The day of execution for the Sheriff and his cabal of sinners was blessed with a crisp, clear autumn sky.
It was as if even the supreme God of Light could no longer tolerate the transgressions of these men; the gloom that had persisted for days vanished, replaced by a searing sunlight that seemed intent on uprooting all evil from the small town.
The border town was far from prosperous. It lacked the lush vistas of the Imperial heartland and the towering spires of advanced magitech; there were only simple crossroads and rows of modest wooden cabins. In the center of the intersection, solemn guards—former members of the death squad—stood on either side of the gallows. Having washed away their own crimes, they now wore gleaming insignias of rank.
“Loyal citizens of the Empire,” Colonel Wren began. He was the organizer of this execution, dressed in a crisp, sharp uniform. Having shed his former cynicism, he looked more like a glorious Imperial soldier at this moment than any high-born noble from the capital.
“Today is a day for you.” Wren extended his hand, pointing toward the criminals struggling up the steps of the gallows under heavy escort.
The crowd erupted in hushed whispers as they looked at the Sheriff and the Chairman of the Tax-Farming Guild. Though the truth had been spread tirelessly by “Old Man” Martin’s men over the past few days, the sight of these once-untouchable figures being led to the noose still sent a jolt through the populace.
“Is it really the Sheriff? I’m not dreaming, am I?” “I felt something was wrong when the militia was forcibly disbanded, but I never thought I’d live to see the Sheriff brought to justice.” “He used to squeeze me for ‘security fees’ every month—no different from the bandits in the hills. If he’s gone, will our lives actually get better?” “Doubt it. It’s just big shots fighting each other. That Wren isn’t exactly a saint, and the new Princess is likely just a figurehead.”
Despite the “justice” being served, many townspeople remained wary. To them, a dead Sheriff simply meant a vacancy for a new one. In their experience, evil didn’t vanish; it just wore a new face. Ever since the border guards had their funding slashed, the collapse of the Unyielding Bastion’s structure had proven to them that the laws and the army they once trusted were unreliable.
“Come to think of it, the Sheriff started out as a fair man,” an old man muttered. “He made his name decades ago by wiping out the horse bandits on the wasteland. The Governor even gave him a knighthood for it.” “Indeed. Who knew the hero of back then would become a trafficker selling girls to the Orc Kingdom?”
Some of the elders looked on with complex emotions. They remembered the man the Sheriff used to be: dignified, just, standing on this very platform to send a notorious bandit to his death while the crowd cheered for him from the bottom of their hearts. Now, the executioner had become the executed.
“I believe you are all aware of their crimes,” Wren said, clapping his hands. “But hearing about it and witnessing it are two different things.”
A young girl in a simple linen chemise stepped forward. Her face was timid, but her eyes flickered with a hard-won determination.
“I will let a victim speak of the sins committed by these men,” Wren announced.
The girl hesitated. Even knowing she was in the right, the moment her mind touched those dark memories, she instinctively recoiled. Especially when her gaze met the Sheriff’s—his eyes were still fierce, showing no sign of regret. Even in his downfall, the tiger’s shadow remained. Thinking of her father’s desperate, dying eyes, she felt her voice fail her.
Whoosh—
A cool breeze blew her tea-brown hair across her face. For a moment, she was frozen.
“Hmph,” the Sheriff sneered. To him, she was just a peasant. He didn’t recognize her, and he figured Theresa didn’t even need to manufacture crimes; his actual deeds were enough for a hundred death sentences. But so what? The world was what it was. No one could change it.
When he first took office, he had been diligent. But what was his reward? When he was suppressed by factions, when his wife was assassinated, and his life’s work vanished, who stood up for him? In his despair, he chose to become part of the filth and found a bigger backer. “Justice” was served—his own version—at the cost of compromise. First, he looked the other way; then he minimized problems; and then…
Whatever, I’m dying anyway. I’ve bowed my head my whole life; I might as well hold it high at the end.
“What, you want to kill me but can’t even look me in the eye?” the Sheriff asked. His tone was so arrogant it made him sound like the judge and the girl the defendant.
The girl flinched. The guards in the dungeon had used that exact tone. “I… I…” She felt herself slipping back into that dark cage. She remembered her father, who had died in a “tragic accident” while searching for her. Did I cause his death? The courage to speak vanished.
“You can do it.”
A warm hand brushed the hair from her forehead. Green’s gentle eyes looked into hers, as if he could see her every thought. “You are not the one who is wrong,” he whispered. “The ones who are wrong are those who betrayed their original intentions and let the world pollute them, choosing to believe everyone is equally dark to numb their own guilt.”
Green’s voice carried a strange magic, dispelling her fear. “Speak your truth. Not just for yourself, but so that no one else has to suffer what you did. I thank you on behalf of those who will be spared because of your courage.”
So that no one else has to suffer… The girl’s resolve hardened.
“I… I am the daughter of Tyler the Blacksmith, from West Street,” she began, her voice gaining strength. She told her story: the fake job offer at Mason Manor, the kidnapping on the road, the drugs, and the dark dungeon. She spoke of the beatings and the taunts that “no one cared” and “any tracks would be cleaned up.”
“I tried to run, but eventually, I was so hungry I just gave up. When I was rescued, I thought I had left hell… but then…” She marched right up to the Sheriff and grabbed his collar. “Then I found out my father was dead! The office records say he died of illness, but he was a healthy man! We opened the coffin… his body was broken. He was beaten to death!”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the town square, it rang like a bell. “You personally ordered it, didn’t you, Mr. Sheriff? Tell me, why? My father… he admired you!”
Tyler the Blacksmith? The Sheriff’s pupils shrank.
A thin, wiry figure flashed in his mind. An old friend who always bragged about how filial his daughter was. They had been close once, but power and the service of the Second Prince had driven them apart. What did a powerful Sheriff have to talk about with a blacksmith? His son was a Lieutenant, nearly a knight. They were in different worlds.
But he remembered. On a rainy night, that “nice guy” had lunged at him, screaming, “You beast! There will be a reckoning!”
The Sheriff had felt a fleeting regret. He should have checked the kidnapping lists personally. But it was too late then. “Can’t we just let them go?” he had asked the Tax Chairman. The answer was: “This concerns the Second Prince’s grand plan. We can’t take risks. It’s just a blacksmith.”
Just a blacksmith…
“I remember Old Tyler. He was a good man,” someone in the crowd whispered. “He even lent us money last year when we were short on taxes.” “I thought she looked familiar. Poor Tyler… his wife died in childbirth leaving him alone with her. To think the Sheriff sold her to barbarians…”
The voices hammered against the Sheriff’s heart. He felt dazed as he was positioned over the trapdoor.
“Any last words?” Wren asked with disgust.
The Sheriff felt the rough hemp of the rope against his neck. The world around him blurred, and a figure appeared in his vision. It was a man in a crisp uniform with a steady, unyielding gaze. The Sheriff’s badge on his chest sparkled.
Who is that? Oh… it’s me. The version of me who just became Sheriff, full of hope.
“As the Sheriff of this town, I sentence you for your crimes…” the figure said, leveling a sword at him.
“Andy,” the Sheriff croaked out, his voice barely a whisper. Wren leaned in. “The Second Prince’s blockade isn’t perfect. Old Andy—or rather, his boss—has other ways.”
Wren’s face shifted. He hadn’t expected this die-hard to talk at the literal end. “Who is the boss? How do we contact them?”
“I don’t know… but Old Andy mentioned a name. A woman… I think her name was… Anna.”
Anna? Wren wanted to press for more, but the Sheriff could no longer hear him.
Clang!
The blurred figure in the Sheriff’s mind lunged with the sword.
Creeeeeak—
The trapdoor fell. The Sheriff’s body hung in the air.
“Hey, Tyler! I made the guard!” “Congratulations! You always wanted to be a Sheriff, didn’t you?” “Yeah. And when I am, I’ll protect everyone. I promise!”
In his final moments, the Sheriff saw the memory he had buried deepest. He had been wrong.