The Executioner and Her Way of Life

It was one of many endings, the conclusion of a journey long past.

Whiteness, everywhere.

Nothing but pale salt spread in every direction. It was heavier than a white cloud, harsher than a white fog, harder than white sand, purer than white light.

A single sword had turned everything underfoot to powdery dust. As the waves crashed against the coast, the sand slowly melted into the sea, eventually reducing what was once a continent to a solitary island. A moment ago, the island’s volume increased by precisely the weight of one teenage girl, but that would only buy a few more seconds.

A single young woman walked along the great expanse of sand that seemed like all the universe’s purity manifested into one alabaster world.

She was roughly twenty years old, with dark-red hair that came down to her shoulder blades. Her face was calm and wizened but hadn’t yet lost its youth. There was no hint of expression on her face as she strolled in her indigo priestess’s robes.

No one would suspect that she had killed someone just moments prior.

As a member of the Faust, who worshipped the Lord, she carried a scripture under her left arm. Because it was a priestess’s duty to hold the scripture in her left hand, many of them specialized in one-handed weapons that could be used in their right.

This young woman appeared to be no exception, as she gripped a sword in her right hand.

At a glance, it looked like a very fragile armament indeed.

It was neither elegant nor majestic, nor did it appear practical. The blade was thinner than any rusted or corroded one, brittle enough that it might collapse at a touch or even melt away if it was exposed to rainfall.

The Sword of Salt.

This weapon she carried so casually in her fingers was, in fact, the most terrifying sword in existence. It possessed the power to transform anything its white blade cut into salt.

She had used it minutes earlier to stab an Otherworlder.

Such people were also referred to as lost lambs, for they came from a country called Japan in some faraway world. Each one came bearing a supernatural power called a Pure Concept. Sometimes, they even acquired immortality. They could wield powerful conjurings at the cost of their memories, and if those recollections ran out, they became Human Errors that could effortlessly wipe out an entire city.

Yet even a human with such incredible might could not escape the Sword of Salt.

Yeah, that’s as it should be.

Abruptly, the woman thought back to the final moments of the person she slew.

Her victim, who had accepted her inevitable death with a smile, was the closest friend the priestess had ever known. The black-haired maiden had been an insightful intellectual, and she’d loved to mystify people with her words. They’d traveled here together, and now the priestess had killed her own dearest companion.

No conjuring in the world could stop the erosion brought on by the Sword of Salt. It was absolute and irreversible. Excluding water, air, and salt, everything that knew the kiss of its blade crumbled to salt without fail. Not even a Pure Concept holder was immune.

The priestess had brought her all the way here, to the land of salt, in order to kill her. It was for the best. She was an Executioner, a villain. She came here to do what was necessary and had stabbed her friend with the white sword.

“If that’s what you’ve decided, then it’s the right choice.”

Upon realizing that she would soon become part of this expanse of white, the girl had smiled.

“I’m okay with this being the end, so long as it’s your choice. Although… I do hope this is the last time.”

And with that, the journey ended.

The girl who had just killed her friend stopped walking.

She was at the center of this island that had once been a continent—the source of the salt erosion that spread endlessly. There, she thrust the Sword of Salt back into its place.

Her task was complete. All that remained was to go back. The priestess turned away, her face still placid, then stopped in her tracks.

A man had appeared in front of her.

He was in his thirties, and his stuffy suit and bowler hat made him very conspicuous. When she considered that this might be his direct response to her friend’s silly remark about liking “gentlemen,” she felt some degree of pity. Her late friend had been deceitful in many ways.

“Don’t tell me…,” the man began, his gaze on the Sword of Salt the priestess had just stuck into the ground. Then he looked around, confirming that there was no one else accompanying her, and continued in a tone of disbelief. “Did you…kill her?”

The young woman nodded silently, and the man gritted his teeth in painful regret.

“I see. So we were too late…!”

That wasn’t quite true.

They were right on time. He and his friends had arrived precisely when they needed to. If the priestess had waited, then her friend likely wouldn’t have died.

That was why she’d ended her life.

Ignorant of that, the man in the stuffy suit spoke with a determined light in his eyes. “…We received word from Ms. Orwell. She’s figured out who the Lord really is. As we surmised, the scriptures serve as the Lord’s eyes and ears. I doubt she is mistaken.”

Evidently, the man had deduced the identity of this world’s ruler, learned the true history, and reached the roots of all conjuring. Of course, the priestess did not need to be told any of this. The truth at the heart of this world was utter nonsense, as far as she was concerned.

“We are going to destroy the holy land. With you and Ms. Orwell on our side, we of the Fourth shall create a new world. At the very least, it will be a better one than this—a world where your Otherworlder friend would not have met such a demise!”

Kagarma Dartaros, the Director.

Born without any connection to the Faust and raised without influence from the Elders in the holy land, he’d begun to doubt the structure of society and established an alliance called the Fourth. A brilliant leader, he’d even recruited the young monster of the Commons, Genom Cthulha, and enticed the wandering soldier of the Noblesse, Experion Riverse.

They claimed a new rank in the established order and brandished serious power and enough momentum to move the times forward.

Flare, an Executioner of the Faust, had fought against them several times on this journey, as well as alongside them on occasion.

“Throw aside that which you hold in your left hand. And cast off the clothes you now wear. What good can come of holding on to them any longer? I know you understand. The blasted Elders are of no use to society. Much less their Lord! Just allowing them to continue existing is to stand by and let their corruption spread, which I will never allow!”

His claims were undoubtedly correct.

Yet not one of them resonated with her heart.

“Join us, Flare!”

When he called to her with the nickname she had earned on this journey, her expression changed for the first time.

She scowled in obvious annoyance and looked down.

There was no reason to bother with a reply. After all, she did not feel that the Elders’ actions were wrong. They were right in their own way, and most of all, no method genuinely solved the fundamental problems of this world.

Compassion, pity, anger… Whatever he and his men felt, she didn’t sympathize in the least.

There was only one thing that concerned her.

Namely, what came “next.”

Helping this group wouldn’t be enough to stop the “next” thing from coming. Flare was not the first, and she sincerely doubted she would be the last.

This world was utterly hopeless; there was nothing to be done.

How should she deal with this man who so misunderstood her? The answer came from what she held in her right hand.

“
You have new orders
,” sounded a voice from the scripture she carried. Upon hearing it, Kagarma’s face froze.

“Flare… Surely, you would not…” The man’s voice wavered as he spoke.

Her eyes narrowed, displeased by his reaction. The word
Why?
that seemed to hover in his eyes irritated her. As his lips threatened to form the question, she found herself tempted to tear them apart.

Who in the world did he think she was?

She was an Executioner, down to the marrow of her bones. She was Flare, the murderer.

The scripture in her grip calmly and coldly gave the order.

“You are to execute him.”

There was no defying her orders.

The Executioner Flare raised her sword as she had been commanded.

As the train slowed, her consciousness was dragged from the vision back into reality.

She had been dreaming of an old memory.

It had been back before Orwell became the archbishop. When she was still a righteous and upstanding clergy member. Nearly twenty years ago, before the name Flare reached the status of a so-called living legend.

Her mood was sour from the moment she woke up, and the scripture in her left hand spoke to her doubtfully.

“Is something the matter, Master?”

“Just a ridiculous dream, that’s all.”

Flare scowled at the old thing, which was long past broken.

In the days that followed that event, everyone who’d been involved with the Fourth decayed into twisted shadows of their former selves. That included Orwell herself. The difference between them and Flare was that they had hoped for a better world, while she had never harbored such thoughts to begin with.

“Ridiculous dreams are what made them end up like that in the first place.”

The trio who had been the core of the Fourth, Flare the Executioner, and the righteous Orwell.

For just a brief while, five people who would never have customarily interacted had converged and worked more or less together, all because of a single lost lamb.

That moment from her dream was undoubtedly when her path broke off from theirs again. They’d been locked in a ten-year struggle ever since.

Flare was confident the others would claim she was the betrayer.

And yet.

“…See?” she muttered. “Here comes the next one.”

A pointless past. A memory that didn’t even amount to any sentimentality. Even if Master Flare could go back, she wouldn’t hesitate to do it all over again. The only part she regretted was missing her chance to kill the Director.

Orwell became the archbishop and fell at the hands of Menou, who was known as Flarette. The fact that Orwell was slain first despite not even being there at the time seemed like a ridiculous irony now.

And now the Director, who had abandoned everything at the end of the bloody battle, had apparently escaped for some reason.

“I don’t know what he’s playing at, but it’s not going to happen.”

Surely he had given up long ago, so what was he thinking? Flare watched the afternoon scenery from the train window, but no answers came to her. The pane only reflected her bored-looking face.

She was growing older. After unconsciously comparing her visage in the window to her younger self, she stood, feeling something like depression.

A sulfur-scented wind stirred her dark-red hair when she disembarked the stopped train.

The town she stood in was peaceful and rustic, with unique wooden buildings lining the streets.

“The only thing to do about a crappy dream is to wake up right away.”

Master Flare threw back her head and laughed as she set about her sinister machinations.