Hero Executioner No. 5 Chapter 2.

Chapter 2: Executioner no. 7

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The glyph on No. 5’s blade ignited.

Lightning crawled up his arm. His body pulled the energy inward like it had done once before, many years ago. The lines of scripture on the metal glowed, then sank into his skin.

His body changed.

The Baptism Form took over in seconds. Holy lightning wrapped across his back, coating his spine in lines of charged sigils. His skin grew pale and sharp. His coat burned away. Every step sparked as if the ground was resisting him.

He grabbed the girl and ran.

He didn’t look back.

The Holy Bomb hit half a second later.

There was no sound at first. Only heat. Then the world split. Fire reached upward like a hand, and the shockwave flattened everything in its path. The camp, the bodies, the trees, the hills—gone in light.

But No. 5 had already moved through it.

His body cracked the air as he tore across the highlands. Lightning burned behind him. His legs barely touched the ground. He kept the girl pressed to his side with one arm, shielding her from the wind and heat.

She held onto him tightly, not crying, just watching the world fly past.

When he finally stopped, they were far from the blast zone. The ground was cracked and uneven. Rocks had melted together. Everything smelled like burnt salt.

He set her down.

Smoke rose behind them in a wide pillar. A crater had taken the place of the camp. It was too far to see the center. No structure would have survived.

The girl sat down and breathed heavily.

“That was... something,” she said. “Are they always that big?”

“No,” he said. “That was meant to erase.”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

She looked up at him. “You saved me.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “You smell like electricity.”

He ignored her.

Then something stirred in the wind. A ripple. Not sound. Not scent. Just pressure.

He turned toward the edge of the crater.

A figure stood there. Dressed in black robes. Long hair pulled into a tight braid. Hands behind her back. Face calm.

Executioner No. 7.

She stood like someone waiting for an apology.

No. 5 stepped in front of the girl.

Seven slowly walked along the edge of the crater until she was in view. Her boots made no sound. She smiled when she saw him.

“You lived,” she said.

He didn’t respond.

“I told them you would,” she added. “They didn’t believe me.”

“You were the backup.”

“Yes.” She looked around. “You handled the mission improperly.”

“The target is here.”

“She’s still alive.”

He looked at her carefully. “You knew what they dropped.”

“Of course,” she said. “The Gloria protocol is reserved for irreparable deviations. You count. So does she.”

“She’s six.”

“Then she’ll die early.”

Seven’s voice didn’t carry anger or hate. Just conviction.

“I assume your directive has been updated,” Five said.

She nodded. “I am now authorized to execute both targets. You and the Hero.”

Five’s stance didn’t shift. “You’re late.”

She smiled wider. “But I’m here now.”

The girl whispered behind him. “Is she one of you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she like you?”

“No.”

Executioner No. 7 eyes stayed locked on No. 5, her hands at her sides. Then, slowly, she began to laugh.

It started quiet, like she was trying to hold it in. Then it broke loose. Sharp. Full of joy. A sound that didn’t belong in a place like this.

She stepped off the ledge and slid down the slope, boots grinding against the rock. Her hair was pulled back, but a few strands hung loose and singed. Her robes were lined with reinforced plates, some bearing sigil burns from past missions.

She stopped about twenty meters away. The girl behind No. 5 didn’t speak. She just stared at the woman, wide-eyed.

No. 7 smiled, arms wide. “I always knew you’d screw it up, Five. You never finish things properly.”

He didn’t speak.

She pointed at the girl. “That’s the target. Small. Fragile. Easy. You hesitated.”

“She’s not the threat,” he said.

“She is the threat. Because the Church said she is.” No. 7 tilted her head. “That’s how this works, remember? You execute. You don’t think.”

He drew his sword slightly, not all the way.

No. 7 smiled wider.

Around her, small glowing spheres rose from her belt. They floated up, forming a ring behind her shoulders. Round, smooth—sigil-etched blast orbs. Each one carried a small visible rune, flashing and fading.

“Your Sigil still does that lightning trick, right?” she asked. “Mine learned how to sing.”

She snapped her fingers.

The closest orb spun once, then let out a sharp pop—a warning sound.

“I named this one Gloria Minor,” she said. “I keep it for subordinates who step out of line.”

No. 5 moved the girl behind a broken ridge. She followed his movement calmly, still holding Edenstar in her lap.

“She’s going to kill us,” the girl said.

“Yes.”

“I thought you worked together.”

“We don’t.”

No. 7 raised her arms. “The Church didn’t send me to talk,” she called out. “They sent me because you forgot how to be an Executioner.”

No. 5 stepped forward. “You’re a butcher.”

She laughed again. “And you’re obsolete.”

The first orb shot toward him. It detonated mid-air, sending a flash of sound and force across the slope. He ducked behind a slab of stone as shrapnel cut across his shoulder.

The second came lower—fast and hot. He swung his sword and sliced it mid-flight, the energy scattering before it could explode. But it cost him ground.

Seven moved while he blocked. She dropped another three orbs into the field. They hovered a few feet off the ground, adjusting slowly to his position.

She crouched behind a broken outcrop and shouted, “You used to be faster.”

No. 5 said nothing.

He rolled forward, passed between the gap in two orbs, and slammed his sword into the third. It cracked. Exploded. Sent him tumbling.

One of the orbs clipped his side. Holy fire bit into his ribs. He grunted but didn’t cry out.

She stepped onto higher ground. “You’re not going to win this,” she said. “You’re still fighting like the Church gave you rules. I stopped following those years ago.”

Behind her, the remaining orbs spun in slow formation.

Then she raised both hands.

A new line of glyphs spread across her arms—bright, complex, moving like fire down her sleeves and into her palms.

“Do you want to see what I really learned?” she asked.

The orbs began to vibrate. Sigils overlapped. Her voice lowered, chanting something in High Script.

The girl, watching from cover, whispered, “Is she doing what you did?”

“No,” said No. 5. “She’s doing worse.”

No. 7 lifted her head, eyes glowing.

Then she shouted the invocation.

“Baptism Form: Wailing Detonatus.”

Her body lit up.

The blast orbs pulled inward, fusing into her back. Her robes tore apart at the seams, replaced by glowing, sigil-coated armor. Thick plates formed across her chest and shoulders, feeding lines of heat through pulsing tubes. Two rotating vents opened near her hips. Light spilled from her mouth as she grinned, now half-mask, half-cannon.

Her voice shifted—distorted, deeper, almost echoing.

“Let’s see,” she said, “if lightning drowns in fire.”

Seven stood fully transformed.

Her Baptism Form gleamed like a relic dragged out of a furnace.

Every step she took left scorched stone behind.

No. 5 said nothing. Lightning cracked quietly along his arms. His fingers twitched from the strain of staying in the Baptism Form for too long.

This had to end.

Seven extended one hand and released a barrage of blast orbs. They arced over the sky in looping trajectories. Each one carried heat enough to vaporize steel.

He darted forward. He sliced one, rolled past another, and threw his body into a low spin, dragging his blade through the air and redirecting a third orb mid-flight. The explosion knocked him off balance, but he caught himself and kept moving.

His skin was starting to tear at the edges. Sparks dripped from the soles of his feet. His heartbeat came with every flash of light.

From behind a ridge, Mirael shouted, “Stop it! Both of you!”

No. 7 ignored her.

She fired two cannons in tandem. One struck the air beside No. 5 and exploded in a flashburst, a blinding wave of white heat.

He didn’t fall. He kept pushing forward.

Mirael stepped into view. Her small hands gripped Edenstar tightly. Her voice shook, but she screamed loud enough for both to hear.

“Why are you fighting each other?! You were made for the same mission!”

No. 7 paused mid-step. Her cannons stopped rotating.

Mirael pressed on. “We’re not enemies. I know you don’t want to kill him. The war is over. You can—”

But Seven turned toward her.

And fired.

The blast was faster than Mirael could dodge.

But Edenstar responded.

A Mirror Sigil bloomed mid-air. The explosion hit the mirrored construct and shattered across it like water against glass. The blast veered to the sides, sparing her—but barely. She fell backward, eyes wide.

Seven didn’t speak.

She only turned back toward No. 5.

And smiled.

That was her answer.

That was the moment he knew.

He spoke quietly, almost a whisper, as the last line of lightning carved across his spine.

“Raitokami Final Form—Thunderheart Severance.”

The light shifted.

No chant. No long charge-up. His body blurred and vanished between frames.

A silence fell across the ridge.

Seven's smile froze.

In the next instant, a horizontal arc of lightning split the field in half. The air howled. Time lagged behind the motion.

No. 5 appeared behind her, one hand outstretched, the other still gripping his blade—now glowing white-hot and nearly breaking apart.

Seven stood frozen.

Then the lines across her armor began to glow.

Every orb in her body, every canon, every glyph... started cracking.

“Ah,” she whispered.

And then she exploded.

Not in fire. In white.

It was clean, surgical. No shrapnel. Just light and ash.

The vents, the cannons, the sigils—all gone. The heat vanished with her. A gust of wind blew over the crater’s edge, carrying nothing but scorched dust.

No. 5 stood in silence.

His blade hit the ground.

He didn’t fall, but his Baptism Form collapsed, and the lightning vanished from his skin like breath on glass.

Behind him, Mirael sat stunned.

She looked past him to the spot where Executioner No. 7 had stood.

Gone.

“Is she…” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Neither spoke for a while.

Eventually, Mirael stood and walked to his side. She stared at his hand—burned, raw, shaking from exertion.

“Was that the first time you used it?” she asked softly.

“No.”

She looked up. “Then why does it feel like it was the last?”

No. 5 said nothing.