The Reaper's Vengeance A Sister's Wrath Unleashed

Brutus and Solomon watched me, motionless, and pressed harder:

“White Reaper, the hour's passed. We need to report back!”

I didn't hear a word. I braced my hands against the ground and pushed myself upright, every last shred of grief in my eyes hardening into bone-deep hatred.

“I'm not reporting back.”

“I'm going to the Morton estate myself. I want to see exactly what kind of thing that fake Sylvester sitting beside the Morton heiress really is.”

I lifted my head. Behind my eyes churned a killing intent I had not felt once in five hundred years.

“If they really did this to my brother……”

“I, Rose Delgado, will make them pay in blood.”

I tucked the tattered soul fragment away with the gentlest hands I had and tore through the night toward the Morton estate.

I couldn't bear to look at it, couldn't bear to think. All I could do was beg, over and over in my own head.

Please be alive. Sylvester, please be alive.

I ran the whole way and finally reached the estate walls.

Sylvester knew I'd never cared for the stiff rituals and social games of wealthy families, so he'd had a quiet little courtyard built for me in the side wing of the Morton grounds — somewhere I could stay whenever I visited.

I stood at the door of that courtyard now, and the ache in my chest was so sharp I could taste it.

I could still hear him, back then, pulling me by the hand with that easy grin.

“Rose, whenever you miss me, just come find me.”

“The second you show up, I'll take you all over Ashford City. We'll eat everything good.”

Those words still circled in my ears. I gripped the hem of my sleeve and forced myself to think the best — once I saw him, everything would be clear.

I'd barely stopped walking when a man in a security uniform sauntered over, looked me up and down, and curled his lip:

“Where'd you crawl out of? You think you can just stand here? Get lost!”

I swallowed the violence rising in my throat and kept my voice level:

“My name is Rose Delgado. I'm the sister of your family's son-in-law, Sylvester Delgado. Let someone know I'm here.”

The guard rolled his eyes and let out a snort:

“Rose Delgado? Never heard of you. You think the Morton estate just lets any stray off the street walk in?”

Every ounce of grief and fury I'd been carrying flooded straight to my skull, and the spectral cold pouring off my body thickened the air around us.

Before I could move, a household servant came rushing over and tore into the guard:

“Are you blind? This is Miss Delgado — the master's own sister, the one he told us about personally. Who gave you the nerve to disrespect her?”

The color drained from the guard's face in an instant, and his knees hit the ground.

The servant turned to me with an apologetic smile:

“Please forgive us, Miss Delgado. There was an incident on the grounds not long ago, and all these guards and staff were brought in temporarily. They've never met you, they don't know the rules.”

“Please don't hold it against them……”

The tension coiled around my heart eased, just barely.

So that was all it was. As long as Sylvester was fine.

I didn't wait for the rest of their apologies. I was already walking into the estate.

On the rear lawn, beneath a large tree, a familiar figure was throwing punches.

Sharp, powerful strikes. The fists cut the air with real force, and every single form was one I knew by heart.

Fine sweat beaded along his brow. Nellie stood beside him holding a damp cloth, and the moment he finished a set, she stepped in close to dab the sweat away.

“Sylvester, take a break. Don't wear yourself out.”

The heiress's voice was soft as a spring breeze.

He lowered his fists, gave her a smile, took the cloth and swiped it carelessly across his face, then slipped his other arm around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stood behind the courtyard gate, nailed to the spot, unable to move.

The way he held himself, the force behind every strike, the small habits between movements — identical to the brother in my memory.

That fighting style couldn't be learned in weeks or months. Sylvester had drilled those forms since he was a child.