The term was unfamiliar to Cha Ming, but for some reason, it sent chills down his spine.
“The reapers?” Cha Ming said, wracking his brains for memories or hints of them. He found none.
“It’s been a few decades since they’ve come, but I’m sure you remember the last time,” Mo Zhen said.
“Yes,” Cha Ming lied. “It was a horrible time.” He used his transcendent soul to skim the man’s memories, but he only discovered scattered fragments. The man was too strong, and unless Cha Ming was willing to damage Mo Zhen’s mind, that was all he would get. Cha Ming closed his eyes and observed the fragments. He saw fear, wailing husbands and wives, and crying parents. Mo Zhen’s sister had been taken. The fate Mo Zhen had imagined for her was so terrible he’d surrounded it in a protective cocoon of willful ignorance.
“They can’t be avoided, so you should hide instead,” Mo Zhen continued. “Run away from this town. Though I doubt they’d pick a fight with you—you have no sponsor. These are uncertain times, so no one can say what will happen.”
Cha Ming shook his head. “I’ll accompany you. Perhaps with a show of strength, the reapers won’t take much.”
“If only it were so simple,” Mo Zhen said. He was about to continue explaining, but at that moment, horns blazed at the city gates. Mo Zhen’s face paled at the sound. “They’re here,” he whispered. “Spirits above, they’re here.” He raised his voice and shouted out a command. “Everyone, gather up. Assemble lines. Guard Captain?”
“Sir!” a man said, walking into the living room.
“Have the guards gather all the cultivators in the city within five—no, three minutes,” Mo Zhen said. “No exceptions. If anyone tries to hide, even I won’t be able to stop the reapers from executing their entire family.”
The captain saluted and flew out, shouting orders to the guards. The city buzzed with activity. While mortals hid, cultivators were rustled up from their houses. Even those in closed-door seclusion were interrupted. The city lord’s own family was no exception; his wife and four of his children were gathered in the foyer. Seeing that everyone was accounted for, the city lord walked out of the front doors and into Central Square, where all the cultivators in the city had been gathered. Even those with serf brands, who weren’t normally allowed into the city, had formed their own group.
The city lord, his family and personal guards in tow, passed the cultivators and serfs and stood before them. He waited patiently as a dozen men in red robes, along with one in a black robe, casually walked down the street toward them. Three of them were peak-bone-forging cultivators, while the rest were late-bone-forging cultivators. Their leader was, impressively, a marrow-refining cultivator. Mortals trembled in fear as they passed merchant stalls, occasionally taking something that interested them. Fortunately, most men knew better than to fight back. They simply cowered behind their stalls, letting the men do as they pleased.
Remind me, please, Cha Ming sent. What happens now? My memories are a little hazy.
How lucky for you that they are, Mo Zhen sent back. The reapers don’t come often, but when they do, they usually reap one percent of our cultivators. They take them back to their monastery, where they are never seen again. No one knows what happens to them, but some say they are used to rear terrible blood monsters. Others say blood masters devour men, and the only reason anyone remains in the South is that they only need to eat every year or so.
Cha Ming’s eyes narrowed. One percent? Out of the ten thousand cultivators here, they’ll take and kill one hundred?
The slave-like employment contracts were one thing, but this? It was effectively institutionalized murder.
Not right away, Mo Zhen said. I don’t know the exact details, but they take them back to the monastery first.
Why don’t we just fight them? Cha Ming asked. I’m sure that with you and I, we could kill them.
And what will we do when the monastery sends a punishment squad? Mo Zhen asked gloomily. We could easily kill them, but the price for our insubordination would be the lives of every man, woman, and child in this city. I’ve heard tales of those who’ve crossed them. None have survived.
Then who tells the stories? Cha Ming said. Would the king of Ji do nothing if they tried to slaughter us?
The king is the one who grants them the writ that allows them to cull lives! Mo Zhen said hopelessly. Anyone who defies the writ has committed treason. Why would he interfere in deserved punishment? He shook his head. No, we must endure the loss of the few for the sake of the many. It’s just the way things are. All we can do is hope they don’t take those we love and console those who remain.
The red-robed men, who’d taken their time strolling into the city, arrived before the city lord. Ten men, the protectors of the city who’d originally stood with the other cultivators, stepped up beside the city lord in a token show of strength. The lead reaper chuckled as he pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head covered in red tattoos. The others beside him did the same. While most were dark haired and dark eyed, some of their irises were faintly red colored. Two of them had filed teeth. Only one man kept his hood up: the black-robed man from the Spirit Temple who accompanied them.
“I’m glad to see no one sought to escape this time,” their leader said. “Though it’s exciting to chase down stragglers, we don’t have much time today. I take it you recognize this king’s writ?” He threw a paper to the city lord, who breathed in sharply when he saw what was written.
“Ten percent?” the city lord said hoarsely.
