Execution Style

The air hung heavy beneath the gray sky as fog whispered secrets upon the wind. Gunn, his eyes narrowing against a bleak dawn, caught the sudden rush of a large shadow. The ground trembled under a tremendous force as Mortimor, the legendary executioner, slammed down mere feet away, his massive guillotine thrown over a shoulder like a macabre trophy.

They stood locked in a silent stare-down, sizing up each other's intent and strength before Mortimor broke the silence, his voice as deep and grave as the graves he filled, "Gunn, when no one desired my presence or prowess, Bramwell did. He saw not just the brute in me but the executioner."

Gunn, eyes fixed coldly on Mortimor, remained stoic, his hand idly brushing against the hilt of his weapon.

Mortimor continued, a tinge of unexpected vulnerability in his tone, "He gave me purpose, showed me a place in this twisted world. Now tell me, Gunn, what do you reckon being loved and wanted truly means?"

Gunn's lips twisted into a grim smile, his reply was icy, "The only means to being loved is to get rid of those who hate you. And if the whole world hates you, then you're stuck loving yourself, and where does that lead?"

With a heavy sigh, Mortimor's giant frame hefted up the guillotine slightly, using it to point directly at Gunn as he shared his belief, "To me, being wanted means having a place where I am appreciated. For all the blood I spill, each life taken is a corrupt soul that has robbed others of joy. I am not merely an executioner; I am a balancer of happiness."

He paused, clenching his jaw as his grip tightened around the wooden handle of his weapon. "Killing you before brought me immense satisfaction. It proved my worth to Bramwell. But seeing you alive now… it makes me feel as if I failed. That I am worthless."

A fierce determination lit up in Gunn's eyes as he interrupted, "And yet, out of everyone I'm targeting, you were going to be the last one I kill. You can't stop me, Mortimor."

The temperature of their conversation dropped as another chilling wind passed through, bearing witness to their impending clash.

Mortimor's eyes hardened, a cruel smile spreading across his face, "Then today is a good day for both of us. Ending you again will be delightful."

With no further words, Gunn drew his weapon, the sound of metal ringing clear in the morning air. Mortimor responded in kind, swinging his guillotine off his shoulder and readying it like a warrior preparing his sword.

Both Gunn and Mortimor plunged into the recesses of their minds, their physical struggle momentarily paralleled by a psychological odyssey. 

'To be wanted…to be valued…isn't that the essence of existence?' Mortimor's thoughts began to swirl, sending ripples through the darkness. Around him, ghostlike images danced, faces of those he had executed, their eyes empty yet accusing. But with each face that passed, Bramwell's stern yet approving gaze pierced through, giving Mortimor a fleeting sense of belonging.

'But what cost does this belonging demand? The lives of the unjust..perhaps just another necessary shadow on my soul.' He frowned, the weight of his deeds heavy on his spirit.

Gunn, concurrently, floated in a void speckled with memories, sharp and intrusive. 'Everyone who turns their back is just another enemy in disguise. Trust is a luxury afforded to those blind to reality.'  Images of past betrayals flashed before him, hardening his resolve with each flickering scene. The thoughts of seeing Bramwell and the Empire slaughter his family brutally, and remembering how they executed him publicly.

'To carve out a place in this world, the weak must be culled. It's the only way to breathe, to survive among the vipers.' Gunn's thoughts were cold, almost surgical, reflecting his life's brutal necessities.

As their inner reflections deepened, the stark differences in their philosophies became apparent, yet a common thread emerged, a relentless drive to validate their existence through the roles they were forced to play or had chosen under duress.

Suddenly, the mental imagery began to merge. Mortimor, amidst a sea of faceless crowds cheering for justice as he wielded his guillotine, and Gunn, alone, his silhouette bathed in the blood-red hues of sunset, perpetually walking away from a sea of corpses. Both men, though worlds apart in creed, found themselves in similar pits of solitude, carved by the blades they bore.

'Even in the depths of darkness, isn't there a longing for light?'  Mortimor questioned, his ideology wavering as images of Gunn's relentless pursuit flashed before him.

'This dance of death.. is it merely the echo of our loneliness? Mortimor, in his blind following, mirrors my own path..marked by bodies in pursuit of a peace we might never find.' Gunn's thoughts momentarily softened, recognizing his reflection in Mortimor's tortured soul. 'When I hugged myself last night..I felt the warmest embrace I've ever had since I was a child. I don't think I'll ever find that peace again. Physical connections with people, my thirst for revenge is the only one I have a connection with. And in my current status, it's the only one I can afford to have.'

[New Quest available: Survive against Mortimor the Executioner for 5 minutes. Reward: skill of your choosing can be raised by 50%]

'Survive. Does this system thing think I'm going to lose?'

With a nod that sealed their unspoken pact, Mortimor declared, "Gunn, in the theater of this grim world, you are my greatest rival!"

Gunn, feeling an unexpected kinship, accepted the declaration, "And you..are my greatest enemy besides Bramwell. I'll bury you two together."

The fight ignited as Gunn vanished into a sudden shroud of black mist, wielding shadows like a cloak. Mortimor, ever vigilant, swung his massive guillotine horizontally, anticipating movement. Gunn reappeared behind him, his hand landing on Mortimor's shoulder, the decay setting in swiftly. Mortimor roared in agony as his flesh began to rot, but his regeneration kicked in rapidly. He pivoted, using the flat of his guillotine's blade as a shield, and with a swift maneuver, enlarged the blade, forcing Gunn to leap back as sparks flew off the concrete.

As distance was gained, Gunn's hand quickly drew blood from a cut on his own cheek, shaping it into a long, corrosive blood-blade. He lunged forward, his movement a blur, slashing at Mortimor's torso, the blade sizzling through armor and skin, leaving a trail of steaming acid. Mortimor grunted, then slammed his guillotine into the bleak ground. The earth split beneath Gunn's feet, revealing swinging internal blades. Gunn, reacting swiftly, used his cloak of shadows to blend into the mist, evading the deadly blades by a hair's breadth.

Through the black fog, Gunn utilized his illusions; two more Gunns appeared alongside him, each running at different angles toward Mortimor. Mortimor reacted, spinning his guillotine around him in a deadly arc, dispersing the illusions but getting a real gash across his back from the genuine Gunn. As blood dribbled from his wound, Mortimor growled, twisting his guillotine to shoot out smaller blades toward Gunn. The plague doctor dodged two but caught one across his thigh, the impact notably bloody, but he pressed on unfazed, driven by fury.

Closing in again, Gunn aimed to touch Mortimor's face, partially managing before the executioner knocked his arm away at the last moment, suffering a minor rot on his cheekbone. The battle's intensity grew as tendrils of decay spread, only halted by Mortimor's regenerative ability. With another leap, Gunn took the fight to the air, his body surrounded by a swirl of poisonous black mist. Mortimor, following suit, swung his guillotine upward, causing a massive wind pressure that cleared the mist temporarily, foreclosing any chance of a stealth attack. Mid-leap, Gunn morphed the blood from his thigh wound into a spiked mace, swinging it with lethal precision. Mortimor met the blow with his guillotine handle, the two weapons clashing with a clash loud enough to echo through the desolate surroundings.

As they descended, Mortimor attempted a ground-shattering strike, aiming to bury Gunn upon impact. Gunn dispersed into shadows just before hitting the ground, avoiding a direct hit but feeling the earth shake beneath him. Rising from the shadow, Gunn's hands now bore twin daggers of solidified blood, dripping with potent venom. He sliced, one dagger finding its target in Mortimor's calf, embedding deep. Mortimor howled, retaliating with a backhand that sent Gunn staggering backward.

Both combatants breathed heavily, wounds evident but their resolve unshaken. Mortimor, with difficulty, extracted the blood dagger, the wound healing sluggishly as he eyed Gunn with renewed hatred. Gunn darted forward, his speed almost supernatural, delivering a series of rapid strikes. Most were blocked, but each contact left slight traces of decay on the guillotine's wood, weakening its structure.

Feeling the tide turning, Mortimor unleashed a barrage of guillotine swings, each more forceful than the last, cracking the ground and throwing shattered debris into the air. Gunn countered, weaving through the projectiles, his cloak flickering like a specter's wing.

Drawing nearer, Gunn placed a palm against Mortimor's chest, drawing blood directly. The blood formed a large hammer in mid-air, which Gunn seized, swinging down in a crushing arc. Mortimor blocked using his damaged guillotine, the metal crying under the strain. Frustrated, Gunn exhaled a dense cloud of poisonous gas directly at Mortimor's face. The executioner, using the flat of his guillotine as an impromptu fan, deflected most, but the edges of the gas brushed past, causing his eyes to water and blur, which Gunn used to land further painful jabs.

Mortimor, stumbling back, regained his footing and twisted the handle of his guillotine again, creating a swirling vortex of guillotine blades encircling him. Gunn, recognizing the heightened danger, utilized his cloak to merge with the shadows, disappearing completely from sight even as the blades created a hazardous environment around Mortimor.

As the whirlwind of blades slowed, Gunn reappeared atop a nearby pile of rubble, his figure silhouetted against the gray sky. Mortimor faced him, guillotine raised in defiance and readiness. Both, panting and bloodied from their respective assaults, stared across the battlefield. In simultaneous motion, Mortimor charged with a thunderous roar, swinging his guillotine with lethal intent, while Gunn launched forward, an array of blood-formed weapons orbiting him, prepared to strike at all angles.

The clash resumed with ferocious vigor, neither warrior yielding an inch, their weapons and wills colliding with spectacular force. Every strike resonated through the air, a testament to their skill and determination. Blood, sweat, and echoes of metal filled the dreary expanse, the outcome of the battle still hanging uncertainty in the balance, with neither able to claim definitive victory yet. Each blow and countermove demonstrated not just their mastery of combat but the depth of their resolve, drawing the very essence of their beings into the fight, unrestrained and utterly relentless.

"I won't lose..I got things to finish.." Gunn yelled.

'My family..I have to do this!'

Mortimor yelled, "For peace and solitude..for Bramwell..I'll be the honored one!"

Gunn stood there, half of his outfit gone as half of his body was exposed, revealing his face, bloodied and filled with black veins.

Mortimor was in the same position, saying, "Seems as if my weapons aren't doing any good."

He made his guillotine vanish, and Gunn squinted his eyes.

'He keeps healing his own wounds. Or are they healing on their own? How the hell can I beat that? How long has it been? If he's not using a weapon, I should back off as well; using my skills is ruining me..I can feel it..'

[Time remaining: 3 minutes]

Gunn charges with a low shoulder tackle, but Mortimor reacts swiftly. He catches him by the cloak, hurling him violently into a nearby crumbling wall. Pieces of brick rain down as Gunn swiftly regains his footing, his eyes ablaze with dark intent. Gunn, using his damaged state to fuel his ferocity, launches a rapid series of jabs at Mortimor's exposed sides. Mortimor blocks most but one hits hard, eliciting a grunt as he counters with a knee to Gunn's midsection, propelling him backwards.

They lock arms, their grip tight as vices. Gunn twists, attempting a judo throw, but Mortimor's strength is immense. He reverses the maneuver, slamming Gunn onto the cracked concrete. Gunn's mask cracks further, revealing blood-stained lips that spit defiance. Mortimor attempts to capitalize, dropping down to deliver a powerful ground strike. Gunn rolls away, sweeping Mortimor's legs, causing him to crash beside him. Both warriors scramble to their feet, battered yet unbroken.

From a short run-up, Gunn launches into the air, elbow aimed at Mortimor's head. The move connects, snapping Mortimor's head back, a spray of blood painting the ground. Mortimor staggers but remains upright, his resilience terrifying. Using the momentum of his stagger, Mortimor catches Gunn mid-motion on his next attack, hoisting him up high before slamming him down with devastating force. The ground beneath them cracks, testament to the move's brutality. Both combatants are slick with blood, their punches now sloppy yet heavy. Gunn delivers three successive hits to Mortimor's torso, each punch weaker but desperate. Mortimor absorbs the blows, his answering uppercut lifting Gunn off his feet.

Mortimor seizes the dazed Gunn in a bear hug, squeezing with rib-crushing force. Gunn, his breath ragged, bites down onto Mortimor's shoulder, the taste of iron between his teeth. Mortimor yells, dropping Gunn and clutching his bloody shoulder.

Furious, Mortimor kicks Gunn while he's down, turning him over with the force. Gunn catches Mortimor's leg on the next kick, twisting and throwing him off balance, both warriors now showcasing raw survival instinct more than technique. Rising together, they clash heads forcefully, a mutual strike that leaves both reeling. Gunn capitalizes on Mortimor's brief disorientation, throwing him into a pile of debris which collapses upon impact. Gunn mounts the debris, raining down punches onto the partially buried Mortimor. Each hit is a splash of crimson against the ruin, Mortimor's hands rising to block, deflect, finally catching Gunn's wrist and throwing him off with monumental effort.

They separate, swaying, breathing heavily. Blood drips from Mortimor's mask, Gunn's plague doctor outfit hanging in tatters. They circle, watching each other, calculating, waiting for the other to collapse.

"I'll kill you…all of you!" Gunn screamed as he panted.

Mortimor laughed, "I'll use my strength to protect and serve! All for Bramwell!"

Mortimor rushes forward, a bull charge meant to end things. Gunn steps aside at the last second, redirecting Mortimor's momentum to send him crashing into a solid structure. The impact resounds across the silent battlefield. Gunn jumps onto Mortimor's back, locking in a chokehold, his veins blackening as he exerts every ounce of his remaining strength. Mortimor bucks and whirls, finally throwing Gunn off with a desperate heave.

Bleeding and beaten, they exchange blows like titans, each punch echoing the crumbling world around them. Blood flies, mixing with sweat and tears, the sound gruesome and wet. As the dust settles, they stand meters apart. Gunn, his body failing, runs with the last shred of his strength towards Mortimor, fist raised for a final, decisive strike. But midway, his strength betrays him; he collapses to his knees, coughing up thick, black blood that stains the broken ground. The veins in his skin pulse black, a stark contrast to his deathly pale face, his eyes pitch black like voids.

Mortimor stands over him, panting heavily, blood dripping from his injuries. Yet he merely watches Gunn, the air thick with the weight of their unresolved conflict and the profound cost of their brutal duel. Neither speaks; the silence speaks volumes, laden with pain, exhaustion, and the deep-seated respect forged only in the fires of such fierce combat. Mortimor offers no help but also no further aggression…standing solemnly as Gunn struggles with his darkening vision, the sclera of his eyes tinted with the inexorable creep of death's shadow.

Gunn stated, "I lost."

'How fucking foolish was I. I rushed In without a thought out plan. Thinking I could use the crowd as control against Bramwell and the Empire. I let my pride and revenge get in the way. My drive to kill all of them..I was too arrogant. I was born without abilities, now that I finally have power, I wanted to instantly use it. It feel natural, like I've been using it for years. I got ahead of myself.'

Mortimor stood over Gunn, saying, "You fought well, rival."

"Yeah fuck you. I'll come back again. And kill all of you. You'll all pay."

"Brave young one. As an executioner, I see many like you, but not the same eyes. You have a burning passion for revenge, not knowing your family started this war. Centuries ago, but when they messed with the Chief's family, he put his foot down. For the greater good of all Thornville."

"They did nothing to you!"

"They did everything to him! He has the power to wipe out this entire world, but he doesn't do it because he loves its people. Public safety, law and order, discipline, he governs this place with an iron fist, and his motivations are more than just mere heroism. You know nothing, brat. You're a child."

"And you're a bitch."

"You won't be coming back. I don't care how many times you come back, or if you even come back I'll kill you every single time."

"Do it..you're not doing anything special. None of you are heroes. People are scared of you, scared of that bastard Bramwell."

"We are harbingers of peace! Do you think you're a hero?"

"I abhor those who think they're heroes. There are no heroes." Gunn clenched his fists, his voice heavy with disdain. "Everyone is playing dress-up, parading around in a facade of nobility. They call themselves heroes, saviors, bearers of justice. But peel back the layers, and what do you find? Self-interest, greed, a desperate clawing for validation. It's all a grotesque masquerade. Every so-called hero needs a villain to justify their existence, to validate their so-called 'goodness.' They create conflicts just to resolve them, manufacturing chaos to play the savior. It's a cycle, a sick game where ordinary people are the pawns. Tell me, is there any heroism in perpetuating such deceit?"

His laughter was bitter, echoing in the stillness. "And what about the consequences? For every supposed hero's victory, there's a trail of collateral damage, lives turned upside down, futures derailed. But that's just a footnote, isn't it? As long as the hero can plant their flag on the metaphorical hill, who cares about the aftermath? The people they claim to save are just stepping stones on their path to glory." Gunn stopped, his eyes burning with fervor. "So, spare me the stupid ass tales of heroes and their grandeur. It's all a farce. They're not champions of justice; they're architects of their own mythology, crafting stories where they shine as the beacon of hope. Real courage? It's found in the quiet struggles of those who resist the urge to be labeled, who fight not for recognition, but because it's right. There are no heroes, only people, and the sooner we accept that, the sooner we can stop being victims of our own delusions."

Mortimor walked closer, saying, "I admire your ideologies. But heroes are everywhere, and the Empire is everywhere. For Bramwell and the lust for public safety, you're hereby executed."