White Reaper Tokyo Ghoul Novels & Stories

A massive, towering presence looming over my shoulder. I glance back. A cloaked figure, three meters tall, floating in the void. In its skeletal hand, it holds a massive scythe that drips with phantom blood. The God of Death. The robotic voice returns. [AWAKENING CONFIRMED. SUBJECT: REA REED. RESULT: 100% PURITY. ENTITY IDENTIFIED: THANATOS (THE GOD OF DEATH). ALIGNMENT: CHAOTIC EVIL.] The numbers flash on the screen in blood-red. One hundred percent. The legendary Single Bloodline.

“And no, it wasn’t Max. He meant to intervene but turns out he didn’t need to. Should I tell you all why? Or do you already know?” “Stop!” My mother strictly said. This is how she sounded when she berated us. Kent’s smile grew further up his cheeks. He looked at me, then came closer to examine me. His dark eyes followed my body, up and down. “Plain. Simple. Nothing extraordinary about her. Nothing like Marianna.” He stopped in front of me, his eyes reading mine. He searched for a few seconds, not sure what he was looking for, but I was being taken by their color. They weren’t fully black. It was almost like they had a hue of red in them. This was the first time I had seen a werewolves—a male

"Everyone knows the Rivera girl is a rare white wolf. Her pups will be top-tier Alphas, every single one. Whoever mates her becomes the future Alpha King." "And look at her—the Moon Goddess must've carved her by hand." "A wolf like that, blood like that, Is Damian insane?" "Poor Rivera girl. Her own mate doesn't even want her." The whispers circled. Everyone was certain I'd name Damian—they'd all seen how badly I'd fallen for him. In my last life, I worshiped Damian as my savior. White wolves are rare, which means my life was never peaceful. I got snatched by rogues once.

Even the tattoo curling up his neck—a snake—looks unsettlingly familiar. “Miss Rhea?” he says. He doesn’t wait for my answer. His hand tightens for a brief second, then lets go. “The Reaper wants to see you.” My stomach drops. I look him over again. The jacket. The ink. The quiet confidence. The danger clinging to him. I narrow my eyes. “I don’t,” I say. “Thanks, though.” I turn and walk away. Fast. I didn’t notice it before. I was too busy reeling over the twin thing. But now it’s obvious. The matching leather. The same kind of men. The same feeling in my chest.

The bodies of the two attackers did not feel like ordinary flesh but more akin to puppets. "Who are you people?" Chase roared, his voice filled with fury. The black-clad man coughed blood, a grim smile on his lips. "Who are we? Haha... We're reapers. Everything on you... is ours now!" As he spoke, the man slammed a hand over the wound on his chest. A thumb-sized green talisman materialized, emitting a sharp, piercing hum.

After a few seconds, White Doll's soul fragments appeared before Lucas. Lucas fused White Doll's soul fragments together, and White Doll, a Rank 1 Honorable Ranked Zombie, showed up. "Mas… master?" White Doll's face was initially plastered with an astonished expression. Nevertheless, he became thrilled shortly after. The Apocalyptic Legion and White Doll greeted each other. They were all delighted. The Genetic Fighters and troops on top of the outer walls of Western Base City stood frozen like plasticine statues. Their eyes had widened the biggest they had ever had in their lives. Their jaws were so wide open that extra-large bowls could have been fit in their mouths.

It was a sound of immense, focused power. We all rushed to the main cavern. The scanner Elena had set up at the tunnel entrance was going haywire, displaying energy signatures that dwarfed anything we'd ever seen. "He's looking for you," Croft said, his face pale in the screen's glow. On the display, we saw it. A Reaper, but unlike any before. It was larger, its form more solid, woven through with filaments of gold that pulsed with Jeff's unique energy signature. It moved methodically across the wasteland, scanning, probing. It was a extension of his will, a hunter with a single, burning purpose.

Ripper hands me my guns and I take them and check them before I leave the clubhouse with Rebel and Dante behind me. I kiss them both and take Rebel’s face in my hands and look into her honey coloured eyes. “We will find who did this and they will wish for death,” I say to her, her hands placed over mine. I place my forehead against hers, closing my eyes to centre myself. “Can’t have the reaper without his Scythe.” She whispers, and I open my eyes and look into hers. She knows who I am and what I am capable of. They don’t call me Scythe for nothing. The instrument of the Reaper. The instrument of death.

Dark, shadowy figures haunted my dreams, their laughter echoing as I walked down the aisle toward an abyss, not a man. As I reached the bottom step, my gaze was drawn to the garden outside. Through the massive glass windows, I saw him—The Reaper. He had just arrived yesterday, his presence unnerving as always. He stood in the garden, his posture relaxed yet predatory, like a wolf among sheep. Beside him was Victor, speaking animatedly as he handed over a briefcase. My heart stopped.

Daffodil’s hollow scream faded into silence as his voice box became marrow. The newborn Reaper remained still for a moment, and then it stood. Its muscles were as clearly defined as before, if not more so, but all that had been flesh was now strong white bone. It had ball-and-socket joints like a doll, and appeared just as soulless. As Mr. Cillian rose from the floor, I noticed that his face had attained many wrinkles, as though he had aged a decade.