Chapter 3: The First Execution
Dark Soul moved exactly as his master commanded.
No hesitation.
No unnecessary bloodshed.
Only fear — precise, deliberate fear.
The city had not yet recovered from the bank incident when Rank 8 resumed his patrol. The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of silence that settled after disaster. People watched from behind curtains now. Doors stayed locked. Hope had grown cautious.
Rank 8 walked alone.
At first, the sensation was faint — a pressure at the back of his mind, like a shadow stretching longer than it should. He dismissed it as nerves. Fans followed heroes all the time. Some from admiration, others from desperation.
But this was different.
This presence was wrong.
A cold, suffocating heaviness clung to the air. Each step forward felt heavier than the last. Rank 8 slowed, his instincts screaming louder with every breath.
Someone was following him.
He stopped.
The world snapped into motion.
Rank 8 vanished in a sonic blur, his body slicing through the air at impossible speed as he lunged backward — aiming to incapacitate the stalker before things escalated.
That was his mistake.
Pain didn’t arrive immediately.
First came numbness.
His left hand… wasn’t there.
Not pain. Not resistance. Just absence.
His arm fell.
It hit the ground with a wet sound that echoed far too loudly.
Rank 8 staggered back, eyes wide, breath stolen from his lungs as he stared at the severed limb lying at his feet. Blood poured freely, staining the pavement in seconds.
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The figure before him finally stepped forward.
Dark mist coiled around a humanoid shape, swallowing light itself. Within it stood a man — or something that once was — gripping a blade darker than night.
Dark Soul.
His sword hummed softly, not with sound, but with anguish.
That blade didn’t just cut flesh.
It severed souls.
The paralysis came next — the delayed cruelty of the Dark Blade. Rank 8’s body betrayed him as his remaining strength faltered. His legs failed.
He collapsed.
Dark Soul hadn’t even used his full power. He had simply turned Rank 8’s own speed against him — a single, precise cut placed at the exact moment velocity peaked.
“Interesting,” Dark Soul muttered, watching the hero bleed. “So this is one of the world’s strongest.”
Rank 8 gritted his teeth and activated his emergency signal.
The SOS flared.
Help was coming.
Dark Soul tilted his head.
“Pity.”
Before Rank 8 could react, the Dark Blade flashed again.
His left leg was gone.
The scream tore through the street.
Lightning split the sky.
Rank 2 — the God of Thunder — arrived like divine wrath itself, the ground cracking beneath his feet as thunder roared in response to his fury.
But he was too late.
Rank 8 lay motionless in a widening pool of blood, his body broken, his breathing shallow.
Dark Soul stood at the edge of the destruction.
Their eyes met.
For a moment — just a moment — Dark Soul considered staying. Fighting. Testing himself against the world’s second best.
But orders were orders.
Fear first.
He turned and fled into the forest.
“RUN!” Rank 2 roared.
He hurled his Thunder Trident forward, electricity screaming as it carved through trees, splitting the forest clean in half. The blast scorched the earth, shaking the city to its core.
Dark Soul vanished.
Rank 2 dropped to his knees beside Rank 8, fists trembling, teeth clenched so hard blood seeped from his gums.
Again.
He was too late — again.
The footage spread within minutes.
Every screen.
Every home.
Every corner of the world.
Heroes were being hunted.
The message was unmistakable.
In a quiet apartment far from the chaos, the 200th-ranked hero watched the broadcast in silence.
His hands shook.
His chest felt tight, like something was crushing him from the inside.
He turned slowly and looked at his newborn daughter sleeping peacefully in his wife’s arms.
Tears fell before he realized he was crying.
“I’m done,” he whispered. “I’m quitting.”
His wife didn’t argue.
She only nodded.
Survival mattered now.
Yet even as he said the words, something sharp twisted inside him — responsibility, regret, guilt — all cutting deeper than any blade.
He could report what he saw that day.
He could warn them.
He could help.
But doing so would expose him.
Expose his family.
Expose her.
Fear won.
He typed the resignation letter.
Folded it carefully.
Placed it in his bag.
As he held his daughter close, exhaustion claimed him — not sleep, but surrender.
The world had lost its Symbol of Peace.
And now, it was about to lose another hero.
This chapter marks the beginning of the real collapse of the world after the loss of its Symbol. From here on, the stakes only rise.
