Immortality stole death from the world—but it could not steal the ruin of the mind. When the heart corrodes beyond repair, only one answer remains: the Rite of Termination, carried out by the pale-eyed Executors of Calm Finis.
Daria has frozen her heart to carry that blade. Emotion is a flaw to be purged, attachment a weakness to be erased—and she has mastered both disciplines better than anyone. But the writ placed in her hands names a target she cannot erase: Ethan, the boy who once broke a s
Executor Dahlia — Before the Last Bell Rings - Paradise of Madness, Promise of Stone
It took twelve days to cross the Melanco Plains.
In the pale darkness before dawn, Daria stood motionless before the ruins of Remna Grease. Decayed concrete structures stabbed countless spires into the gray sky. Along the walls, green ivy patterns painted by the faithful crept along the cracks, brimming with an ironic vitality.
When she listened closely, she could hear the faint sound of water. An underground vein, most likely. In this world steeped in death, water alone barely sustained proof of life.
Unconsciously, Daria touched the shell at her chest.
*(I'm here.)*
That was all. No deep emotion, no relief, no fear — everything lay sunken beneath the freeze. The only thing that snagged at her senses was the shell's surface, radiating heat more intensely than ever before.
There was nothing that could be called a main gate. The former entrance to the city was half-buried in steel wreckage and rubble, countless brambles tangling over it to form a wall. Before it stood three figures.
They wore cloaks stitched together from rags, clutching rusty iron pipes and blunt weapons in their hands.
" Stop right there."
One of them stepped forward. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow. Yet deep within them, a fanatical light blazed. On the chest of his cloak was the mark of a bramble ring drawn in green dye — a member of the Torno de Espina.
" This is paradise. Filth like you isn't allowed in."
Another leveled an iron pipe at Daria. All three showed early symptoms of Heartrot. Their eyes wavered slightly in focus, their mouths twitching involuntarily.
Expressionless, Daria opened the collar of her black coat.
The silver pattern on her left cheek — the Calm Signa — pulsed faintly in the dim darkness.
The believers froze.
" …Executor."
The hand of the man holding the iron pipe began to tremble. But it wasn't fear.
" It's the Executor!!"
Suddenly, fervor spread across all three faces. Their eyes widened, their mouths twisted, their dry lips split open as if tearing apart.
" The Founder's prophecy has been fulfilled!!"
" The Executor has come! Proof of paradise!!"
One of them sprinted toward the depths of the city, shouting to spread the word among the faithful. The remaining two knelt on the ground as if welcoming a saint, pressing their foreheads to the earth at Daria's feet.
Expressionless, Daria walked between them.
*(The Executor's arrival is proof of paradise —)*
She tried not to think about the meaning of those words. If she thought about it, something would creak beneath the freeze.
The interior of the city was more grotesque than she had imagined.
Stalls cobbled together from the ground floors of crumbling buildings lined the streets, where believers bartered crude goods. Everyone was emaciated, their clothes in tatters, bluish-black spots of decay blooming on their skin. And yet, their eyes were full of life.
No — that wasn't right.
Not life. Madness.
As Daria passed, people stopped their work and stared at her in unison. A woman clutching a child wept; an old man traced a sign over his chest with trembling hands. Young people flushed with excitement, slapping each other's shoulders.
" Lady Executor…!!"
" She truly came… The Founder's words were true…!!"
" Do you think we'd be blessed if we touched her?"
The murmuring spread like a wave, eventually swelling into shouts of exultation. Someone cried Daria's name — likely a rumor that had drifted from Fortuna — and it amplified through the crowd.
Daria kept walking without stopping. Her narrow, bluish eyes remained like the frozen surface of a lake. Her short gray hair brushed against her cheeks in the wind.
*(This fervor — if you flip it over, it's hostility.)*
She intuited it immediately. What they worshipped wasn't Daria herself. It was the Executor as a "symbol" that proved the Founder's teachings. If they learned she meant harm to the Founder, this fervor would instantly transform into murderous intent.
Past the market, she emerged before the former city hall — now the cult's main temple, called the "Hall of Roots."
And at the sight that spread before her, Daria stopped walking.
The Garden of Silence.
The former central plaza, sprawling across the southern edge of the ruined city. This place alone overflowed with green. Moss covered the cobblestones, grass grew knee-high, and ivy crawling over every wall flourished with vivid leaves. In this dead world, Daria had no memory of ever seeing so much green.
At the garden's center stood a single, towering oak tree. At its base, a simple wooden chair.
And then —
The crowd parted to the left and right.
As if the sea itself were splitting. Hundreds of believers opened a path, bowing their heads all at once.
Women sobbed; some men let out choked cries. Some prostrated themselves on the ground, others gazed skyward and began chanting prayers. A maddened piety made the air tremble heavily.
At the end of that path, he stood.
Ethan.
Founder of the Verde Eterna. Preacher of the endless paradise.
His black hair, grown to his shoulders, was unkempt, tangled in places. His golden eyes were unfocused, his left eye drifting slightly in a different direction — a physical manifestation of Heartrot. Black vein-like patterns crawled like ivy along his left wrist, which he reportedly called the "map of paradise."
A faint smile was plastered on his lips. It was said to be a fixation of his facial muscles caused by Heartrot, yet even so, there was something irresistible in that smile.
Madness and benevolence, melded together.
At his neck, a small stone pendant swayed.
A gray river stone, with clumsy lines scratched across it like a child's handiwork, crossing in an X.
Daria knew that stone.
*— That's mine.*
From when she was seven.
She had picked up a stone by the riverbank and split it in two.
She had given one half to Ethan.
*(Why.)*
Somewhere in her mind, a frozen thought sounded a warning. *Don't think about it. Don't remember emotions.*
But.
The shell at her chest was hot.
More clearly than ever before, it radiated a heat close to pain.
Ethan stepped forward.
" Daria."
His voice was gentle, yet fragmented. As if he were picking up each word one by one from the bottom of a great river.
" I've been… waiting for you to come. All this time."
He spread his arms toward the crowd.
" Behold. The Executor has visited our paradise."
The believers' cries spread like a tremor through the earth.
" A miracle!!"
" The Founder's prophecy was true!!"
" Proof of the endless paradise…!!"
Ethan's golden eyes fixed solely on Daria.
Unfocused eyes. And yet, the light of will lurking within them was astonishingly clear.
He extended his hand toward Daria.
" All is within the green."
His catchphrase. His words.
" The end is the beginning. Isn't that right, Daria?"
The words of a Founder said to have been reduced to incoherence by Heartrot. But now, the resonance of his voice as he spoke to Daria was far too lucid.
Far too — rational.
Daria didn't answer.
Instead, she stared back at Ethan with cold blankness. That was her armor. For freezing her emotions.
But — no.
Something beneath the freeze was creaking.
*(Is this man truly in the fourth stage of Heartrot?)*
The word "irreversible," written in the orders, flickered ominously in her mind.
At the front row of the crowd stood a girl.
A short girl with fiery red hair tied in twin tails. Her large, light-brown eyes emitted an eerie light in her freckled face. Part of her left earlobe was missing, and a charm woven from white lint swayed at her neck.
Mia.
She gazed up at Ethan with enraptured eyes. As if looking at a god. Or perhaps — like a maiden in love.
But the moment that gaze turned toward Daria —
The air changed.
Fervor, into murderous intent.
Her faint smile twisted sharply, like a blade.
" …Executor."
A low voice. A rushed, almost rambling cadence.
" So you're the one."
An appraising gaze crawled over Daria's entire body. The Executor's pattern on her left cheek, the physique beneath her coat, the dirt on her laced boots. Observing everything, analyzing — and then, with hatred.
" I heard you were coming, from the Founder's words."
Mia took a step closer to Daria. She stood about 148 centimeters tall. Much shorter than Daria. But the density of hostility emanating from that small body was abnormal.
" I don't believe it."
She clenched her teeth, her chipped front tooth distorting her mouth.
" Proof of paradise? Don't make me laugh. The Executor is a god of death. Paradise doesn't need you."
The surrounding believers stirred. Some sympathized with Mia's words; others hurried to restrain her. But Mia continued regardless.
" The Founder is too kind, so he accepted you — but I'm different. If you do anything to the Founder, I'll kill you."
It wasn't a threat. It was spoken like a statement of fact.
" Remember that."
Daria looked down at Mia in silence.
*(This girl is the commander-level figure of the Torno de Espina.)*
About fifteen years old. Barely past adulthood. But the purity of her fanaticism was incomparable to the other believers.
Hatred as the flip side of love.
The fear of being abandoned drove her this far.
At that moment, Ethan casually placed his hand on Mia's head.
" Mia."
The instant her name was called, Mia's entire body trembled. Her hatred-filled eyes widened, and a color of rapture spread through them.
" Founder…!"
" Welcome her properly. She is my guest."
In that voice coexisted a strange gentleness and an irresistible command.
Mia continued glaring at Daria for a while. But the fact that Ethan's hand still rested on her head gradually dissolved her hatred.
" …Yes."
With a final glance at Daria, Mia stepped back. But her eyes had not yet lost their murderous intent.
Still wearing his smile, Ethan announced to the believers:
" Let us hold a feast. To celebrate the Executor's arrival."
The feast held in the ashen market was a humble affair.
The bread the believers brought was hard, and the water tasted of mud. Even so, they were fervent. A special seat was prepared for Daria, and women scattered flower petals at her feet — though they were merely the petals of nameless wildflowers picked from the garden.
" Lady Executor, please eat!"
" If you need anything, anything at all, please tell us."
Daria accepted the offered bread in silence.
She ate.
There was no taste.
For her, with her emotions frozen, even her sense of taste was dull and distant.
But amid the heat of the feast, she was calculating.
*(Ethan is talking to believers now — there's an opening.)*
Her mission was one thing. To carry out the Rite of Termination.
To deliver death to a subject who had been judged to be in the fourth stage of Heartrot. That was the Executor's role.
Daria stood. No one paid attention. The believers were singing to each other, praying, crying, laughing.
She threaded through the crowd and approached Ethan.
One step. Another.
He was at the base of the oak tree, speaking with several believers. If she reached out, she could touch him.
Daria slipped her right hand inside her coat and touched the engraved cloth. The Calm Signa on the back of her left hand began to glow faintly — a precursor to the Rite of Termination.
Five more steps.
The shell at her chest blazed with intense heat.
*(Hot.)*
She didn't know why. It felt as if something was thrashing beneath the emotional freeze. But Daria ignored it.
Three more steps.
She extended her hand —
In that instant.
Ethan's hand caught her wrist.
Gently, but firmly.
" Daria."
His golden eyes captured Daria at point-blank range.
His focus was unfocused as ever. Even so, his gaze saw through to the depths of Daria's heart with terrifying clarity.
" The Rite of Termination can only be carried out after a formal judgment of fourth-stage Heartrot is issued — and above all, without the subject's consent, it cannot be executed. Isn't that right?"
Daria'
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