What Defines Me?
What defines me? What defines me? Silent Philia, Philia soaked in blood, Monster Philia. Expressionless Philia, Reaper Philia, Mad Bitch Philia... None of those titles were ones I chose for myself. Among them, the only one I came up with was Philia—the name for this body.
If I'd known it would turn out like this, I would've gone with a handsome muscle man.
Philia was an avatar I'd meticulously sculpted by looping through character creator artisan videos for hours. I'd originally planned to make her a magician, but that day, something felt off. I spun the random selector from a list of thirty-six garbage jobs mixed together. No avatar save function, so if I'd landed on something like "Beggar," it'd be back to hours in character creator hell. But the job assigned to me was...
Five Pillars - Executioner
"...Huh?"
I'd never heard of it before. I tried to screenshot right away, but...
Fwaaash!
"Ugh...!"
Of course, the computer's flash was faster. Even squeezing my eyelids shut, the inside of my vision burned white. A static hiss rang in my ears.
...That was my last memory as a "man."
Bang!Spluuurt...
"Situation terminated."
Chunks from the head burst out and slid down the wall. Red stuff, white stuff, and things I didn't want to name, all mixed together. Since I'd ended it with the sword's weight rather than the blade, there was no clean cross-section. If I'd fairly burst the head with the Execution Sword, that would've been it, but what could you do.
Craaaack...
I slowly lifted the sword. The gunk on the blade lagged behind a bit before gravity won and it plopped off.
Plop. Plip.
Something mixed of blood and brains seeped into the cracks between the stone floor.
"Executioner..."
Someone called cautiously from behind. I knew the voice without looking. Sir Max. He always showed up after I finished. Absent at the killing moment, but here to confirm afterward. That must be the Knight Commander's survival strategy.
"Speak."
I didn't turn my head, but as I replied, I heard him swallow.
"Confirmed. Target deceased. Contract traces appear dissipated."
"Good enough."
Simple. Devil Contract. In this world, few things looked as impressive. They say the contractor's eyes turn black. Patterns rise in their blood. They rise again even after death. All that drama, like it was something grand.
All of it...
Pathetic.
'Can't do shit without a head.'
Overdoing the boss act and failing to control their power endangers the knights too. Fighting while riding that otaku high unique to them racks up massive friendly casualties.
'My heart raced at the first battle.'
But in reality, the biggest emotion was the annoyance of wiping off the blood.
...The first time. When was that, again?
When I opened my eyes, I was already in the Empire. The Imperial Palace ceiling was excessively high, the walls overly ornate. Everyone around knew me. But I knew no one.
Executioner. The first title I heard then. It felt awkward. The name Philia too. The silver hair. Being a woman. The mirror showed someone who wasn't me, yet strangely not unfamiliar. My body adapted first. No, my body moved first.
When I gripped the sword. When the Execution Sword touched my hand. Its weight felt natural. To me, the Execution Sword was like the weight of a tree branch.
...At least to me.
After absentmindedly tossing it aside because cleanup was a hassle and smashing my room's wall, I realized it was just me being strong. A sword eight grown men couldn't lift properly. Jump in place and I could peer down at the clouds. Punch and a tunnel-sized hole appears. Reaction speed so insane, faster than my stray cat—named Cheese—even.
Hm. Hard to explain. Better to say that when I focus, things look slowed down.
Anyway, seeing things slow doesn't make my life leisurely. The Emperor calls on me first whenever he needs force.
Good or bad, I don't know. Good means I'm useful. Bad means the world is such a mess he has to use me.
'The Empire's most cherished monster.' Right about there in position.
Shing— I sheathed the sword and let out a soft sigh. The sigh dispersed thinly. Blood scent still lingered in the air. Iron tang, charred mana aftertaste, that peculiar sweet smell when humans die. Experience sharpens senses into categories.
...Handy talent.
I glanced once more at the wall splatter, then looked away. Staring more just makes it annoying. Sparks useless thoughts like 'Why'd that guy even contract?'
Most humans want to grow strong. Want recognition. Want to surpass the Emperor. Want to change the world.
And their end... is usually under my sword.
Heads of those who wanted to change the world burst more easily than you'd think. Just like those who compromise with the world. It was kinda funny. Though no one who heard laughed.
The Empire's Five Pillars were the pinnacle force group only mentioned in the game lore. Unselectable by players. Glimpsed in NPC dialogue... scribbled briefly on the setting book's last page.
The Empire's five pillars. The Emperor's fangs. Five symbols of the Empire's might. Subjugator dispatched for large battles. Judge barely alive thanks to skills, though I want to rip out their babbling tongue. Scout who points out my kills. Inspector leading the five.
And me. Executioner. The one who handles off-spec entities the Scout finds. Shattering them in one blow, just as the Emperor expected.
So no escorts attached. The road back to the palace was quiet. Knights keep a set distance. Sir Max too. First it was wariness, then respect, now habit.
"Executioner, I can handle the return report—"
"No need."
I cut him short. Reports are mine to give. It's regulation, and a domain I won't hand off.
Palace corridors are excessively long. Red carpets blood-like, unpleasant at first. Now, nothing. Footsteps barely sound. Silver hair brushes shoulders. Hands in view are slender and pale. These hands do that work. Sometimes a strange detachment hits.
No need for a mirror. I know my face is expressionless now too. Hence the names. Expressionless Philia. Monster Philia. Reaper Philia.
...Mad Bitch Philia.
I know who started the last one. Palace maids. I pretend not to hear, but I do. Focus and I distinguish heartbeats. Who fears me. Who admires me. Who envies me.
All of it. I could know everything if I wanted. Knowing changes nothing.
The throne room doors opened. The Emperor still looked young. No, appeared young. Golden hair cascades over the backrest. The throne looms exaggeratedly high; he sits naturally atop it. He smiles at me.
"Back, Executioner?"
"Target eliminated. No contract reaction detected."
Concise. No needless emotion.
His eyes narrow. "Casualties?"
"Knights: two minor injuries. No life threats."
"Good."
Good. He says it easily. To him, I'm a blade. A sharp one. Wieldable from a distance where no blood splashes back.
"Well done."
Formal words. Always light, like a toast after clinking glasses. But always with the unspoken premise.
Next time too.
I bowed and paused briefly. He said no more. His gaze from the throne presses on my back. Not warm, not cold. Just calculating. Necessary distance. A line not crossed. A line he doesn't let cross.
"May I withdraw?"
"Yes."
I turned at permission. The door's low thud echoed behind as it closed. Air lightened oddly the moment the heavy door shut. The throne room always suffocates.
I walked the corridor faster. Palace nights quieter than days, but hold more sounds. Candle flames crackling. Guards' breaths. Incense burning somewhere. The scent spreading down the hall wasn't just pleasant. Palace incense always has purpose. Stabilize mana, suppress unrest, or... dull emotions.
I felt it seep into my lungs and walked faster. Not because I hated the scent. Not hate or like—the intent irked me. Someone "managing" this palace. And including even me in that management.
At the corridor's end, where lanterns burned two brighter, a guard knelt.
"Executioner. We'll clear the passage."
"Unnecessary."
I passed. His breath trembled slightly. They always fear me yet expect me too. When the palace shakes, raw power remains last. And that power's name is "Executioner."
I flexed my gloved fingers absently. Leather folded smoothly at joints. Faint scent from the gloves: iron. Leather. Blood's aftertaste. Some smells don't wash out fully. Not body-deep, but memory-deep.
That room with blood lingering. Iron tang. Charred mana aftertaste.
Night air slipped through corridor windows, diluting the incense a bit. Outside air cold, low humidity, faint grass scent mixed in. Palace gardens maintained even at night. Not a blade of grass grows wild. Even gardens have specs.
And the gardener culling outliers... is me.
But...
'The specs the Emperor envisions and mine...'
How vast the gap? That idle thought lingered longer than expected. Until the sliver of loyalty to the Emperor crumbled to dust.