In the middle of Helican Forest, near Southern Ezpriké, it was currently the middle of the night. Five people, all wearing tattered clothes, were still awake, surrounding a campfire that illuminated the area.

They all looked weary, filled with despair; no hope could be seen in their eyes.

"What are we going to do now?" one man said, his voice full of worry.

"I don't know," the middle-aged man by the nearest side of the campfire replied. "Maybe we should go to Caravos. It should be safe there—"

"Is it, though?" a dark-skinned man interjected.

"I—I don't know," the middle-aged man sighed.

The other two people remained silent, staring at them with soulless eyes, as though they had given up any hope of surviving.

They were all fugitives, wanted by the supremely powerful Empire of Uzbor. Once Mages of the Empire—at least in the past—they had committed crimes and treason against the Empire out of their own greed. Now, the Empire was hunting them, their faces plastered on literally every wall within its territory.

The middle-aged man spoke up again. "But we can't just remain here."

"So?" the dark-skinned man replied.

"If we get caught or we escape, we shouldn't stay here. At least in Caravos, we still have hope of hiding from the Empire's eyes," the middle-aged man argued.

The first man who spoke earlier narrowed his eyes and said, "We have no choice, do we?"

"Damn it," the dark-skinned man gritted his teeth in frustration. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten involved with you people. If I hadn't, I could have been living in the capital easily, not being treated like a damned fugitive. You're all too greedy!"

The first man chuckled and mocked him. "You're blaming us now? It was your choice to come with us, and you're one greedy bastard too. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't have gotten exposed!"

"What did you just say!?" the dark-skinned man shouted, standing up and gripping the first man's collar. "Care to say it again?"

"Shut up, you two!" the middle-aged man interrupted, then heaved a sigh of frustration. "We shouldn't fight. We're all involved in this, you know that, right, Markus? We need to work as a team now that we're all a bunch of criminals."

Markus, the dark-skinned man, groaned angrily and pointed at the two silent figures. "A team? Are you kidding me, Lucas? I'm not going to babysit two useless pieces of shit."

Lucas clenched his fists, but before he could respond, the first man suddenly approached Markus and punched him in the face.

SMACK!

"What the fuck was that for, Perios!?" Markus screamed, touching his cheek.

"You're going too far, Markus! If you keep babbling like that, you're going to get beaten up!" Perios said, laced with anger and frustration.

Markus fell silent as Lucas took a deep breath and stood up from the bark of the tree he had been sitting on.

"It's time for us to go," Lucas said. "We should hurry up."

Markus just stared at Perios with a grieving expression before standing up and heading to his tent to pack up. Perios looked down, rubbing his knuckles, before also going to his own tent.

Meanwhile, Lucas gazed at the two remaining people, Darius and Thorin. He sighed at the sight and shook his head in disappointment. Although he had been angry at Markus's statement earlier, he couldn't completely deny that he was right. These two were just heavy burdens for them-not to mention, they looked like they didn't want to live anymore.

After about twenty minutes, the group finally finished packing up, with Lucas and Perios carrying the belongings of the two men as they continued their journey.

"Alright, let's go-"

Before Lucas could finish his words, a line suddenly appeared, slicing from his head to his crotch, and his body split in half.

SPLAT! THUD!

Markus's eyes widened in horror as he screamed, "AHHHH!"

He stumbled backward, trying to flee, but a sword flew through the air, piercing his legs as easily as if they were made of tofu.

"AHHHH! FUCK, IT HURTS!" Markus cried, flailing wildly in pain.

Darius and Thorin, frozen in shock, could only stare—until their heads suddenly flew several meters away from their bodies.

Perios, witnessing this, felt his bladder give way, wetting his underwear. But he gritted his teeth and shouted, "Come out! Fight me like a man! Don't be a coward!"

"Is that so?" a voice responded.

Perios snapped his gaze toward the source of the voice. Standing there was a man with long, golden hair, his armor magnificent, gleaming in the firelight. He held a sword Perios had only heard about in legends—the legendary Executioner's Sword, Aetheris.

"Y-you, you are—?"

Before Perios could finish, his head flew from his body, leaving his corpse standing for a brief moment before crumpling to the ground. The golden-haired man's hand hadn't even moved. Yet, he had slain Perios, the strongest of the group, in an instant.

Markus, still on the ground, could only sob, tears streaming down his face.

DRIP! DRIP!

"L-Lord Draxus!?" Markus croaked, voice trembling. "Please, spare me, Milord."

The golden-haired man, Draxus Asheborne, didn't look at him. Instead, he gazed up at the sky as if lost in thought. Markus, wracked with anxiety, was ready to accept his fate. Draxus Asheborne—the Church's Holy Executioner. It was said that he was the strongest, unmatched in both swordsmanship and magic. No one was his equal unless the most powerful Mages banded together to fight him—and even then, most of them would probably perish.

Draxus was often spoken of as the only Mage capable of rivaling the legendary Mage Emperor from thousands of years ago. Though no one knew who would emerge victorious if they fought, many believed they were equals in power.

Rumors also whispered that, as a Divine Executioner, Draxus wielded not only magic but divine power granted by the gods. While the truth remained unknown—perhaps only known to the highest echelons of the Holy Church—there was no doubt that Draxus was extraordinarily powerful.

As Markus thought of all this, Draxus lowered his gaze from the sky and focused it on him. The air grew heavy with the suffocating presence of the strongest warrior alive.

"But you've seen me kill without remorse, haven't you?" Draxus spoke, almost to himself. "It wouldn't do my reputation any good if I let you live."

Markus's eyes widened at the realization. He had heard so much about Draxus—the hero, the symbol of justice, the one who punished evil and spared the innocent.

But the Draxus before him was different. He was not the hero the stories spoke of. He was a man who killed without hesitation or guilt. Perhaps, even with a touch of enjoyment.

"Aaaand, that's enough thinking," Draxus said with a chilling smile as his hand moved slightly.

Markus didn't even realize it. His body had already been sliced into pieces. There were no survivors left to tell the truth. No one, and never, Draxus muttered to himself as he turned and walked away.