Chapter 037 - Execution
Two dozen Groggins surrounded him now, standing silently and patiently. The rest hid in the shadows with their eyes gleaming like cats watching prey too large to kill cleanly. But they waited. They studied him and waited until he refused to fight.
Xollor stood tall, though barely. He wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand. The blades buried in his back clinked faintly as he shifted, iron biting into muscle. The sound lingered too long… metal striking metal, distant pain tugging at old scars. Chains, once cold around his wrists.
The thought surfaced unbidden. A gaze looking down on him, heavy with certainty. The same kind of certainty the Groggins wore now. He remembered clenching his hands until the chains cut in. Remembered lifting his head anyway.
Xollor looked up. His eyes met theirs with the same quiet resolve. And slowly, deliberately, he sheathed his sword.
“It is not over. I am still standing.”
One of the Groggins stepped forward from the shifting darkness and faced Xollor directly. Its voice was soft like a woman’s, laced with a serrated edge. It drifted through the field and stood in front of the crowd.
“Every slave comes around. You have nowhere to flee. You have no one to rule. Not even one to follow. So, who are you?”
Xollor clicked his tongue. “If you want to kill me, then come and do it. I am not dying like this. I will leave this world as a free man. You all are hypocrites. This farce of ‘saving people through division’—your prophecies are nothing but delusion and tyranny.”
It tilted its head, the corners of its lips curling ever so slightly. “And yet, you wagged your tail for us. Followed orders without question. If you truly believe you’ve seen through the lie, tell me: how will you redeem yourself for the blood of thousands spilled by your hand?”
Xollor said nothing. He kept his eyes fixed on the figure.
Its smile widened. “You have no answer,” it murmured. “Because you were too late to recognize your mistakes. You have no words for the dead. Are you really free?”
It stepped closer, just outside the range of his blade. “So why not keep wagging your tail? Do what all failed villains do: deny your redemption until the end. You already know it’s too late to turn back. We won’t kill you if you listen. Perhaps you are free in this way, if you simply listen to us a little longer.”
Still, Xollor didn’t respond. But his hand clenched tighter around the sword hilt. The silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
The Groggin chuckled and turned away. “Let us not forget,” it said over its shoulder, “you’ve already disobeyed our masters. And Luminar has ordered interference. So this is your punishment…”
Without further signal, two Groggins stepped forward, dragging a figure between them.
Wallan Frieda.
Burnt, bloodied, and half-conscious, he barely held his head up. They forced him to his knees in front of Xollor. One of the Groggins brought out a glowing rune—found near a dead campfire—and cracked it against the earth like brittle bone. A surge of luminous energy pulsed from the mark and swept through Wallan’s body.
- System Update ●
Constitutive Restoration Detected
Health Restorative Rune — Applied
+ Max Health
HP: 460 / 460
The transformation was immediate. Burnt flesh disintegrated, replaced by new skin. Ruptured blood vessels refilled. Blackened tissue restructured into healthy muscle. Hair regrew where it had been scorched. Blood vanished from his skin. Wallan’s eyes flew open. His clothes remained shredded, but moments later, awareness crashed down on him.
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The Groggins hoisted him up by the shoulders and shoved him back down in front of Xollor. He remained kneeling, breathing hard and staying silent.
“If you kill him,” the Groggin said, “we will spare you. Your system is bleeding out. Your stats are falling. Death will arrive soon. You don’t have time. Raise your sword. And kill him.”
Wallan’s pale face lifted. Their eyes met—one filled with quiet dread, the other unreadable. Wallan said nothing. He only maintained a steady breath, though his pupils were blown wide. And Xollor?
Xollor stared down at him, sword at his side, hand unmoving. His gaze flickered, uncertain and fragmented. A storm churned behind his eyes. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked back at the Groggins.
They tightened their ring around the two men. Shadows formed a perfect circle. Their black cloaks were unmoving, and eyes unblinking. There was no path for retreat. No loophole in the ritual. No trick left to reach for. Xollor’s time bled away with every heartbeat.
He would bleed to death unless he chose: to die, or to live.
On the other hand, Wallan could only look up at him. He looked at the crimson blade that could end his life, this whole nightmare. His voice came out rough, frayed thin. “Where—where is Vynelor?”
No one answered.
Wallan didn’t protest. He could rise if he wished. He could summon his QS and flee. But he already knew how it would end. Instead, he let out a soft breath. His head dipped. A fragile smile touched his lips, as if the silence itself had answered him.
“I see… As long as he doesn’t see.”
His words faded. Wind brushed past, carrying with it a quiet memory—campfire light, a familiar presence beside him. Wallan’s shoulders eased.
And then he began to hum a small lullaby.
Soft, steady. The one Vynelor used to hum, sacred in its simplicity, enduring in timeless dimensions. He hummed with intent, with calm. He hummed so the whole circle could hear. Eyes closed, he imagined the two of them by a riverbed, sharing the same melody as they fished, as they shared the fragile memories one last time.
And what memories they were, the final laughter the child would make, and the father to smile and know—
“The boy was safe. That was enough.”
Xollor stared at him, sword still unsheathed, frozen in his grasp. He had seen this before, a posture etched into him long ago. A voice, barely louder than a whisper, on a riverbed, asking for mercy for someone else—
Don’t kill him.
—His grip loosened.
“Who are you?” His voice cracked despite his effort. “Who are you to that child?”
Wallan lifted his gaze. In it lay a decade of choices that could not be undone. His voice was thin, but it did not waver.
“A failed father,” he said. “I wish I could’ve told him I was proud. Just once more. But that’s the price, isn’t it? When you can’t protect what matters. So… do what you have to do. No grudges.”
Xollor froze. His heart pounded, each beat louder than the last. Something long buried stirred, an unwanted truth clawing its way back.
Then a whisper cut through it.
A Groggin leaned close, breath brushing his ear. Its silky voice was wrapped in steel. “You know,” it hissed, “you know how the child’s mother looked when she died. Quiet. Willing. It’s always the same. Slaves. Obedient to the end. You forget that too often. You know what your hands have done. Stop hesitating. And obey.”
It stepped away.
Wallan raised his head. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. “I have one favor to ask. What is your name?”
Xollor turned toward him. His eyes were hollow. The answer barely crossed the space between them.
“Xollor. Tora.”
Wallan nodded faintly, eyes closing for a brief moment before opening again. “Xollor,” he said. “I have a last request. Keep the truth from Vynelor. Don’t let him know what happened to his parents. He shouldn’t carry that weight. Let him carry hope instead. Let him believe something good might still be ahead. And… keep my name out of it too. And to all of you—”
His gaze swept the circle. “If there’s any ounce of humanity left in you, please leave the child alone. I don’t know what brought you here, or what you’ve lost to stand where you are now, but leave him be. Do not make him a weapon, a monster. He is a child. He shouldn’t lose anything more than what he has already lost.”
Xollor turned away, breath faltering as he forced something down before it shattered. The silence stretched. Even the Groggins waited, one or two lowering their eyes.
Finally, Xollor raised his sword. His hand trembled.
His voice did not.
“Close your eyes.”