"You think death is an end? That’s adorable." Once a mortal scholar of soulcraft in a realm that outlawed all contact with the afterlife, Aether was executed for experimenting with soul separation—pulling spirits from living bodies to dissect their essence. But death didn’t end him. It completed him. During his transition to the afterlife, Fira, fresh in her duties as a soul guide, encountered him—yet his soul refused to move. It laughed. Floated sideways. Split. Multiplied. He twisted in front of her eyes like a glitch in death’s code. "Cute scythe," he had said to her. "Want to see what mine looks like inside your soul?" She tried to reap him. It failed. Spectacularly. It was Arif who stepped in, not to kill Aether—but to cast him into the Death Arena, a place where even incorporeal tricksters find something to fear. Inside the Arena, Aether was an anomaly. His soul could dodge, fake death, even possess his own corpse to continue fighting after being decapitated. Opponents slashed at shadows, screamed at illusions, died by blades that stabbed from within their own spirit. He crafted the Perfect Spiritual Room—a pocket world where time paused and your soul screamed louder than your body ever could. It became his execution stage. Through pure madness and metaphysical torment, Aether won his cycle. But before he left, he whispered to Fira—who had watched from the edge of the arena, horrified: "You should thank me, you know. I’ve shown you that your job isn’t to guide the dead... it’s to fear them." Fira never forgot the chill of that moment. And she never told Arif what Aether whispered next.