Whoops, His Mistress Crashed Our Wedding. Mine Didn't novel Chapter 196

Chapter 196

Noah stayed quiet for a long time after that, both of us just staring into the endless dark below. The pits shifted and breathed, the slow heartbeat of the Underworld echoing through the stone.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “You coming back to the packhouse tonight?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, glancing toward the faint shimmer of the portal waiting at the edge of the cavern. The thought of walking into that house, of seeing her… no. Not yet.

“Nah,” I said finally, my voice low. “I think I’m going to stay here for a bit. Maybe go and reap a few souls or something.”

He huffed a short laugh, the kind that carried a mix of pride and worry. “Figures. Can’t sit still long enough to deal with your own head, so you’ll go knock sense into the damned instead.”

“Something like that,” I said with a faint smirk.

Noah stood, dusting off his hands before clapping me solidly on the back. The weight of it was grounding, familiar. “You do what you need to,” he said. “Just remember I’m always here if you need to talk, okay?”

“Yeah,” I murmured, nodding. “Thanks, Dad.”

He gave me one of those small, quiet smiles that didn’t need words, then headed toward the portal. The light swallowed him whole, leaving me alone again with the hum of the pit and the ghosts of my own thoughts. For a moment, I just sat there, letting the silence settle. Then I pushed to my feet, shadows curling instinctively around my fingers as I reached for my scythe. If I couldn’t fix what was breaking inside me, I could at least find something else to set right. And maybe, by the time the night was done, I’d have worked enough of this ache out of my chest to look at her again without falling apart.

I pull my tablet up, and the list stares back at me, names, timestamps where life ended and memory got stuck. It’s methodical work. Brutal, but clean. A job that keeps my hands busy and my head from tearing itself apart. The coordinates ping, and the portal opens like a lung, cold air burning my face as I step through. The battlefield waits on the other side: a long–ruined stretch of land where witches and vampires tore each other apart generations ago. Bones half–buried in mud, splintered weapons, ragged banners still clinging to hopeless poles. The smell is always the same here, old blood, iron and rot, a tang that tastes like regret. Souls hang in the haze over the wreck, replaying the last scrap of whatever hurt dragged them here. Some are shadows, thin and whispering; others are bright and screaming, trapped on the loop of the exact instant their heart stopped. It’s messy work. It’s sacred work.

I move through them the way Xavier taught me, slow, hands empty until the moment I have to reach. I kneel by a witch whose eyes keep repeating the way her fingers slipped around the familiar blade. She doesn’t see me at first; she’s in the loop. I touch the edge of her memory, warm and sharp, and say the words I’ve learned to speak like prayers.

“It’s over,” I tell her. “Do you understand? You’re more than that moment.”

Her eyes flicker. The loop frays by a millimetre. I offer the chance, gentle and blunt at the same time: “Are you ready?”

Some mouths whisper yes. Some scream no. Some stay silent, and I have to wait until they make a decision. That’s the hard part, waiting for a soul to want the peace. You shouldn’t force it. Not really. You can only be patient enough to trust yourself when it finally chooses.

When they nod, I swing the scythe. It’s a motion I know in my bones, practised until it’s smooth as breath. The blade doesn’t cut flesh here; it severs the tether that keeps them looped to pain. Light flares, the soul lifts like a bell being rung, and I shepherd it into the ribbon of pale light that carries them to the waiting room. The room’s always the same, soft, quiet, full of the murmured echoes of waypoints and the souls come through like travellers relieved to be moving on.

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11:54 Tue, Oct 7

But the hush doesn’t stay, I wait for that feeling that usually comes, the small flicker of release, the quiet after I’ve done something good, something right. It doesn’t come. My chest still feels heavy, the ache sitting just behind my ribs, the same restless burn that drove me down here in the first place. I glance down at the tablet. The screen is clean. List complete. For a second, I almost close it. Almost. Then I swipe down and refresh. A new line appears, new souls flagged, new coordinates. Another portal blooms in front of me, humming like it’s daring me to step through.

So I do. Another field. Different scent. This one reeks of ash and seawater, burned ships, merfolk dragged onto sand, witches drowned in salt. Screams still echo through the air like ghosts of thunder. I move through them in silence, the scythe heavy but familiar in my hand.

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