As Alaric mounted his horse, he couldn't stop thinking about the dream he just had. He often got nightmares like this—especially after every execution he was involved in.
Hagen, his father, had been the Head Executioner of the capital—a symbol of justice and fear, at least according to the kingdom. But the people saw them differently. To the public, they were just a family of sinners—dogs of the king, willing to kill anyone the royal court wanted gone.
His father made a decent amount of money; technically, he was an official of the crown. They also received a good education—required for executioners to be well-versed in the kingdom's laws and regulations.
Alaric used to tell himself he was doing it for justice. But now, at 22, he knew not everyone who ended up on their chopping block deserved it.
He stopped by the nearest blacksmith. The man was teaching his two young sons when he saw Alaric approach on horseback.
"Go! Both of you, go inside," the blacksmith ordered quickly.
Without question, the boys obeyed.
As Alaric dismounted, the blacksmith nervously rubbed his hands and asked,
"What can I do for you, sir? Is something wrong?"
"Don't worry. I just want you to engrave my name on this axe. You know my name, right?"
"Of course, sir. You're Alaric, son of Hagen."
Alaric gave a small nod. The blacksmith looked visibly relieved that he was here for a service—not punishment.
Hagen had died just two weeks ago. Executioners ran in the family, and his father had been the head. Now that he was gone, the title was officially passed to Alaric. He had already been acting as head while his father was bedridden, but now he was the face of justice.
Cling—cling. The sound of metal striking metal echoed as the blacksmith worked. Alaric stared into the fire, his thoughts drifting back to his dream—back to the man with the lantern and his cryptic words.
"Maybe it's just another dream haunting me," he told himself, as he did after every nightmare.
His first nightmare happened the night he saw what hatred truly was.
As a child, he used to look up to his father, always excited for his return. His father would bring him something small after every job. Alaric often wondered what his father did and why they lived so far from the rest of the city.
On his fifth birthday, he asked to see the city, and his mother agreed.
*****
"So that's the devil's brat, huh?"
"Yeah, that's him—and his prostitute wife."
"Hahaha, sinners living together. How poetic."
He heard the whispers as they walked through the crowd.
What had begun as an exciting adventure now filled him with discomfort. He felt the weight of all those eyes—full of hatred—on him.
"Mom, why are they—?"
"Pssst…"
His mother stopped him quickly, glancing ahead. A man with a bottle stood in their path.
"So you're the devil's brat?" the man slurred, glaring at young Alaric.
Alaric clung to his mother's legs, hiding behind her.
The man raised the bottle in his hand.
Shatter.
Alaric closed his eyes. Silence.
When he opened them again, three men had stepped in to restrain the drunk. Relief washed over him—until he saw his mother, bleeding.
"Mom, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, son. Let's just go home, alright?"
She smiled gently, trying to comfort him. But even at that age, Alaric could see through it. Her smile held only sadness.
"THAT'S RIGHT! GO HOME, SINNERS! FAMILY OF DEVILS!" the man shouted.
"Stop it, old man. You want to get yourself killed?" one of the men warned.
"I DON'T CARE! THAT MAN KILLED MY SON—I'M JUST RETURNING THE FAVOR!"
"Hey kid!" the drunk turned back to Alaric, "Your father is a sinner. A hypocrite. And your mother? Just a cheap whore who married a devil because she had nowhere else to go. She's only your mother 'cause of the money—remember that! Hahaha!"
"Come on, let's go," his mother whispered, dragging him forward.
Someone in the crowd threw something. Then another. Then another. She tried to shield Alaric as they ran.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
That day—on his fifth birthday—he first felt hatred. But his young mind couldn't yet comprehend what he'd done to deserve it.
*****
"Don't tell your father what happened today, can you promise me that?"
"Why, mom?"
"Just don't. Tell him I tripped. That's how I got this wound, okay?"
Alaric nodded, confused and frustrated.
*****
"Sir… sir… SIR!"
The blacksmith's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"It's done," the man said.
Alaric looked at the axe, now engraved with his name next to his father's.
"ALARIC."
He read it aloud, then smirked—a mocking smile. He was the new executioner. A job he never wanted, but couldn't escape.
"You did a great job. Thank you," he said firmly, appreciating the craftsmanship.
Then he mounted his horse and rode off.
*****
By the time he reached the main city gate, Alaric had changed. He wore armor that exposed his muscular arms, adorned with thick, polished bracers. A heavy black hood cloaked his face, leaving only his eyes visible—charcoal painted around them to blend into the darkness of the hood.
As he rode into the city, people stepped aside in fear. They avoided eye contact, bowed their heads, and gave him a clear path.
Up ahead stood a raised wooden platform in the city square. He dismounted and began to climb the steps. A fat man followed behind him.
"Punctual as ever," the man said with a grin. "As expected from our new symbol of justice."
He was a high-ranking official who oversaw executions.
"Sorry I forgot to mention—the king will be watching today. Not that you care, right?" he added, leaning in as if whispering, though his voice was far too loud for that.
That explains all the extra patrols last night, Alaric thought.
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh? What a surprise—you care after all!" the man teased.
Alaric shot him an annoyed look.
"Fine, fine. I'll tell you. An important war figure from the enemy side was captured—one of their captains, apparently."
He grinned. "Perfect opportunity to boost the morale of our soldiers—and the people."
"The king is arriving!" someone shouted.
A figure approached, flanked by five imposing knights.
"Those are the Five Great Captains," the official whispered, seeing Alaric's gaze.
The king sat down, then raised his hand—a signal.
"It's time," the official barked.
The prisoner was brought out—a tall, muscular man in his mid-thirties, hands cuffed behind him, clearly beaten but not broken. Long blond hair, a face scarred by war, yet eyes calm—too calm for a man about to die.
Most prisoners screamed or begged. Alaric was used to it. But this one was different.
He felt… respect.
The man locked eyes with Alaric. No fear—only a quiet threat, as if to say, "In another place, I would kill you."
Laid down before the execution block, the man didn't resist. He looked directly at the king.
Alaric raised his axe. He gripped it tightly, sweat building on his brow. Something about this kill was different. He wasn't used to this feeling.
The king gave the signal—a swift chopping motion with his hand.
Finally. Alaric swung his axe with more force than ever before.
Just before the blade fell, the warrior spoke one word—
"Coward." With nothing but a smile on his face
CHOP.
*****
1st Kill: Captain of the 11th Squad
Class: S (Third strongest class)