The Hunt for the Ancient Shadows
The whispers.
They weren't just echoes of his grief. They were invitations. Hooks, sunk deep in his mind when he was most vulnerable.
But Daniel was no fool.
Grief does not blind Death. It tempers him.
He heard them, even now, persistent, slithering:
"Join us... you do not need Him..."
"We can ease your burden... you can have them back..."
"Rebel... take what you desire..."
Daniel's jaw tightened. His gloves flexed. He did not bow to the darkness, and he would never question God.
The whispers had made a fatal miscalculation.
They thought pain would make him weak.
They thought Death could be bought.
He tracked them, not through space, but through the fractures of existence itself — the echoes embedded in the bones of reality.
They were not simple spirits.
These were the Ancient Shadows.
The ones God had struck down eons ago, imprisoned beyond time.
Fragments that had slithered loose from the corners of the cosmic prisons.
Long forgotten by angels, abandoned by men.
But not by him.
Not by Death.
Daniel tore through the barriers, one realm after another, silent, surgical. His presence warped the air, but he left no trace. Cameras wouldn't see him. The Veil bent to him. Time itself deferred to his hunt.
When he found them — these old, decayed fragments — they hissed in their primordial tongue, twisting their forms in desperation.
"You cannot destroy us."
Daniel said nothing.
"We are the first darkness."
Silence.
"Even He couldn't—"
Daniel moved.
He gripped the first Shadow with his bare, gloved hand, the power of his ceifação resonating through the core of the cursed entity. His power didn't merely erase — it transcended erasure. It was final. It was absolute.
"I do not destroy," Daniel whispered coldly. "I collect."
The Shadows screamed, thrashing, trying to melt into time, into nothing — but Daniel's grip was eternal. They could not escape.
One by one, he seized them.
And one by one, he dragged them across the Veil.
Straight to the Throne.
He didn't speak along the way.
There was no conversation.
No bargaining.
Only duty.
Only silence.
When he reached the Court — not the great cosmic stage, but the sacred, quiet domain where God sat alone — Daniel presented the Shadows, battered and writhing in his grasp.
"They whispered betrayal into my grief," Daniel said, his voice low, unwavering. "They tempted me to forsake You. I bring them for judgment."
God, vast and still, regarded Daniel without words at first.
Finally, His voice broke the silence — deep, resonant, eternal.
"You are loyal."
"You are My Death."
Daniel lowered his head. "I serve."
God's light pulsed — not of rage, but of justice.
The ancient darkness shrieked as God's power enveloped them, not to destroy, but to lock them beyond reach, beyond memory, where even whispers could not escape.
The punishment was not annihilation. It was eternal containment.
God turned to Daniel once more, His voice softer now:
"You felt their pull, and still you chose Me."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"I will never betray You."
"Why?" God asked, curious, though He already knew.
Daniel's answer was simple.
"Because You did not abandon me."
Silence.
The Veil trembled.
Somewhere, angels wept — not in grief, but in reverence.
Daniel's gloves tightened over his hands as he turned to leave.
He would not remove them.
Not anymore.
Those hands — the hands that once held his family in life — now belonged to the ceifa.
His emotions…
Gone.
His humanity…
Sealed.
Only duty remained.
But as he stepped away, God's voice reached him one last time:
"They were proud of you."
Daniel paused.
The weight in his chest shifted, but his path did not falter.
Without a word, he vanished back into the Veil.
His hunt would continue.
The whispers were gone now.
But if others came — and they would — he would find them.
He would always find them.
Because Death never sleeps.
Death never doubts.
Death does not betray.
Whispers of Grief — Lesson of Power
The wind was heavy over Sokovia's ruins, whispering through broken walls and forgotten homes. Wanda Maximoff stood alone, the edges of her crimson magic flickering with instability. Anger, pain, grief — they rippled off her in violent waves, raw and unrefined.
But she wasn't alone. Not really.
She never was, not since she met him.
Daniel.
The one who wore Death like a tailored suit. The one even the ancient beings whispered about when they thought no one listened. And right now, he listened. He always did.
Wanda's magic lashed against the air, uncontrolled, sparks of chaos crackling in her fingertips.
"You'll blow the sky open if you keep that up," Daniel's voice drifted in, smooth as a knife under silk.
She didn't jump. She never did anymore. His presence was familiar — unsettling, but known.
Wanda turned, eyes red-rimmed but fierce. "You always watch?"
"Only when you're about to burn a hole through the fabric of reality," he replied, stepping from the shadows, long coat shifting around him, gloves pristine, the usual quiet authority trailing behind.
Her shoulders slumped. "You said I was improving."
"You were," Daniel agreed, scanning the remains of the city, his tone sharp with brutal honesty. "But grief has a way of dragging your control down to hell."
Wanda exhaled shakily, hands trembling as she tried to contain the red chaos swirling around her.
Daniel's eyes softened, just a fraction.
"I know what you're feeling," he said quietly.
She scoffed, turning away. "You? You're Death. You don't feel."
A bitter smile ghosted his lips, no humor behind it.
"I used to feel more than anyone," Daniel corrected, stepping closer. "Until I had to reap my own family."
Her magic stuttered, fading slightly as those words hit.
Daniel's gloved hand lifted, two fingers touching her temple, not forceful, but offering. She hesitated… then nodded.
Images flooded her mind — sharp, visceral, coated in sorrow so deep it suffocated.
The crash.
The twisted metal.
His parents… his sister… broken bodies, lifeless eyes, his own reflection shattered in glass and grief.
And then him — gloves sliding on, expression carved from stone, walking among angels and shadows to ferry his own blood across the Veil.
Wanda gasped, staggering back, tears burning down her cheeks.
"Why… why would you show me this?" she whispered, voice cracking.
"Because you think your pain is a storm," Daniel replied, voice low, controlled. "But it's a spark compared to the hurricane I carry. And yet—" he gestured to the controlled tendrils of dark energy curling at his fingertips, "—I learned to leash it. You will too."
She wiped her eyes, jaw tightening with determination beneath the sorrow.
"Teach me."
Daniel's head tilted, the faintest smirk curling the corner of his mouth, not in amusement, but approval.
"I've been waiting for you to ask that properly," he admitted, stepping beside her, his presence coiling like shadow and inevitability.
The ruined courtyard around them dimmed, his power blanketing the area, muting sound, isolating them from the world.
"First lesson," Daniel began, voice heavy with certainty, "your grief fuels your magic. But let it consume you, and you become nothing but chaos incarnate."
Wanda's hands ignited, red energy pulsing erratically.
"Show me."
Daniel nodded.
His hand extended, shadows swirling, and reality warped around them — images of her brother Pietro, flickering fragments of their past, his laugh, their shared pain, his death.
Her magic flared dangerously.
"Control it," Daniel ordered, his tone carrying the weight of eternity.
Wanda's eyes squeezed shut, breath hitching, but her magic steadied, forming coherent shapes, glowing orbs, delicate threads of red energy weaving into patterns.
Daniel watched, quiet pride hidden beneath his stoicism.
"Good," he murmured. "Again."
They repeated the cycle — grief surfacing, magic responding, control reforged.
Time blurred.
Hours? Days? It didn't matter here, in this space-between Daniel created.
When Wanda's control solidified, when her breathing evened, Daniel's hand dropped.
"You're learning."
She exhaled deeply, eyes glistening but focused now.
"Thank you," she said, sincerity rough around the edges.
Daniel shrugged, gaze drifting skyward.
"Someone had to teach you. And I only teach the ones worth it."
She smiled faintly, a flicker of defiance in her expression.
"You still play favorites."
He chuckled softly, shadows curling at his feet.
"I'm Death. I only show up for the interesting ones now."
Wanda's brow furrowed slightly. "What about… everyone else?"
Daniel's demeanor shifted, colder, detached.
"They get the servants," he replied flatly. "The shadows reap the ordinary souls. I only fetch the powerful, the dangerous… the ones who'll make an impact."
Her lips parted, questions lingering, but Daniel's posture stiffened, head tilting as if listening to something beyond her perception.
The whispers.
Old, familiar, dangerous.
Daniel's eyes darkened, voice dropping an octave.
"Stay here."
Wanda's concern flared. "What is it?"
"Unfinished business," he replied simply, dissolving into smoke and shadow, gone before she could argue.
Elsewhere — The Hunt
The ancient whispers that danced around his family's deaths — the traitors, the primordial darkness hidden in forgotten corners of creation — had resurfaced.
Daniel tracked them effortlessly now, each step a ripple through space, every shadow bending to his command.
He found them — the remnants of the Old Darkness, cowards once defeated by God Himself, now slithering, plotting, thinking they could escape Divine justice.
Not on his watch.
The ancient beings hissed, forms half-formed, eyes burning with false confidence.
Daniel stepped into their midst, his presence suffocating, the Veil whispering in their ears.
"You think hiding buys you time?" Daniel asked, voice a cold scalpel slicing through their illusions.
They recoiled, but it was too late.
With a gesture, he bound them in chains of shadow and light, dragging them across realms to the Divine Hall.
The Throne Room — Judgment
God awaited, His presence overwhelming yet steady.
The traitors writhed, snarling, but Daniel threw them down like discarded refuse.
"Caught your pests," Daniel remarked, voice sharp but laced with respect.
God observed, gaze heavy with ancient understanding.
"They'll be dealt with," He confirmed.
Daniel's jaw tensed briefly.
"I trust You," he said, sincerity unwavering, despite the ever-burning ache beneath his composure.
God's eyes softened, His tone gentle yet absolute:
"I know the pain lingers. But your task isn't done, Daniel. Not yet."
The first Death, Morte Prime, emerged from the shadows, silent witness to the exchange.
Daniel straightened, gloves flexing, expression unreadable.
"I'll finish it," he vowed. "Every loose end. Every hidden darkness."
God nodded once.
And with that, Daniel turned, coat trailing, his mission resuming.
Back on Earth
Wanda sat cross-legged, red magic swirling gently now, her posture calm but vigilant.
Daniel reappeared beside her, shadows peeling away.
She glanced up, eyebrows raised. "Dealt with?"
"Temporarily," he admitted. "But darkness always finds a crack."
Her expression sobered, but determination remained.
Daniel studied her, quiet approval lingering beneath his stoicism.
"You're getting there," he remarked.
Wanda smirked faintly. "With the right teacher."
Daniel's laugh was low, rare, like thunder rolling on the horizon.
"Don't get cocky, princesa," he warned, shadows curling as they both turned toward the uncertain path ahead.
To Be Continued…