It's raining.
The sky hangs low and swollen, heavy clouds pressing down until the world feels smaller. No light breaks through. Not a single sliver. Everything is soaked in a dull gray that swallows shape and color.
A long line of people moves across the open land. They all wear the same black uniform, stiff and plain, the fabric darkened further by rain. Black umbrellas bloom above their heads, identical and silent. From a distance, they look less like individuals and more like a slow, shifting shadow.
At the center of that shadow, four men carry a black coffin on their shoulders. Their steps are careful, measured. The wood is polished, rainwater sliding down its smooth surface in thin streams. It doesn't shake. It doesn't tilt.
Behind them, an old man walks with a hammer resting against his shoulder. His back is slightly bent, but his grip is steady. Beside him, another man holds thick metal nails bundled together in his fist, the iron dark and slick. A few others trail after them with shovels and pickaxes, the metal heads dull under the gray sky. Their faces are blank, drained of anything that could pass for feeling.
Further back, a group dressed in long black robes walks close together. The robes brush against the wet ground, hems turning muddy. They clutch large books to their chests, fingers pale against the covers. Their voices rise and fall in a low chant, barely louder than the rain.
Together they say, "Inevitable fate you are tied on."
The mud sucks at every step. Shoes sink slightly before lifting with a wet slap. Water splashes around their ankles. The land around them stretches flat and empty. No trees or houses. Not even grass brave enough to grow here. Mist coils across the ground, thick enough to blur the edges of everything.
"You shall not be rent from the blood but from these hands."
Their chant continues, steady and soft, weaving through the sound of rain.
"Become one with clod and get begotten as anew."
Ahead, a faint glow flickers through the mist. A small, stubborn light waiting in the gray. As the procession approaches, the light reveals iron gates standing open.
Beyond them lies the venue of the offered.
The graveyard spreads wide and silent. Rows upon rows of gravestones rise from the earth, uneven in height and age. Some are fresh, the stone sharp and pale. Others lean crooked, edges worn down by time and weather. Names are carved deep into the surfaces, letters filled with rainwater, some stones are cracked clean through.
The ground is uneven, soft from constant digging. Patches of darker soil mark recent burials. In some places, the earth has sunk slightly, forming shallow dips. Iron fences surround certain plots, rust creeping along the bars. A few statues stand among the graves—winged figures with eroded faces, hands pressed together in silent prayer.
But there are no flowers.
Only mud. Stone. And the steady fall of rain.
The people carrying tools move toward an empty quarter near the far end, where the land looks freshly measured. Without a word, they begin to dig. Shovels bite into the wet soil with dull thuds. Pickaxes crack against stubborn patches of hardened ground. The sound of metal striking earth mixes with the chanting, creating a rhythm that feels spartan.
The hole deepens.
The coffin is lowered slowly into the ground, ropes creaking as it descends. The men's hands tighten, careful not to let it drop. When it reaches the bottom, they release it in unison.
Everyone stands and watches.
Among the crowd, a gentleman stands beneath a neatly held umbrella. His coat is pressed, shoes polished despite the mud threatening them. Beside him stands an old elder, leaning on a wooden stick for support. The elder's umbrella is tilted slightly forward, hiding most of his face.
The gentleman steps closer, careful not to let their umbrellas touch.
"Hello, sir," he says, voice polite and soft.
The old man doesn't look at him. His gaze remains fixed on the yawning grave.
"Are you curious?" the elder asks.
The gentleman glances at him, then back at the coffin resting below.
"Yes. This is my first time seeing an emancipating execution."
A faint chuckle slips from the old man's lips.
"People do enjoy watching someone fall."
The gentleman frowns slightly.
"Are you some kind of relative of the person?"
The old man shakes his head.
"No. There is no one here who knows the person inside that coffin. They're just like you. Curious."
The gentleman's grip tightens around his umbrella handle.
"But everyone here knows," the old man continues, voice calm, "that they could be in that coffin at any moment. Tomorrow. Later. Even now. The blood shows pity to no one."
He laughs again, a dry, hollow sound that blends with the rain.
The gentleman's eyes widen. A chill runs up his spine despite the coat wrapped around him.
"Yes… that's true," he murmurs. "This world is very fierce."
The old man lets out another quiet laugh. "Don't worry. You'll see soon what will happen."
The gentleman swallows. His gaze shifts forward again, focusing on the grave. His face grows still and serious.
Time drags.
Shovels keep biting into the earth until the hole is finished—wide, deep, dark enough to swallow a body whole. Mud piles up around the edges in uneven heaps. Rainwater gathers at the bottom before being scooped out again. When the digging stops, there was a silence.
Everyone watches.
The men step toward the coffin.
And in that stillness, a thought cuts through—
'Why.'
It's sharp and young. Strained thin with anger.
No one outside reacts. Nobody there was thinking anything they were just watching in silence.
Actually, the thought comes from inside the coffin.
The men unlatch it. The lid creaks as they lift it open.
The moment the inside is revealed, the crowd shifts. A collective intake of breath spreads like a ripple. Eyes widen. Some people stiffen. A few blink rapidly, as if trying to believe what they're seeing.
Inside lies a boy.
He looks no older than sixteen, no younger than ten. His body is small against the dark interior, swallowed by polished wood.
He stares straight up at the sky. Brown eyes burn with rage and something rawer beneath it—fear that refuses to disappear. His black hair clings to his forehead, damp and tangled. Sweat beads along his temples despite the cold rain. His breathing comes fast through his nose, sharp and uneven, because thick black tape seals his mouth shut.
He's wearing the same black uniform as everyone else.
But on him, it doesn't sit right. The collar is crooked. The sleeves hang awkwardly. It looks forced onto his body, like a costume he never agreed to wear.
His wrists are bound tightly with rope. So are his ankles. The knots are thick and deliberate. There's barely enough room inside the coffin for him to shift his weight. Even if there were, he wouldn't manage much—his face is bruised, skin split at the lip beneath the tape, one cheek swollen dark.
He tries to move.
The coffin answers with dull thuds as his body hits the wood. The ropes strain. His shoulders jerk. But it's useless.
The gentleman watches, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His umbrella tilts slightly as his hand trembles.
The old man beside him lets out a quiet sigh.
"As I said… the blood shows pity to no one. You can see it with your own eyes."
The gentleman's fingers tighten around the handle of his umbrella. He takes a small step back without realizing it.
The old man slowly turns his head.
For the first time, his face is fully visible. There's no shock and fear there. Only a calm that feels worn in, practiced over many years. Lines crease his skin, deep and unmoving.
He has seen this many times before.
"Too bad for you, young man," the old man murmurs.
Rain slides down the edge of his umbrella, dripping off the tip.
"I'm already old. Nearing my death. Even if I'm infected by her blood, I can die without hindrance."
His lips curve faintly.
"But young people like you… you still have your whole life ahead."
A dry laugh escapes him. Then he faces forward again, as if the matter no longer concerns him.
The gentleman stands frozen now. Every word sinks into him with brutal clarity. He knows the old man isn't wrong. That's what terrifies him.
In the coffin, the boy keeps struggling. His chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm. His eyes dart across the sky above, then to the blurred shapes of faces staring down at him.
Inside his mind, anger swells until it nearly drowns out the fear.
'Curse this world.'
The old man with the hammer steps forward at last.
Mud clings to the edge of his shoes, but his pace stays steady. The men carrying the thick iron nails follow close behind him, their grips firm and faces blank.
Several others move in at the same time. They lean over the coffin and seize the boy's legs and shoulders, pressing him down against the wood. Fingers dig into fabric and bruised skin. There's no room left for him to twist away.
His eyes fly open wider.
He stares straight at the old man standing above him.
The hammer rests heavy in the elder's hand. Rain slides down its metal head.
His voice comes out low and firm.
"Azrean Lumonging. We will free you from your fate. This is a better end for you."
Azrean looks at him without blinking.
'Better for me…'
The words echo in his skull.
'This?'
'How can you say that? Who even are you?'
One of the men hands the old man a thick metal nail.
The iron is long. Cold and heavy.
They force Azrean's hands closer together over his abdomen. Rope tightens around his wrists. His fingers twitch once before going still.
The nail is placed across both hands.
For a brief second, the old man adjusts its position carefully.
Then he brings the hammer down.
A sharp crack splits the air.
The coffin shudders beneath Azrean's body.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone inhales sharply.
Azrean doesn't scream.
His body jerks once from the force. His fingers tense, knuckles turning pale. His breathing falters, then resumes in short bursts through his nose. His eyes remain open, locked upward.
Another strike.
Metal drives deeper.
They move to his legs next. His ankles are forced together. The ropes are pulled tighter. The nail is positioned over both.
The hammer rises.
Falls.
The sound is duller this time, buried in wood and flesh.
Azrean's back arches slightly before pressing flat again. His throat works beneath the tape, but no cry escapes. His jaw trembles once. That's all.
Tears gather at the corners of his eyes.
They spill silently down the sides of his face, sliding into his hair, disappearing into the dark lining of the coffin.
When it's finished, the old man straightens slowly. He studies the boy for a moment then steps back.
He lowers the hammer to his side.
"Bring it."