As Remy stood watching his friend burn, the crackling flames cast restless shadows across his face. Suddenly, a memory stirred deep within his mind—fragmented, elusive, perhaps not even his own.
He saw a young boy, curled by the edge of a rain-swollen river. The cold gray sky wept relentless tears, each drop soaking into the torn fabric of his threadbare clothes. His back was raw, crimson streaks etched by cruel lashes, blood pooling slow and dark beneath him—a river of silent agony.
The boy's sobs rose above the rain's steady rhythm:
"I'm so hungry… ahhh… ahh… must I live like this? Would it not be better if I simply died?"
From the mist emerged a figure—tall, somber, carrying a black umbrella that barely held back the storm's chill. His voice was low, steady, merciless:
"Get up, boy. Stand. No one is coming to save you."
The boy shivered, caught between cold and despair, rooted to the muddy earth. Mercy had long fled this world.
The memory slipped like smoke through Remy's grasp, pulled back by the fire's roar before him. But the figure's words lingered, echoing in the hollow between his ribs: No one is coming to save you.
Heat brushed Remy's skin as he clenched his fists, whispering into the blaze's fury:
"Then I must save myself."
"Next up: Tak of Sethfar. What shall we do with him?" the commander called once more.
The crowd roared louder than before.
"Cut his head off!"
"Oh? Is that what I hear?" The commander smiled cruelly. "Mmm… off with his head, then."
The executioners entered the cage. By now, it had become a grotesque stage show. They dragged Tak out by his coiled hair and began binding him—arms strapped down, fastened tight to the guillotine. His deep brown skin stood out against the polished wood. He tried to stay strong. But no man remains sane in the face of death.
The blade gleamed high above, kissed by sunlight.
The crowd fell still.
It shimmered—
A predator, poised.
The masked executioner released the chain.
The blade fell. Fast. Unforgiving.
Tak's head dropped into the basket like an overripe fruit from a dying tree.
His body collapsed.
Blood sprayed across the platform, droplets landing on those standing far too close.
Another life. Ended.
Now it was Remy's turn.
Louis would be the last.
"Next: Remy of Sethfar," the commander announced, voice rising with theatrical flair. "Quite the curious fellow. Been wearing this straw mask ever since we captured him. Who wants to see what lies beneath?"
Cheers exploded through the square. From afar, it could've been mistaken for a festival.
The crowd began to chant:
"Off with the mask! Off with the mask!"
The commander obliged.
He pulled Remy from the cage and forced him to his knees on the platform.
And then, the mask fell.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
It wasn't beauty that shocked them. It was resemblance.
He bore the face of a legend—Saint Alford, the Saint of Winter, in his youth.
Saint Rosaline stepped forward, voice trembling:
"Who… who are you? How dare you wear the face of the Saint of Winter?"
Whispers spread like wildfire.
Among the Celestials, high above, suspicion bloomed.
"How careless of Saint Alford," one muttered.
"He bedded a street tramp, got her pregnant… and forgot to clean up the mess. What a scandal."
The people below, unaware of what they'd stumbled into, chattered louder, feeding the tension.
Soldiers began closing in. Surrounding the square.
"Burn it all down," growled one of the Celestials. "We can't let this leak to the other districts."
"You can't do that!" Saint Rosaline snapped. "This is my region! You'll destroy my funding if you torch this zone!"
"This is your fault, Thorne," Saint Garcia replied coldly. "You botched the operation from the start and exposed something… unsightly."
His stare silenced him. Even among Saints, power was not equally shared.
Saint Garcia turned and gave the final command:
"Burn it all down."
Chaos erupted.
Screams tore through the streets.
Children. Women. The elderly. It didn't matter.
Soldiers struck down everyone.
Buildings caught flame, smoke coiling high into the sky.
Those who hid inside were burned out—only to meet the sword.
As the Saints turned to leave, one last order was spoken:
"Put up the barrier. Make sure no one leaves alive."
Smoke thickened in the air, choking, blinding.
Louis, still bound in the cage, coughed, gasping for breath.
"Damn… the moment we found you, everything went to hell," the commander muttered, walking toward Remy. "I guess it's only fair I'm the one to take your head off."
He reached for his Sig—a standard-issue weapon, unique in that it transformed with the wielder's will.
Mystic current surged through it.
It shimmered, lengthened. Became a longsword.
The commander raised the blade.
"Let's end this farce."
He swung.
But the blade never landed.
Black smoke erupted from the mark on Remy's neck, coiling upward like a serpent.
It struck the sword mid-swing. Steel met smoke—
—and shattered.
The commander stumbled back.
"What the f*ck is going on here"
Remy raised his head.
His eyes were darker than any moonless sky deeper than ink.
"You…" His voice was no longer his own. It thundered.
"You shall all burn. I… Death has come for you."
He was freed from the restriction placed on him.
And the only words that rang in his head.
"Kill….kill…kill"