A Tragically Beautiful End

The sky was dark, on the verge of shedding tears for the injustice unfolding in a certain town square."

KILL THAT MONSTER!!” a man roared from among the crowd. Another voice followed, even sharper. “I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL FOR YOUR CRIMES!!”

Those two curses sparked a chorus of shouted insults and hatred. And to whom were all these curses hurled?

A man—short black hair, eyes covered with a black cloth bound tightly around his head. His clothes were ragged and worn thin. Heavy chains bound his wrists, and iron shackles weighed down his ankles.

“Move!” A guard clad in armor barked, shoving the man forward, forcing him up the stairs toward a guillotine erected on a raised wooden platform.

The execution device—reserved for criminals of high status—served not only to kill but also to humiliate. Whenever this blade was raised, people flocked to witness death dressed up as entertainment.

The man in chains did not walk of his own free will; another guard dragged him forward, leading him to the slaughter like a lamb with no hope of escape.

“Kneel.” The guard’s voice was flat and cold, like his eyes.

The man obeyed, lowering himself and resting his head on the blood-stained wooden brace. The weighted blade hovered just above him, soaked in the memory of countless other lives it had claimed. His death would merely add another tally.

With rough fingers, the guard tore off the blindfold, revealing dark, lifeless eyes that had long since surrendered to despair.

He was about to close those eyes and accept oblivion when a rock struck his forehead, splitting the skin and spilling blood. A woman’s scream cut through the jeers.

“MURDERER! BECAUSE OF YOU, MY SON DIED! I’M GLAD THE OTHER HEROES DIED BEFORE YOU!!”

The man gave a low, bitter laugh. “Died? They were all killed protecting every last one of you.”

His voice turned into a snarl, rage twisting his battered face. “Damn insects! You dare speak their names with your filthy mouths?!”

His words poured fuel on the mob’s fury. More stones flew—some missing, others finding their mark with sickening thuds.

The barrage only stopped when a horn sounded in the square. The crowd froze, heads turning toward a figure ascending the stairs: a man draped in extravagant robes, a crown gleaming atop his golden hair.

At the sight of him, hatred turned to rapture. Cheers erupted as the king stepped onto the platform, green eyes narrowing with a polished smile while he waved regally at his people.

He paused before the guillotine, his gaze meeting the condemned man’s for a fleeting heartbeat before he turned to address the crowd.

With a single motion—his index finger pressed gently to his lips—he hushed thousands to silence. Not even a coin drop would have gone unheard, until the king spoke, his tone gentle and clear.

“My beloved people. I grieve for all your losses. It tears my heart apart to see you suffer. I, too, share the blame for what transpired in the past.” He lowered his head in a show of remorse.

“No, no! Your Majesty, please raise your head…” someone called out.

“Yes, please! It wasn’t your fault—it was that thing up there!” another shouted, and the people nodded eagerly, as if it were the only truth.

The king lifted his head, sorrow painted perfectly on his face. “Thank you for your compassion. But I must still bear the weight of my failings. That is why I alone shall execute this criminal—this former hero—my adopted son whom I once loved with all my heart.”

The gesture was unnecessary, yet powerful. It bound the people’s loyalty even tighter around the king’s finger. The condemned man understood that all too well—he knew the king saw everything beneath him as worms to be trampled. That is also the reason why he didn't remove his crown when he bowed.

But none of that mattered now.

A servant dashed up the steps, presenting a sword without a guard, its blade pure white: one of the three Legendary Excalibur—the royal family’s sacred sword, <Aurora>.

As the king grasped it, snow began to drift down, not chilling the air but forming an aurora-like ring around the criminal’s neck when the king pointed the blade at him.

Beautiful and horrifying. The people watched, spellbound. The man’s hands began to tremble—not from fear, but from the biting frost of the spectral ring.

The king stepped close, wrapping the man in a final embrace. To the crowd, it was the touching farewell of a broken father. But to the man, it was poison in his ear—whispered words that ignited a rage unlike any he’d ever known.

"You were always pawns..."

He tried to shout back, but his throat seized up. His neck turned white with creeping ice, his breath misted in the air, silent and helpless.

The king looked down at what remained of his ‘son’—pity in his voice, venom in his smile, hidden just out of sight.

“Goodbye, my son.”

The blade lowered. The moment it touched the ring, the man’s body froze solid—then shattered like brittle glass underfoot.

One final thought flickered through the hero’s mind before he ceased to exist:

'I’m sorry… Itsuki, Aoi, Hina, Ren, Yui, Ayaka…'

That day, the last of the seven heroes summoned to save the world died, condemned for sins he never committed. And though the people witnessed only death, they called it beautiful.