while Wei Chen went to work. One weekend, they walked together to the cemetery not far from the house. As incense burned before the tombstone, she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “Do you think Grandpa is angry that we did not visit these past years, not even during the Qingming Festival?”

Wei Chen gently patted her back and replied in a soothing voice, “No. Every time I come, I explain to him. Your mother is so busy she can barely rest, and you were still young. I am sure he was happy when I told him how successful she became, and how smart and beautiful you have become.”

After a pause, he added quietly, “I will leave you to talk to him for a while. The weeds have grown too tall here. I should tidy the place again. Those who come to pay their respects should not be met with this sight, and those resting here deserve peace. Beautiful plants should surround them, not neglect.”

Leaving the botanical garden, Razel and Alan headed toward a cemetery, the place where Wei Chen had died. The iron gate stood slightly ajar, creaking faintly as they passed through. A narrow path wound ahead, bordered by rows of graves that stretched into the distance. Tombstones of varying age leaned at uneven angles, their inscriptions softened by time and weather. Names were half erased, dates blurred, as if memory itself had begun to fade.

Flowers lay scattered everywhere. Some were fresh, carefully arranged and still carrying color, while others had wilted into brown, brittle shapes clinging to cracked soil. Incense ash darkened the ground near certain graves, mixing with fallen petals and damp leaves. The air was heavy, carrying the faint scent of earth and decay, and every step seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

As they moved deeper inside, black fog crept low along the ground, threading itself between headstones and swallowing the path inch by inch. It was then that Alan noticed a silhouette forming within the haze, tall and unmoving, its outline just clear enough to be wrong. His hand tightened, and he nudged Razel without a word. Razel’s face shifted from cold to freezing as his gaze locked onto the figure ahead.

He drew his scythe and charged at the speed of light, slashing through the fog. The figure vanished before the blade could touch it. Alan stood frozen, unable to clearly follow the movements, hearing only the sharp clash of blades colliding.

The figure retreated several steps as the fog unraveled, her movements smooth and deliberate, as if distance itself obeyed her will. 

She was tall, clad in a black mourning gown that brushed the ground with measured grace. A dark hat cast her face in shadow, black hair slipping free beneath its brim. She might have passed for a grieving visitor, a sight not uncommon among the graves, if not for the sword held steady in her grasp.

The blade was long and slender, etched with intricate engravings that ran from hilt to tip. Symbols and patterns intertwined along the steel. A soft golden light flowed through the grooves, pulsing slowly, channeling through the engravings like veins carrying fire. The glow responded to her grip, brightening subtly as she lifted the weapon and aimed it directly at Razel.

Alan wondered in silence if Wei Chen remembered himself this way, as a female warrior guarding the graves, sword drawn against the living. The thought barely formed before Razel moved closer, his scythe held firmly in one hand. With a controlled motion, he tapped the tip of her sword with his scythe, a precise signal asking her to lower the blade aimed at him.

“Oh,” he said, voice lifted with hollow surprise. “And who do we have here? I thought it was some little soul hiding between the dead bodies.”

“Turns out it is you, Noor.” He inclined his head almost politely. “What brings you here? Such a pleasant surprise to meet you.”

The words were smooth, almost courteous, yet stripped of any true welcome. Cold and measured, they landed like a blade themselves.

The golden light pulsing along Noor’s sword flared at the contact. She swayed the scythe aside with a flick of her wrist and gave a short, derisive snigger.

There was no way he could mistake her flowing strength and elegance for a resented soul. It was clear he was looking for any chance to get back at her.

“Holding a grudge, huh. The only little thing here is what you consider a weapon.” Her gaze slid over the curve of the scythe. “Using a farming tool to harvest souls rather than grain.”

She straightened, the sword lowering only slightly, its glow steady once more.

“I am here working, of course. Unlike some who waste time and resources playing around.” Her eyes hardened. “I am looking for 76307YJ. She died here two days ago.”

Razel responded nonchalantly, “My scythe is perfect. This isn’t its final form. When dealing with weaklings, there’s no need to bring out the best.”

Her gaze shifted to Alan, sharp and calculating, as if weighing every move he might make.

 “The soul you’re bringing along, rather than taking back… is it looking for her?”

She studied him carefully, eyes narrowing. “He knows her?”

The golden light along her sword pulsed faintly as she waited for an answer, every line of her stance alert and unyielding, as if the slightest movement could ignite the scene.

“Hello, Ms. Noor. I am Alan, Mr. Razel’s assistant, appointed by the department.”

Noor lowered her sword slightly, her movements deliberate and controlled.

“Oh, one of the dim souls. Mine is still in training. By the way, when did we start using ‘Mr.’ and ‘Ms.’?” she asked, voice tinged with amusement. “Are we following human language now? There is no ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mr.’ in any of the departements. Next time you meet me, just call me Reaper Noor.”

Her gaze flicked back to Razel’s scythe, then returned to Alan. “Anyway, Razel’s assistant… your luck seems to be not so good. Be careful.”

Leaving the cemetery that Wei Chen had once tended with care, they slipped quietly into his house. The air inside was thick with resentment, as if every corner had absorbed it over time. Razel swept it away with a motion of his scythe, dissipating the heavy energy like mist. He stared intently at the house, letting out a single, heavy sigh. “Wei Chen didn’t seem to be a guardian for long,” he murmured.

A ringtone cut through the gloomy silence. Razel pulled out a phone, read a message, and then teleported them both back to the car parked a street away.

“The police are about to search the house,” he said, his voice low and precise. “We’ll be requested in minutes. Prepare yourself, Mr. resident in forensic pathology.”