The scythe had vanished into white light, leaving Ash alone in the carriage. His mind lingered on the weapon and the sheer power it represented. He clenched his fists, the memory of holding it still fresh. The scythe was gone, but the sensation of wielding such an overwhelmingly potent force remained etched in his muscles. Yet, what truly intrigued him wasn't the scythe itself—it was his power.
> [Scythe of Beelzebub]
One of the Seven Cardinal Sin Weapons, this scythe embodies the sin of Gluttony.
Abilities: The scythe devours the souls of those it kills, converting them into power for the wielder. Users can absorb stats, skills, and even memories of the slain.
Rank: EX (Legendary)
Description: A weapon forged in the depths of the abyss, its blade drips with malevolent energy. A crimson gem embedded in the scythe acts as a reservoir for the devoured souls, glowing ominously when charged. The weapon radiates an aura that intimidates all but the strongest foes.
Drawback: The scythe demands a significant amount of magical energy to wield, limiting its usage for those with insufficient reserves.It also has chances to corrupt one's soul.
The ability to simulate weapons of his imagination.
He had conjured the scythe in the heat of battle, not because it was a legendary artifact or bestowed upon him by fate, but because he had imagined it into existence. It wasn't an artifact passed down through generations or a divine gift—it was his creation. That realization thrilled him but also filled him with a sense of unease. Such an ability was almost godlike, yet it was tethered by one cruel limitation: mana.
The scythe had drained nearly 60% of his magical reserves in mere moments. Simulating it for battle had been a gamble, one that had nearly cost him everything. He leaned back into the seat, exhaling slowly, his fingers running through his hair.
Looking out the window, Ash watched the knights riding their horses, their armor glinting in the sunlight. They moved with precision and discipline, collecting the bodies of their fallen comrades and setting fire to the corpses of the enemy. The thick plumes of smoke rose into the sky, marking the battlefield's end.
A lesser man might have felt a pang of remorse, seeing the knights' faces somber with grief. A leader with a softer heart might have vowed to protect them better in the future. But Ash felt none of that.
Instead, his sharp eyes scanned the ranks of knights outside. A bitter thought gnawed at his mind: Anyone could be a betrayer.
The idea wasn't born of paranoia; it was simple logic. The ambush had been too well-executed to be a random attack. Someone had leaked information about their movements. That someone could still be out there, riding among his ranks, pretending to mourn fallen comrades. Or perhaps it wasn't just one person. There could be several.
"One of them could still be working for the enemy," he muttered, his voice low. "A backup plan, a shadow among the loyal."
The image of a shinigami came to his mind—a silent, patient reaper biding its time before striking. That's how he needed to think about his knights now. Not as allies, not as comrades, but as potential threats. His gaze darkened, his mind racing with strategies to root out any moles.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Trust," he whispered bitterly. "A luxury I can't afford anymore."
The ache of his depleted mana core snapped him out of his thoughts. It was a constant reminder of his limitations. His power was incredible—creating weapons of his imagination, no matter how absurd or mythical. Yet, the cost of such creations was steep. The scythe he had conjured, for instance, had been an EX-rank weapon in every sense of the term. Its power, its aura, its ability to dominate the battlefield—it was the stuff of legends. But the price of wielding it had been nearly debilitating.
"It's like giving a starving man a feast and taking it away after one bite," he muttered bitterly.
Even so, he couldn't deny the thrill of that power. For those few moments, holding the scythe had felt like holding the world in his hands. But now, he was back to reality, where his magical reserves were laughably inadequate for his ambitions.
He clenched his fists again, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I have the power of imagination itself," he thought. "And yet, I'm crippled by something as mundane as mana."
The knights continued their work outside, their solemn faces betraying no hints of treachery. But Ash's thoughts remained sharp and calculating. He would have to tread carefully. Trust no one, question everything.
His gaze flickered to the landscape beyond the knights, the horizon stretching endlessly. Somewhere out there, his enemies were already plotting their next move. He had to stay ahead of them. The scythe may have disappeared, but its lesson lingered: strength came with a cost, and weakness was not an option.
Ash closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat, his lips curling into a faint, determined smile. "If anyone out there thinks they can outsmart me," he thought, "they're in for a rude awakening."
The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and deceit. But Ash was ready. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had control. Not complete control, perhaps, but enough to shape his destiny.
As the carriage rumbled on, his mind settled on one unshakable truth: power wasn't just about strength. It was about strategy, cunning, and the willingness to do whatever it took to stay on top. And Ash was ready to embrace it all.