Arion's time in this world had run out.
The footsteps of the guards echoed down the stone corridor, marching toward the city square. There, a crowd had gathered since dawn. Faces full of disappointment, confusion, even anger. None could believe it—the prince they once admired for his gentleness now stood before them, accused of murdering his own father.
At the center of the square stood the execution scaffold, merciless and unyielding.
Arion's neck was placed into the cold, unforgiving blade of the guillotine. The wooden brace dropped, locking him in place—no hope, no escape. Below him, a basket waited—empty, but eager to claim the head of a prince soon to be erased from history.
The executioner stepped into position. His coarse hands gripped the release cord. This was no ordinary execution—this was royal, and everything had to appear "honorable."
"Any last words, Your Highness?"
A soft voice whispered beside the platform.
An old man, a court elder. His voice was calm, perhaps tinged with pity—but couldn't quite hide the satisfaction beneath.
Arion said nothing. His eyes empty. His lips sealed.
He would give them no words.
"Do not be sad," the old man whispered, his tone cold.
"Your death will prevent unrest. Rebellion. A civil war ready to erupt. Ironic, isn't it? You'll save the kingdom… but die a traitor."
And then he walked away, footsteps fading from the execution stage.
"Commence the execution," declared the high officer, and the executioner tightened his grip on the cord.
But before the cord could be pulled—
BANG!
Four figures cloaked in black appeared out of nowhere. Their movements were swift, precise—within seconds, one of them snapped the executioner's neck.
Panic exploded across the square.
The royal guards surged forward, but they were overwhelmed. Even Davian fought desperately, slashing one of the attackers with his sword—
CLANG!
Metal met wood.
The figure collapsed.
But it did not bleed.
Instead… gears spilled out. Straw. Hinges.
"A puppet?" Davian muttered, stunned. His eyes widened at the sight of the mechanical, lifeless face beneath the hood.
"They're not human…"
Suddenly, all the puppets stopped moving—simultaneously.
And then, their bodies burst into fragments as a strange, black aura erupted outward, spiraling into the sky like a storm of shadows.
And from that darkness… he appeared.
A tall man, dressed head to toe in black. His cloak seemed to be stitched from a thousand raven feathers—gleaming dark and soft. His face was hidden behind a crow-shaped mask; his eyes replaced with glowing crimson lenses. A wide-brimmed hat sat upon his head, adorned with a single raven feather.
The mist swirled once more around him, condensing into a staff.
Sleek, elegant—about 90 centimeters long—with a solid obsidian gem embedded at the tip.
He held it in one hand.
Guards rushed in from every side, shouting orders.
But before anyone could strike—
BOOM!
He slammed the staff into the ground.
In an instant, thick, suffocating black mist erupted beneath his feet, swallowing everything in a wide radius.
It consumed the execution stage, the guards, the crowd—even the sunlight.
The world turned dark in mere seconds.
And when the mist faded—
Arion… was gone.
The guillotine… gone.
The masked stranger… gone.
All that remained was silence.
And a fear so heavy, it clutched the hearts of everyone who had witnessed it.