The Trembling Sword
'...A dream.'
I stopped standing still and began to move the moment that certainty hit me. Even when I drew in a breath, the air filling my lungs felt too thin. Not real air, but air made from memory. So I kept walking. I didn't know where to go, but I knew where I had to go. Strange. I knew this place. Yet there was no memory of it. A sensation lingered in my mind like a map. My body led the way first, and I passed through the narrow corridor.
The stone walls pressed close on both sides. The ceiling hung low. Torches hung at regular intervals along the walls, their light so faint it felt meaningless. I passed between them slowly. No footsteps echoed. Even on the stone floor, it was unnaturally quiet. As if my feet weren't touching the ground. So I glanced down at them for a moment.
My feet were clearly touching the stone floor. But no footprints remained. No dust, no sound, no trace.
No footsteps echoed. Even on the stone floor, it was unnaturally quiet. As if my feet weren't touching the ground. So I glanced down at them for a moment. My feet were clearly touching the stone floor. But no footprints remained. No dust, no sound, no trace.
I was descending naturally, without consciously thinking about walking. Moisture clung to the stone walls. A thin layer of cold, black dampness spread across them, with tiny droplets trickling slowly downward. I stared at it for a moment. One droplet slid down a crack in the stone.
Plip. It hit the floor. The sound was barely audible.
And then it came. A sound. Metal. Very faint.
Clink.
I stopped. The sound came from ahead. The end of the corridor. I tilted my head slightly. Again.
Clink. Clink. Iron trembling ever so slightly. The sound a hand makes when it shakes while gripping a sword. I walked on. Slower this time. The end of the corridor neared. The light grew a bit brighter. More torches. And then the corridor ended.
I paused there. A vast space. Underground. Several stone pillars stood, and it was circular. The ceiling loomed high but was lost in darkness. Torches lined the walls, their flames illuminating the center. I shifted my gaze there.
People. Standing along the walls. Soldiers in armor. A few of them. Holding swords. But their faces were gone. Empty voids. As if carved away by a blade. Only a hazy mist lingered in their place. I stared for a moment. Then slowly moved my eyes.
To the center. There. A person. On their knees. Hands bound behind. Shoulders trembling. Breath ragged and shaking. I moved my gaze very slowly. From the kneeling figure. To the side. And stopped. A sword. The execution sword. The one Executioners used—unnecessarily long, unnecessarily heavy. Minimal ornamentation. Plain scabbard. Just a crude, hefty lump of iron made for function alone. But in the torchlight, the blade gleamed faintly. As if ancient steel were breathing.
And the person holding it. I looked at them. At first, too far to see clearly. The light was weak. The torches didn't fully reach the center. Just hazy outlines. So I narrowed my focus, drawing closer with my eyes. Hands. Gripping the sword. Both hands. Clutching the hilt. But those hands were shaking. Not subtly. Visibly. Wrists quivering. Hilt shifting slightly. The blade scraping air, making tiny metallic sounds.
Clink.
I held my breath at the sound. I knew it. Anyone who's held a sword long enough knows it. The moment force is needed. But it won't come. When the hand won't obey. That's the sound it makes.
Clink. Clink.
The sword was heavy. Both hands gripped the hilt tight to bear it. Finger joints white with strain. Force applied. Yet it still shook. I stared for a long while. Then, very slowly, raised my eyes.
It was me. Hands shaking. Shoulders shaking. Breath shaking. And tears falling endlessly. I watched that figure calmly. My past self spoke.
"...I'm sorry."
The voice trembled. So much it barely formed words.
"...I'm sorry..."
She said it again. The sword still shook. Watching the scene, I realized. This moment. This sight. My past self had bound her hands behind her. Tightened the rope. Her breath grew rougher. And I dragged her here. To this exact underground chamber I'm seeing now. Forced her to her knees. She was crying. Silently. Breath shattering like it might break. Her shoulders trembled. I was seeing it all again.
My past self stood behind her. Sword raised, hands shaking. Shoulders shaking. Breath shaking. Tears falling—who's they were, I couldn't tell. The woman moved slightly. Shoulders shaking. Head lifting just a fraction. Her face still invisible. Erased. But her lips moved. Barely. Almost inaudible.
"...The child..."
I heard it. Even in the dream. Clearly. The words broke like sobs.
"...The child..."
Breath shaking. Words failing. She lowered her head again. And quietly said,
"...Please... take care of him..."
Ah. Right. You'd entrusted your child to me. I'd forgotten. The most desperate plea I'd ever heard in my life, and I'd forgotten it. That optimistic oblivion must be some ploy from somewhere. ...Ah. Right. At the very least, the Empire... is not justice.
"An Executioner must move only for justice." As much evil as you've wrought using me. I'll spread justice and judge your noble sacrifices. That justice will be one I've found after seeing countless people's justices. A single, perfect justice.
"...Philia submitted her resignation?"
The Emperor stared at the attendant before him in disbelief. The attendant's shoulder twitched ever so slightly. The motion was so small that normally no one would notice. But in this room now, that tiny tremor stood out unnaturally clear. He kept his head bowed, eyes down. Meeting the Emperor's gaze was one of the things you absolutely avoided to survive in the Imperial Palace.
His eyes fixed on the red carpet. That red was unusually deep, stained with traces of old blood soaked in and scrubbed out countless times. The attendant's gaze stuck there. As if lifting his head even a little would mean his neck rolling.
The answer didn't come right away. His lips moved faintly, but no sound emerged. A brief silence. Not long. But in this room, it felt oppressively heavy. The candle flames flickered faintly. One flame danced long, its light brushing the Emperor's desk.
The Emperor's fingers moved very slowly on the desk. As if sorting thoughts. A gold-embossed pen lay beside them. That pen had decided countless lives in the Emperor's hand. One command from it had burned cities, erased noble houses in a day. But now it lay unused. Just on the desk.
The Emperor's finger lightly tapped the pen's end.
Clink. The metal ornament rang softly. The sound was small. But the attendant's shoulder twitched again, slightly.
The Emperor's eyes lowered very slowly. And fixed on the attendant. The gaze was cold. The kind without visible anger. Like a snow-covered plain. Seemingly still, but freezing everything beneath. The Emperor's mouth opened slowly.
"...Say it again."
His voice was low. Astonishingly quiet. But something thin and pressed lurked within. The attendant felt it. His own fingers trembled faintly. He finally spoke.
"...Lady Executioner Philia."
His voice quivered softly. He drew a breath again. And said,
"...has submitted her resignation."
The moment the words fell, the Emperor's fingers stopped. The hand moving on the desk froze. For a moment. Very brief. But something shifted in that pause. The Emperor's eyes narrowed slowly. And then.
Bang.
The desk shook. The Emperor's hand had slammed down. The gold pen bounced up and rolled off. Papers scattered into the air. Candles swayed wildly. Flames nearly extinguishing. The Emperor's voice exploded.
"What?"
No longer low. It filled the office. Stone walls echoed it back. The attendant's shoulder jerked sharply. The Emperor shot to his feet. Chair shoved back. Harsh scrape on the floor. His eyes flashed. Rage. Unhidden rage.
"My sword is gone?" His voice erupted again. "The sword I forged myself?"
His hand slashed the air roughly. As if tearing something apart. His pupils flickered like flames.
"How dare she."
He ground his teeth.
"How dare she."
And growled almost,
"Who told my sword to resign?"
"...Her own will, it seems."
The attendant's voice was low. Near a whisper. He still hadn't lifted his head. Eyes on the floor. The red carpet. That red looked even deeper now. Probably because the air in the room had changed. Filled with the Emperor's fury.
The Emperor said nothing for a while. His eyes weren't on the attendant. Staring into the distance. No. More precisely, into ancient times. His pupils shifted faintly. And then.
The Emperor's lips twisted. Rage? Or amusement? Hard to tell from the outside. But the words that followed were clear.
"I was the first to shatter her emotions!"
His voice shook the office. Candles flickered. Flames stretched long. Shadows on the walls swayed in unison. The attendant's shoulder twitched again. But he said nothing. The Emperor wasn't speaking to him anymore. He was speaking to himself.
The Emperor's hand slowly swept the desk. Papers fell to the floor. He ignored them. His gaze darkened steadily.
"...Emotions."
He murmured. As if rolling an old word in his mouth.
"The first emotion that child had."
The Emperor's eyes closed very slowly. Then opened.
"Pity."
His voice was low. But firm.
"A weak thing who cried even while killing."
The Emperor stepped forward slowly. From behind the desk. Onto the red carpet. His steps were quiet but heavy. As if laden with thought.
"...So I broke it."
He said lowly.
"That pity."
A pause. Very brief silence. The Emperor's mouth curved up slightly. But the smile wasn't warm. Cold.
"A child crying while swinging a blade is useless."
He tilted his head slightly. The attendant still kept his head down. Daring not to look. The Emperor's eyes gleamed slowly.
"So."
He said.
"I made her! A blade that cuts anything without emotion."
His voice lowered gradually. But sharpened within.
"A blade that doesn't blink after thousands of kills!"
Bang!
"...And now."
His gaze fell back on the attendant. Coldly.
"Her own will?"
His pupils flashed.
"Don't make me laugh."
The words were quiet. But certain. The Emperor raised his head slowly. Looked at the ceiling. And murmured,
"...That woman can't have a will."
His eyes lowered again. Coldly.
"Because I shattered it all!"
"Ah. So it was you."
Philia smirked and strode in boldly. The Emperor's shout had been loud enough to hear from behind the door. She'd been listening purely to the confession of the one who'd stripped her emotions.
"The price for grinding me down like a dog for the Empire... I'll collect later, once I find true justice."
She said it to the Emperor, his face pale and frozen.
Live well until then.