"Get a move on," said the guard, kicking the prisoner forward onto the execution platform.
After what the witch had told him, Zad tried desperately to think of another way out. He couldn't watch Amal die again. No. Not again. Not like last time.
"Don't you dare push me, you insolent fool!" Saifan snapped, his voice cracking with rage.
"Nobody cares, little noble," the guard sneered, shoving him again and again like he was nothing.
"Calm down! You're going to get yourself killed!" Leon shouted, trying to hold Saifan back.
"Shut up, slave," Saifan growled.
Then, after a breath, he pulled himself back, his voice quieter. "I know… I know. I'm just… angry."
Leon didn't respond. He just looked at Saifan, eyes filled with deep worry.
Zad stood once more in the same execution plaza. The same blood-soaked stones. The same wooden platform where he had lost his head. The same cursed guillotine.
He didn't want to die. Not this time.
He looked to the crowd, the same twisted, frothing mass. Faces distorted with bloodlust. They weren't normal. He remembered what the witch—Emil—had said in the first loop… about the chance someone was manipulating their emotions. That someone was pulling strings behind the scenes.
And if Hexants were real… then maybe, just maybe, she was right.
The crowd wasn't just angry. They were wrong. Off. Too perfectly cruel.
"We will begin from the first in line and move in order." The executioner glanced down at the scroll in his hand. "The circus performer," he said in a flat, emotionless voice.
"Ah, my turn already? What a shame. After all," he grinned, "I'm the greatest clown in all of Agrabiyya."
Zad glanced at the Clown. That same look of absolute certainty was still there—the one he'd seen the first time. As if all of this, even death, was just another performance. That unsettling confidence had to mean something.
Damn it.
Things were unfolding just like before. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
"Hey, Witch," he called out, trying to spark some kind of reaction. "What about your mana?"
She'd kept going on about her mana last time. Maybe bringing it up would push her into action.
"My mana?" she repeated, eyes lighting up. "Even you know that? Wow. Amazing!"
Zad recoiled slightly. Her eccentric tone was throwing him off. She wasn't acting scared, at all. That was different.
"What... what the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, unnerved. "You're not scared. Not even a little."
"Me? Scared?" Emil tilted her head, smirking. "I'm a witch. I live for theatrics. But I'm not that dramatic."
She shrugged. "I've simply accepted my fate. That's all."
.....
"Give it up," said the Witch.
He remembered her saying it during the first loop, the same tone, the same voice. Unchanged.
"These chains are anti-magic. I can feel it." "And even if they weren't—I've been drained. Ten days without food. Without wine." "I'm a Witch. They knew how to starve me."
She looked at the rest, Amal, Leon, Saifan, the clown, and shook her head. "Even the noble. Even the child. Even the clown. We're all doomed."
"I saw it in my premonition. Today… we die."
She said it like a fact. Not a fear.
"It's sad," she added. "But it's the truth. Just accept it, Zad."
This is the same conversation. Word for word. Damn it... do I just throw this—
Just as Zad was about to give up, his eyes drifted to the fifth prisoner.
They were staring at the Witch. Not just staring—gazing, deeply, intently, as if they'd heard something wrong. Something that didn't sit right. Doubt, fear, maybe even recognition lingered in their expression.
It was the first time Zad had seen them like this.
He hadn't noticed it before, not with everything so chaotic, but now his eyes locked onto the fifth prisoner—the one he'd mentally dubbed the androgynous cyan-haired one. And they were dressed like a scholar crossed with a noble troublemaker.
Black and crimson uniform, sharp-cut and a bit too flashy for a prison. A double-breasted coat with silver clasps, tight leggings, and high boots. They wore round glasses that caught the light just enough to hide their eyes.
Clean. Composed. Ambiguous. Like someone used to watching from the edges—never quite fitting in, but never missing a thing.
They spoke up.
"E-Excuse me… I… I don't mean to interrupt… but since we're all pretty sure we're going to d-die soon… I just want to say one thing."
Their voice was shaky. Nervous. Each word tripping out like it might get them killed.
At that exact moment, the guillotine fell. The Clown's head hit the ground—and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Louder than last time.
Zad flinched. His stomach turned. And yet—something strange caught his eye.
A pigeon.
Flying overhead. Right where the Clown's head had landed.
"Huh…" he muttered, blinking.
"What's your point, dumbass?" the Witch snapped, eyes narrowing with unprovoked aggression.
Zad was pulled back into the conversation. The androgynous, cyan-haired prisoner—was still speaking. Timid. Yet oddly determined.
"My name is Najma. I'm a scholar. A... a very good one. Even if I fall short sometimes…" Their voice cracked, their legs visibly shaking.
Najma... That's a female name, Zad thought.
"I study all kinds of subjects—math, mythical beings, Hexant, witches, tools… everything. I hunger for knowledge," they went on, voice still trembling. "So… I know you're a witch. I know you know your stuff…"
Down in the plaza, the executioner began reading the second name.
The next prisoner stepped forward. Willingly. The red-haired man.
Just like before. Amal gasped. Leon started panicking again. The third prisoner sobbed over his wife and children.
Everything was happening again. Beat for beat.
"Get to the point," the Witch said coldly. "What do you want?"
Zad blinked. Why was she so hostile toward Najma?
"I-I don't mean to insult a witch," Najma stammered. "But… I'll get to the point. You're being unfair to him."
"I wouldn't have interfered—if it weren't for the fact that you told him, and Saifan, to bring you wine. That was too far. They were already condemned. Was there any reason to play such a cruel prank on people who were about to die?" They took a breath. Their hands clenched. Something inside them hardened.
"I hate liars more than anything."
Silence.
Then they continued, stronger now.
"There's no such thing as anti-magic chains. No such thing as a witch needing wine to recharge her energy. That's baseless heresy. I know because I've studied everything about witches—and their enemies. Witch hunters. I've read every record, every creed, every hex. And there's no such thing in this world as 'anti-magic chains.'"
The doubt in their voice vanished. They weren't trembling anymore. They looked straight at Zad. Something in their expression shifted—fear, yes, but also something deeply human.
Empathy.
They were condemned too. But in that moment, they couldn't stand by and let him be fed lies.
"So tell me," Najma said, voice steady, "w-why are you trying to—"
That's when it happened.
The unmistakable sound of chains breaking.
Right beside Zad.
"No," he whispered. "Not now—"
He turned. Fast. Instinctively.
It was them. The mysterious figure. And they spoke.
"Stop the execution. Laim, get up. Don't die out yet."
Everyone turned.
Amal, shaking. Leon, begging. The third prisoner frozen mid-sob. The crowd. The guards. Even the executioner.
And the red-haired second prisoner—the one the mysterious figure called Laim—slowly lifted his head.
"Are you serious?" Laim muttered. "Then why go through all this? The preparations. The three puppet sacrifices. The whole damn script? What the hell are you planning?"
Everything unraveled. Too fast. The chaos didn't slow—because it wasn't chaos at all. It was control. From the start, this had all been theirs.
"Turn up the frenzy," the cloaked figure said. "All the way. I don't care what happens to the puppets. Just do it."
Laim stared at them in disbelief. "You'd throw everything away... just like that?"
The crowd erupted into screams and curses, furious and robbed.
"How dare you! We wanted to see them die!"
"Kill them! Kill the heretics! Don't let them escape!"
Zad watched the guards. The executioner. None of them moved. No reaction to Laim standing. No reaction to broken chains. No alarm. As if this had all been arranged in advance.
He turned sharply, heart pounding.
"Why aren't the guards stopping her?" Zad asked. "Why did the executioner obey her command?"
The figure glanced his way, calm. "You're wondering why no one's reacting? Why the executioner halted at my word? It's simple. It's because—"
"Stop right there, criminal." Saifan stepped forward.
"You think you can act however you want?" he said, eyes blazing. "You expect me to stand back and watch while you break your chains and walk free? The guards won't restrain you? The executioner won't speak? What does this mean?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He launched forward with a kick—rough and desperate.
This was different from what Zad saw in the first loop. Maybe it was because Zad took a different action—something that shifted how others behaved. Saifan had been angry before, furious at how the guards treated him. But now, he'd lost all sense. He wasn't just angry.
He was completely unhinged.
"Answer me! You damn criminal!"
"Saifan, wait!" Zad shouted.
But it was too late.
Two pale hands moved faster than thought. The cloaked figure grabbed Saifan's head—then crushed it.
It popped like fruit under a boot. A single, wet snap.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Amal screamed.
Panic surged.
The crowd shrieked. Prisoners stumbled back. And still, the cloaked figure stood there—silent, composed—as if killing Saifan had meant nothing.
"Kill the rest," they said. The voice was calm. But final.
The executioner froze, terror creeping into his eyes. The same executioner who had been stone-faced during every beheading now trembled.
"Are... are you sure?" he asked, barely able to speak.
The cloaked figure turned to face him.
The executioner recoiled like a dog. Then turned and barked at the guards.
"Do as she says! Kill them all!"
The guards hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then moved with sudden purpose, leveling their spears.
"No! Wait!" Zad shouted.
But it had begun. A one-sided massacre.
Whatever this event was supposed to be, it had escalated beyond repair. The true purpose of this execution… it had to happen. Now.
"Leon, take Amal and run!" Zad yelled, frantic.
A guard screamed as he drove his spear into the chest of the third prisoner.
"AAAAAAAAH!" the man shrieked, gored straight through, flailing. The next target—Amal.
The crowd cheered. Their hunger returned. They salivated at the carnage.
"Leon! I said take Amal and escape!" Zad cried again.
"I can't break these chains… I CAN'T!" Leon yelled. "I CAN'T HELP HER! Please, anyone—anything—do something!"
"Get off me! Get away from me!" Amal roared as the guards closed in. "Cowards! Ganging up on a slave without a weapon!"
She thrashed and screamed, backing up against the wall, desperate—but it was too late.
They struck her. A spear drove into her chest. She gasped. Then she dropped.
"Nooooooooooooo!" Leon's cry tore from his throat, raw and broken.
"Amal! N–NO!" Zad screamed next, voice cracking, pain splitting through every word like a blade.
Their screams echoed. The crowd only cheered louder.
Najma trembled, tears brimming. "N-No... N-No..." they whispered, voice cracking.
They turned to run, panic setting in—but Laim caught their arm.
"No, no, no!" he said with a devilish grin. "Prisoners don't get to escape."
"A-Aren't you one too?" Najma asked, voice shaking.
Laim didn't answer. He just looked past her—toward the cloaked figure now standing over Zad.
Zad's mind collapsed in on itself. No thoughts. Only a blur of blood and screams.
Everything had happened in seconds. Too fast. Too loud. Too much.
"If only you had given up. If only you had accepted your fate," the mysterious figure said, their voice cold and level. "You're a disgrace, Zad."
Their words sank like knives. Zad stared, breath caught in his throat.
"Still struggling to make sense of it? Fine. Then remember this as you die."
"Huh—?" Zad barely had time to react.
Two pale hands shot out from the figure's cloak, unnatural in speed , and wrapped around his shoulders like metal vices. They lifted him effortlessly off the ground.
"Realize how foolish you were," the figure hissed. "Laim. Override your puppets. I'm done playing."
"What are you doing—? Agh, ugh, ngh! Put me down! Drop me! I SAID DROP ME!"
He kicked. He twisted. He thrashed.
Nothing.
The others watched, helpless—Leon, Najma, the Witch—they could do nothing but stare as Zad was dragged toward his end.
And then, with no warning, the figure hurled him.
Zad flew.
Straight into the crowd.
He crashed onto the cobblestones with a bone-shattering thud, his body twisting in ways it shouldn't. Pain tore through his back and chest as he tried to breathe.
"Ugh!"
He tried to rise—just enough to look around. And then he saw them.
The crowd.
Men. Women. Children. Dozens of them. They had circled around him like wolves surrounding a bleeding lamb.
"New meat!"
"The slave is here! And he's all ours!"
Their eyes gleamed with something wrong. Their smiles were crooked, inhuman. Laughter rang through the plaza—high, sharp, unnatural.
"What... Get away from me!" Zad gasped, trying to crawl back, only to realize he couldn't move. Not enough. His arms were bound. His body broken. He was defenseless.
"Why isn't anyone helping me... Please..."
"We can do whatever we want with him, right?" one voice asked eagerly.
"Do as you like," the cloaked figure replied from the distance, completely unmoved.
"Then we'll do just that!"
The crowd surged forward.
Zad tried to scream, but—
SMASH!
A bottle shattered against the side of his skull. Glass sliced through his scalp. Blood poured down his face.
"AGHHHHHH!"
"Don't be shy, boys! Cut him up already!" someone jeered.
Zad clutched his head, dazed, gasping for air—
SLICE!
"AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
A knife carved into his leg. Not cleanly. Not deeply enough to kill. Just enough to tear muscle. Pain shot through him, too raw to process.
He screamed again. Begged. Sobbed.
"PLEASE! STOP! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!"
His voice cracked. Tears streamed from his eyes. His throat was raw.
"It hurts... It hurts so much... Please..."
They didn't stop. They laughed. They cheered.
They threw him like a ragdoll, smashed more bottles over him, stomped on his limbs, spit in his face.
"UGH! AGH! STOP!"
"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"
He screamed until his voice broke—until nothing came out but gurgled breath.
Slice. Smash. Kick. Spit.
They tore him apart. No humanity. No mercy.
He wasn't a person to them. Just a thing. A toy to break.
His blood painted the cobblestones. His limbs were bent wrong. His breathing turned wet.
And then—
"This is my first time seeing an execution up close!"
A child stepped forward.
A boy no older than seven. Smiling. He held a knife.
"No..." Zad whispered. "No, please..."
The boy walked closer.
And then—
Stab. Straight into Zad's eye.
The pain didn't come. Not this time.
Just darkness.