an absence I hadn’t anticipated. I was left with a bitter silence as my only companion. The kind of silence that wasn’t merely empty but gnawed at my bones, thick and unsettling.

A tightness rose in my throat. Every gulp burned, dry as ash, my body rejecting even the simple act of breathing. I couldn't feel my limbs, but I knew they were still there—just not my slaves anymore. And yet I was still… here. The wind kept insisting on pricking my skin with each breath, as if mocking the fact that I was trapped, rooted in a world of solid ground and bones.

I felt so disconnected that, for a surreal, fleeting moment, I imagined I’d drunkenly toppled out of a mango tree and forgotten to wake up. The impact of landing lingered in my torso, a phantom pain that refused to fade, though I’d never tasted mortal drink in my life. For all I knew, mortal drinks couldn’t get me on cloud nine or eight if there was any. And yet here I was, bearing a disorientation so profound it felt like punishment. What was I doing here?

The heavy scent of dead pinewood seemed to cling to everything around me, pressing on my senses and making it difficult to breathe. It was old, earthy, like the long-forgotten scent of decay I associated with ancient graves. The silence pressed against my ears, an unnatural absence that felt like it had weight. This was neither hell, nor heaven, trust me I'd been to both. Silence was not on their menu.

Forcing my heavy limbs to respond, I turned my head, prying my eyes open to the sinister room around me. My vision swam for a moment before settling on details: broken floorboards, a cracked ceiling, walls cloaked in shadows that pulsed with an ominous stillness. I braced myself on one elbow, ignoring the sharp ache in my shoulder, and glared around the decrepit space as if daring it to challenge me. This was the kind of shack that horror stories were written about. If it had a second floor, I half-expected a child ghost to be staring at me from its edge.

A splintered door hung slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of a moonlit graveyard outside. Beyond that, a dim landscape stretched beneath the pale glow, painted in ghostly shadows. I gritted my teeth, pushing myself upright despite the rebellion of every muscle in my body. The pain was a rude reminder of how weak I’d become—unable to even stand up without a fight.

For all my frustration, it hit me like a cruel punchline that something crucial was missing. Something I should have felt instinctively, like my own heartbeat. My mind stumbled over the emptiness where it should have been—Ye, my scythe, the weapon that had been with me since my first day as an angel of death. My old partner, my extension. Gone.

Without thinking, my hand reached for her. I could feel the muscle memory like a reflex, a response so ingrained I’d never stopped to think about it. But now, my fingers closed around nothing. Nothing but empty air.

Ye had always chosen me, the way certain things are fated—like love or vengeance. She would come back, I thought, trying to swallow the rising panic. She’d always come back before, like an obedient stray. So why not now? Why this hollow stillness?