AN: I want to thank xXTheOtakuFaeryXx for, once again, helping me with this story, prereading it and giving me her insight on it, as well as helping improve the flow of the story. Much appreciated, friend.
Many people gathered, nervously watching the man that they respected. The lever was pulled, releasing the trap door below the man's feet, dropping him towards the earth, and yet, his feet never touched the ground. The rope that was tied around his neck made sure of that.
Many people turned their head away, and many more started to sob. In the center of the crowd stood the son of the man, not a tear in his eyes, moreover, an expression of disappointment painted on his face. This war between men of power and men of spirit was hopeless. His father knew this, yet still; he rebelled, not wanting to be defeated so easily. He paid the price for his actions, for revolting against those more superior than him, and so now, he hung.
The once mournful crowd suddenly exploded into a riot, fighting those that were not their own. The death of his father fueled the spirit of rebellion. His father became the martyr for the blood bath that was to begin.
The rebels rose, charging the many of those they resent. Loud shots rang out like the clap of thunder and many people fell. Those that were still able to stand ran, fleeing into the cover of the woods. Among them was the son of their hero.
Within the dark, the rebels planned an attack on their enforcers, but who would lead them? As the only child of their hero, their leader, he became the heir to the throne of the rebellion.
The son, a young man of twenty years, became sick of these people, sick of the enforcers and utterly disgusted by his father. These people would not obey the rules set out by the enforcers but they'd take orders to charge into a battle that they'll lose? How was it that these… humans were so dull? He ran further into the woods, into darkness, escaping those that latched onto him, their new hero. If humans would give their life for something so futile, he didn't want to be a human.
Drawing the blade his father passed on to him before ultimately dying, he plunged it into his heart, and with that, he relinquished his humanity, his mortal life. The shadows of the night surrounded him, dressing him in their darkness. His father's knife fused with the darkness, turning it into a long, razor sharp, scythe.
The man, dressed in a dark robe of shadow, carrying a scythe whose blade glistened in the night, so sharp, cutting away the darkness, walked towards the town, ready to harvest the many souls of those that sickened him.
All deserved to die, and his bloodlust would not subside until he achieved that goal. All would fall under their new lord, Death.