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墨書 Inktalez
William was pushed relentlessly, his steps chaotic and weak, like a drowning man helplessly swept along by the waves of the crowd. His feet finally stopped in front of the towering Guillotine, the massive black blade gleaming in the sunlight, as if eagerly awaiting his head. Everything before him blurred, and he felt a heavy aura of death, like a thick iron chain tightening around his throat.
“No! I don’t want to die!” William's body suddenly trembled violently, his hands and feet struggling helplessly as he tried to break free from those pushing him toward death. His voice was hoarse and desperate, like a beast caught in a snare, screaming as if his throat would burst. “I am innocent! Do you hear me? James is the real culprit; he has controlled all of you! Can’t you see it?” His voice was filled with fear and anger, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto the bloodstained Guillotine.
However, his cries fell into a silent abyss, echoing nowhere, ignored by all. The onlookers stood in the square, their expressions blank and indifferent, faces devoid of any emotion, as if this public execution was merely a dull daily performance. In their eyes, there was no sympathy or compassion—only a fervent anticipation for William's death.
“No! No! I don’t want to die like this!” William’s legs gave way beneath him as he knelt helplessly; his head was forcibly pressed down onto the platform of the Guillotine. The cold wood pressed against his cheek sent an unbearable chill through him. Beneath his neck lay a cold iron trough, and the shadow of the blade loomed like a monstrous specter hanging over him.
William's heart shattered; tears flowed freely as he cried out, “I am innocent! I just wanted to expose James’s true nature! Why can’t you see? Why is everyone so blind?” Yet his voice drowned in the surrounding silence; no one responded or paid him any attention. The crowd’s murmurs felt distant and emotionless as they watched this death ritual unfold.
At the edge of his vision, a tall man wearing a black hooded sack approached slowly, his steps steady and merciless. The man’s clothes were stained with dried blood, exuding an aura of death—this was the Executioner, the dark embodiment of death itself. Each step echoed like a grim knock at the door of fate, heavy enough to nearly stop William’s heart.
“Please! I am innocent! I shouldn’t die!” William’s voice grew weaker as fear coursed through him. His soul struggled against the coldness and cruelty surrounding him. He wept bitterly and cried out but received no response.
No one acknowledged William’s struggles or despair; the Executioner’s fingers were like cold steel, pressing down on his head and locking him firmly onto the Guillotine. The steel restraints tightened around his neck as if to crush his last breath. That feeling of being unable to escape was like despair itself, gradually eating away at his will.
The atmosphere felt suffocatingly heavy; the crowd's shouts became increasingly muffled. As William's tears fell, the world seemed to drown in silence. The people around him were as indifferent as seasoned executioners who had grown accustomed to death, silently watching everything unfold. William's mind spiraled into chaos; fear and pain intertwined until he could no longer think clearly. Tears blurred his vision while his desperate cries for help went unheard; no one acknowledged his existence.
Beside William stood a priest draped in an ancient robe, holding a cross tightly in both hands. His deep voice rang clearly amidst the clamor but lacked any emotion, reciting what sounded like soulless ritualistic verses. The priest’s lips moved as if conducting a lifeless ceremony, his voice coldly echoing in William's ears:
“Lord, You are both Judge and Redeemer; You grant forgiveness and mercy. May You forgive this poor soul and allow him to find redemption in death…” The priest’s voice grew steadier as if everything in heaven and earth had settled into place; any resistance felt futile.
“You are the light and glory of this world; Your judgment cannot be shaken; Your grace encompasses all things. May this lost soul find refuge in You…”
These words were meant to bring solace to the soul, yet they cut through William's heart like a cold blade, mercilessly severing his inner being. The pain and struggle within him felt increasingly suffocating, as if these sacred words had sealed and stifled his very existence. Each word seemed to proclaim his death.
"Save me..." William choked out softly, his breath quickening, each plea sounding like a futile knock against an unyielding door. These religious phrases offered him no comfort; instead, they felt like a cruel judgment, relentlessly pushing him toward the abyss of death.
At that moment, the cold laughter of the Executioner echoed once more, creating a bizarre contrast with the priest's holy words. The laughter was as chilling and mocking as James's voice: "William..." the Executioner whispered, filled with malicious scorn and taunting, "Welcome... to my world."
William's body went rigid; it felt as if his heartbeat had stopped in that instant. How could this be? This Executioner, this harbinger of death, was James! James had been orchestrating everything all along; from start to finish, this was all part of James's game!
"No... no... no!" William struggled frantically, screaming as his voice cracked like a wail from the depths of hell. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he pounded his hands against the wooden frame of the Guillotine, desperately trying to grasp the last thread of hope for survival.
The crowd around him began to shout loudly, their voices rising in a frenzied uproar as if they were witnessing the most brutal public execution. Stones, spit, and rotten tomatoes rained down upon William, the wet slime and filthy objects hitting him repeatedly, making him feel nauseous and trapped.
"I am innocent! James is a demon! Can't any of you see it?" William's voice was hoarse and broken, filled with fear and despair—the last flicker of his will to survive.
But no one responded; no one believed him. Everyone was lost in the frenzy of this execution spectacle, with some already cheering for the drop of the Guillotine.
The Executioner approached slowly, his figure resembling an immovable hillock, his clothes stained with blood. Each step he took was heavy and resolute. The black burlap sack covering his head obscured his expression but radiated an eerie authority. William's mind could not comprehend; he only felt that everything around him was mad and absurd. How had he fallen into such a fate?
Without hesitation, the Executioner forcefully pressed William's head down, locking his neck firmly in the iron ring of the Guillotine. Meanwhile, the priest stood nearby, still reciting scripture coldly, his tone steady as if performing a sacred ritual: "Lord, may You accept this lost soul and grant him redemption in death; forgive his sins and grant him eternal life..."
William cried out weakly: "I am innocent... I don't want to die... save me..."
But this world remained indifferent and cruel toward him. As the Executioner's laughter grew colder, despair reached its peak within William. His world began to crumble around him; it felt as though his soul was being completely stripped away. The Executioner's hand slowly rose, the sharp blade reflecting sunlight as it pushed all fear and death toward their inevitable conclusion.
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