The Witch Hunter rode at the head of his squadron, his dark cloak billowing softly in the breeze. The squad's pace had slowed to a gentle gallop, their horses' hooves rhythmically striking the packed dirt road. The forest stretched on either side, dense with shadows and the soft rustle of unseen wildlife.
"Why were we tasked with catching the Death Dealer? Wasn't he doing a service to society ?" said Ulric, a wiry man with a narrow face.
Wymond, a grizzled veteran with a scruffy beard, raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Ulric?"
Ulric straightened in his saddle, his expression earnest. "I've heard stories. They say that after he began his... work, fewer people returned to crime after serving their sentences. The truly irredeemable never walked free, but isn't that what we do with the death sentence? Declare a person beyond hope?"
Oswin, a rugged fellow with a prominent scar running down his cheek, frowned, while Wymond stroked his chin thoughtfully. The squad fell silent, the only sounds the clinking of armor and the rhythmic thud of hooves.
Finally, Wilfred, a halfling with long curly hair, dared to speak. "Nah, I don't buy your take on this." Obe, a stoic warrior with unwavering eyes, gave a small grunt—a quiet nod of agreement.
"Whether he was a positive force for society or not is beside the point," said the witch hunter suddenly.
Furrowed brows and contemplative gazes replaced their usual composure. One of the soldiers shifted uneasily, his voice barely above a whisper as he murmured, 'I'm not sure I follow...'
The Hunter then glanced at Ulric, his expression unreadable. "Let me tell you all a story," he said, his voice steady. "Perhaps it will clarify things."
"There was a shepherd," he began, "who tended a flock of sheep in a vast meadow. His duty was to guide them, protect them from wolves, and ensure they remained together."
"One day, a stray dog wandered into the meadow. At first, the dog seemed like a blessing—it barked at predators and herded stray sheep back to the flock. The shepherd's helpers admired the dog, saying it was clever and brave, perhaps even an asset to the flock."
"But the shepherd noticed something troubling." He paused, letting the words linger.
"The dog wasn't following his commands. It herded the sheep, yes, but not always in the right direction. It barked not to signal danger, but to assert control. The sheep grew confused—was the shepherd their master, or was it the dog? The dog didn't mean harm, but its actions undermined the shepherd's authority. If left unchecked, it wouldn't be long before the flock began to stray, unsure of whose lead to follow."
Wilfred narrowed his eyes. "So, what did the shepherd do?"
"The shepherd removed the dog," the witch hunter said flatly. "Not because it was vicious or evil, but because it didn't belong. The shepherd knows the flock needs order, not confusion. Authority, not competition. Without those, the flock would splinter, leaving them vulnerable to the wolves."
The squad shifted in their saddles, the meaning of the story sinking in.
"The Death Dealer," the witch hunter continued, "wasn't only dangerous because of the lives he took or the criminals he judged. He was dangerous because he led people to question the shepherd—the king. And in Atheon, there is no room for anything, or anyone, that shakes the foundation of order."
He paused again, his gaze sweeping over the squad. "But there's one more thing to the story." The men leaned in closer, their attention rapt.
"The shepherd was growing old. His strength was not what it used to be, and though he still commanded respect, he knew that time would eventually force him to step back. The flock, however, had only ever known him. They trusted his voice, his presence. Passing that trust to another would not be easy."
He straightened in his saddle, the leather creaking softly beneath him. "So, when the dog appeared, the shepherd saw an opportunity. He handled the dog himself, showing the flock that he was still their protector, still their guide. But then, he called his son to his side and said, 'Now you will do this.' In full view of the flock, the son stepped forward, knife in hand. With steady resolve, he killed the dog — a decisive act to show that the shepherd's authority would not be challenged. The flock watched silently, understanding that, from this moment, the son was no longer just an heir, but their true protector."
"And the shepherd's son... the flock accepted him because of that?" said Ulric.
"They accepted him because he didn't just speak of authority—he demonstrated it," the witch hunter replied. "The shepherd gave them no choice but to see his son as the rightful successor. When the time came for the old shepherd to step aside, there was no question who would lead."
He then paused, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. "The king has no son," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "But Aetheon will not remain without a shepherd forever."
The witch hunter spurred his horse slightly ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "But for now, we ride to the palace. There is much to discuss with the king."
By the seventh day of their journey, the squad approached a modest guard post perched at the edge of a trading route. The sun hung high, casting long shadows across the worn path. The horses were tired now, their flanks heaving softly. As they approached, voices drifted from the guards—low, casual chatter, as if unaware of their presence.
They slowed to a walk as a pair of guards stood near the gate, their spears resting against the wooden palisade. The witch hunter exchanged nods with his men and dismounted quietly, blending with the flow of soldiers coming and going.
"…another one, did you hear? Just yesterday, a man condemned to death, ... found dead before the executioner's blade could fall."
The other guard snorted. "Strange business. Folks say it's the work of that Death Dealer.. Something written on their forehead .."
The witch hunter stopped in his tracks, the weight of the news settling deep in his bones.
"Then, some say they come back… rising from the grave, like the tales we shunned," the first guard muttered, shaking his head. "First the newly freed criminals, and now this!"
The witch hunter's jaw tightened. His gaze swept across the tired faces of his men, shadows of doubt flickering in their eyes. Without a word, he turned back to his horse, his movements sharp and deliberate.
"We rest no longer," he said, voice low but resolute. "If we are to find real answers, they will be at the palace, from the king himself," he added, his tone brooking no argument. "Not here, not from rumors or whispers."
The horses stirred, their hooves rising again on the dust-choked road, as the squad pressed onward toward the capital…
The bells of morning tolled hollow in the smog-thick skies of Bungrith, the kingdom's capital, where street-side billboards bore bold letters that read:
"Truth lies in Flesh, Not in Spirit."
"Atheon Kingdom, Built by Reason."
" …"
Yet in alleyways, under bridges, in forgotten libraries, and shattered shrines, whispers continued.
Of magic.
Of resurrection.
Of a certain Death Dealer.
Science is not a subject in Bungrith. It is a language. It is the way you earn a license, buy land, get married, bury your dead, measure your thoughts, … All else is private fiction. And privately, fiction is growing.
Outside the lecture halls, a street preacher shouted on a wooden crate. "Awake! Awake, ye blind and faithless! The dead have risen! Miracles return!!"
"Science is a new false god. Everything can be measured. Except grief ! Except love ! Except .." A soldier knocked him off the box with a baton. "Public incitement. Disorder. Anti-rational propaganda."
In the Royal Academy of Natural Reason, students gathered beneath a massive fresco showing a man dissected into perfect geometry—just layers of tissue and sinew labeled in careful ink. Professor Avelyn strode between the rows of benches, her voice crisp and ironbound.
"Consciousness is a byproduct of the body's chemical processes. You are a sack of fluids navigating impulse and memory."
A young girl raised her hand timidly. "But what about the stories of the ones who came back?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"Rumors," the professor said. "Mistaken reports. The brain reacts strangely near death. Hallucinations. Never trust the perceptions of the hysterical."
In the Temple District—now more museum than sanctuary—old cathedrals stood hollowed out, their icons melted down, their altars converted into anatomical theaters. One church had been repurposed into a planetary simulation dome. Tour guides explained orbits with clockwork models beneath faded frescoes of angels.
The capital was unlike any other place in the kingdom. Information, like medicine, was rationed. Curated. Sanitized. Which is why they were the last to hear of the Death Dealer. The whispers came late, fractured and half-believed—smuggled through outlaw frequencies, scribbled in the margins of condemned books, murmured by travelers who stayed only one night.
And Bungrith, cloaked in its perfect systems, had no defense for myth made real. Here, heresy wasn't burned—it was laughed out of the room, then clinically diagnosed. Superstition didn't spark mobs; it earned fines, re-education sessions, quiet disappearances. Truth was peer-reviewed. Belief was background noise, like wind or birdsong—harmless, irrelevant, easily filtered out.
And so, when the first rumors reached the capital—of people dying strange, impossible deaths; of bodies buried and seen again—the city responded the only way it knew how.
It denied. The reports were dismissed as rural distortions, backwater hysteria, likely symptoms of neurochemical contamination. Nothing supernatural, certainly.
But denial, even institutionalized, has its limits. Because the stories kept coming. They slipped through the cracks in unexpected ways—on a mislabeled courier manifest, in the dying confession of a rationalist inspector, …
Unexplained patterns emerged in the Ministry's mortality registry: too many names, too many parallels, too many deaths that didn't quite fit the body. Privately, a few officials began to worry—not about ghosts or sorcery, but about narrative. The shape of it.
A pattern is the one thing Atheon cannot ignore. And slowly, unease threaded its way through the capital's perfect systems. First came longer committee meetings. Then delayed public reports. Then sudden reassignments.
Someone was writing the rules of death—and breaking them at will. And if it continued—if the patterns kept spreading, if fear kept climbing into homes where fear had never belonged—then even Atheon, with all its safeguards, would no longer be able to contain it...
The royal court buzzed with subdued activity—scribes shuffling parchment, guards standing stoic, and nobles murmuring in quiet corners.
The doors to the chamber burst open with a loud clang, and Gerold hurried in, his robes sweeping the polished stone floor. His face was pale, his usually composed demeanor rattled.
"Your Majesty!" Gerold's voice echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of every soul in the room.
King Henry straightened, gripping the armrests of his throne. "What is it, Gerold? Speak."
Gerold paused to catch his breath, then said, "A body… it was found this morning. At the outer gate of the palace."
The king's eyes narrowed. "And why would you disturb me with this?"
"It bears an inscription, Your Majesty—a strange one, unlike the others." Gerold swallowed hard, his unease palpable. "It reads: 'When my body is delivered to the king's court.'"
The court fell silent. King Henry's face darkened.
Gerold hesitated, his eyes darting around as if searching for courage. Then he stepped forward, lowering his voice but ensuring every word reached the king's ears.
"But, Your Majesty…" Gerold's voice faltered, then steadied.
"The body is Batin."
A muscle twitched in the king's jaw, his face betraying a storm of emotions—shock, anger, and something deeper, harder to name.
Gerold lowered his gaze. "It appears to be the work of the Death Dealer, though this message... it does not match his usual pattern. It is deliberate, a direct challenge to the crown."
"..."
"Bring him here," He commanded.