Chapter 4: Blood, Justice, and Rebirth

But I didn’t expect that just as I finally found news of her mom, the little girl would die tragically in front of my grave.

I saw her blood pooling, staining the grass and soaking into the earth. I felt a surge of helpless fury, hotter than anything I’d known in life or death.

Looking at her blood-soaked body, deep inside me a voice screamed madly, Lillian, get justice for them, get justice for them.

The words echoed in my skull, drowning out everything else. I’d never felt a purpose so clear.

The Reaper, who had always urged me to move on, was overjoyed. He didn’t even look and directly cast a spell to send me into the little girl’s body.

For once, his detachment faltered; he worked quickly, eyes darting between me and the world of the living, as if afraid time would run out.

When he saw the little girl’s face, he clearly wanted to stop, but it was too late.

His face twisted with regret. Maybe rules didn’t always make sense to him, either.

I clearly felt my soul fusing with her body, the ghastly wounds healing rapidly.

The pain faded, replaced by a strange warmth—flesh knitting together, heartbeat returning. I was alive. I was someone new, yet not.

The moment the fusion was complete, countless memories not my own flooded into my mind.

Her childhood, her laughter, her pain—every joy and every betrayal, all at once. It was overwhelming, dizzying, a tidal wave of someone else’s life.

They were everything Lucy Lee had seen and heard since birth.

Birthdays spent alone, bruises hidden by sleeves, the hope that never quite died. I saw it all, as if living it myself.

Every memory made my anger boil.

Rage and sorrow tangled inside me, impossible to separate.

So she lived such a bitter life.

It wasn’t fair. It never was. I vowed not to let it end this way.

A line of tears slid from the corner of my eye, rage flooding my chest.

I wiped them away with shaking hands—real hands—feeling the heat of life for the first time in decades.

I lifted my casket with my bare hands and dug out the knife buried with me from beneath my bones.

The metal was cold and reassuring, the weight of purpose in my grip.

Now I was no longer a ghost, but a person.

Every nerve felt raw, every emotion magnified. I stood taller, the world sharper and more dangerous than before.

The afterlife has rules: reapers may not harm the living.

Which meant—for once—I had an advantage. A loophole in the system.

The Reaper could do nothing to me; he could only follow behind, earnestly trying to talk me down.

He pleaded, hands raised, voice gentle: “Lillian, you don’t have to do this. There are other ways.” But I was done listening.

I ignored him completely.

His warnings faded into background noise, drowned out by my own determination.

Before heading to D.C. to get revenge, I decided to first go to the ruined church where Linda Lee was imprisoned.

I owed her that much—a visit, a promise.

To see Lucy for her.

I wanted to carry her daughter’s memory, to let her know she wasn’t forgotten.

The old church had been boarded up since the eighties, graffiti tagging the brick walls, broken glass crunching under my feet.

No stained glass, no pews—just a battered stone building, its windows boarded up, graffiti scrawled on the doors. The only statue was a woman in uniform, eyes cast downward, sword in hand.

But a woman general who had been executed.

She stood tall, defiant, even in stone. A symbol of something lost, something mourned.

The place where her name and deeds were carved had all been scratched out.

It was deliberate—someone wanted to erase her, to rewrite history. But the scars only made her memory stronger.

To have a church built for her meant she had great military achievements in life and was loved by the people after death.

People don’t forget heroes, no matter how hard the powerful try to make them vanish.

I don’t know what happened that caused her church to be abandoned and destroyed.

Maybe the truth was too ugly to bear, even for those who’d once loved her.

Just as I was about to ask the Reaper where Linda Lee’s soul was trapped, a shrill scream came from beneath the statue.

It was the kind of sound that made your blood run cold—a mother’s anguish, a soldier’s rage.

"Let me out... let me out... My Lee family has served in the military for generations. All our sons died for this country, never with divided hearts. Why must we be wiped out... God is blind... justice is blind... who will right my family’s blood debt..."

The words echoed in the church’s hollow shell. I felt tears spring to my eyes, my fists clenched at my sides.

Every cry, every wail, brought tears to my eyes.

I wanted to break the chains that bound her, to tear down the walls that kept her trapped.

I pointed at the soul imprisoned beneath the statue and asked the Reaper, "Is she Linda Lee? Who imprisoned her here?"

My voice was hoarse, desperate for answers. The Reaper hesitated, glancing away.

I didn’t know why I was so agitated. Especially hearing Linda Lee’s cries and grievances, it felt like my heart was being torn open.

Something about her suffering felt personal, like an old scar reopened.

The pain was unbearable.

It was a raw, gut-deep agony, the kind that makes you want to howl at the sky.

The Reaper turned his head away. "It was the current President. She is only temporarily trapped here; when the President dies, the soul-binding spell powered by his blood will disappear. The soul trapped in the spell is cut off from the world. We can hear her screams, but she feels nothing from outside. Lillian, you can’t break this spell."

His words were final, heavy with regret. I saw him clench his hands, as if wishing he could change the rules.

I knew I couldn’t break this soul-binding spell.

But I could kill the man who murdered the loyal.

That much, at least, was still within my power.

I looked deeply at the statue, my gaze passing over the giant sword in her hand, gripping the knife buried with me tightly.

I saw my own reflection in the blade—a ghost given flesh, a mother’s pain in my eyes.

They were identical.

It was a sign, maybe. Or fate.

My heart suddenly skipped a beat. The image of a woman general in blood-red dress blues, wielding a blood-dripping sword, flashed through my mind.

A vision—real or imagined—I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it mattered.

Something wanted to break out of my mind, but couldn’t.

A memory, a truth, locked just out of reach. I let it go, for now.

Since I couldn’t recall, I stopped trying.

There was work to do. No time for lost memories.

I gathered my thoughts and left the ruined church, heading straight for D.C.

The city called to me—the monuments, the marble halls, the secrets buried beneath the surface. I walked fast, heart pounding with new purpose.

My main task now was to seek justice for Lucy and her mother, to punish those worse than monsters.

No more hiding, no more waiting. The reckoning had begun.