Execution at dawn

The execution was scheduled for sunrise.

Ezekiel Vance knelt on the cold stone platform, wrists bound behind his back with iron restraints. A dozen soldiers surrounded him, their polished armor gleaming under the dying moonlight. Their faces were obscured by helmets, but their rigid posture told him everything.

They didn't see him as a person. Just a task to be completed.

At the front, the magistrate stood tall, his fur-lined robe billowing in the early morning breeze. His voice rang across the silent square.

"Ezekiel Vance, you stand guilty of being Forsaken, unworthy of the Divine System. By the laws of the Silvercrest Dominion, you are to be executed at dawn."

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Hundreds of people had come to witness his fate—noble lords in their embroidered robes, knights standing at attention, and commoners who had paused their morning routines just to watch another Forsaken die.

Some whispered to each other, their expressions unreadable. Others simply waited, indifferent, as though this were no different from culling livestock.

Ezekiel's heart pounded. His throat felt dry, his mind spiraling.

It wasn't fair.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years of hoping, of dreaming. Everyone received a system on their Awakening Day. Even the lowest beggar in the slums would awaken something—a minor ability, a combat skill, a support trait. Some were blessed with powerful gifts, becoming heroes, commanders, or rulers.

And then there were the Forsaken.

The unlucky ones. The anomalies.

Those who received nothing.

It didn't matter how strong he was, how intelligent, or how much he wanted to survive. Without a system, he was no better than an animal. And in this world, animals were either tamed or slaughtered.

Ezekiel clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The cold metal shackles bit into his wrists, a painful reminder of the powerlessness that had led him here.

This couldn't be how it ended.

His gaze flicked to the edge of the crowd. That was when he saw her.

Ava.

She stood frozen, hands clasped together, her emerald eyes wide with horror.

They had grown up together in the orphanage, had survived together in the slums. She had been the only person who believed in him. But unlike him, she had awakened a system—Blessing of the Verdant Healer—a rare support ability that gave her value.

She was allowed to live. He wasn't.

Ava took a shaky step forward, as if she wanted to say something. To beg. But the magistrate raised a hand, silencing any objections before they could be made.

"The condemned will now be sent beyond the city walls," the magistrate continued, his tone neutral. "He shall be given no food, no weapon, and no system. Should he survive the wastelands, fate alone shall decide his worth."

A cruel joke. A mockery of mercy.

No one survived the wastelands.

The guards grabbed Ezekiel by the arms and forced him forward. His legs felt heavy, his body stiff from hours of kneeling. He stumbled, but they kept him upright, dragging him toward the towering iron gates that marked the edge of the city.

Beyond the gates lay the Forsaken Lands—a vast, ruined landscape where criminals, exiles, and worse things roamed. A place where the weak were hunted, where the strong ruled like warlords.

A place where the condemned went to disappear.

The gates creaked open with a groaning sound that sent a shiver down Ezekiel's spine. The air beyond was thick with dust, carrying the scent of decay and scorched stone.

Ezekiel turned his head one last time. His eyes met Ava's.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then the guards shoved him forward.

The gates slammed shut behind him, sealing his fate.

For the first time in his life, Ezekiel was truly alone.

---

Hours Later…

The wasteland stretched endlessly before him—cracked earth, shattered buildings, and rusting remnants of a civilization long forgotten. The sun hung low in the sky, a molten orb casting the land in hues of red and gold.

Ezekiel walked.

His hands were still bound. His throat burned with thirst. His stomach ached with hunger.

He had seen bodies along the way—some long-decomposed, others fresh. A grim reminder that he was not the first Forsaken sent here. And he would not be the last.

A shadow moved in the distance. Ezekiel froze, his breath catching in his throat.

A figure stood atop a collapsed building, watching him. Their form was obscured by tattered robes, their face hidden beneath a hood. They made no move to approach. Just… observed.

Then, just as silently as they had appeared, they were gone.

Ezekiel exhaled sharply. He needed to find shelter.

Then he saw it—a structure, half-buried in rubble, like the entrance to an underground tomb. Unlike the ruins around it, the stone was smooth, untouched by time. It felt… wrong.

But he had no choice.

He stumbled inside, the darkness swallowing him whole. The air was thick with dust, the scent of decay lingering in the stale atmosphere. He collapsed against the cold stone floor, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

Faint. Echoing. A voice that did not belong in this world.

"You are not Forsaken."

Ezekiel's breath caught. His body tensed, instincts screaming at him to move, to run.

The air shifted. A presence filled the chamber—unseen, but suffocating. The whisper grew louder, filling his mind, his bones, his very soul.

"You are the last of us."

Pain erupted through his body.

It started as a deep burning in his chest, spreading outward like molten fire coursing through his veins. His vision blurred, flickering between reality and something else—shattered images of a world that was not his own. Symbols older than time carved themselves into his skin, glowing with an eerie crimson light.

A notification appeared before his eyes, floating in the darkness.

[ Sovereign's Paradox has been awakened. ]

[ Reality is yours to rewrite. ]

Ezekiel's scream was swallowed by the abyss.