The Executor walks the shadow path.
For a long time, it was blind to its surroundings. For him, the eyes are no longer receivers of light, but receivers of life, and what replaces the visual function is shadow. The shadow is not only the tentacle that tells him the distribution of matter and energy around him, but at the same time it is his real limbs. The shadow contacted the outside world for him, but he remained in the world of shadow forever.
He no longer remembers where he got this ability from. Of course, there is no doubt that it was stolen, and there was a chaos of blood and fire in the process. Now that he was one with the shadow world, the endless rolling scenes meant nothing to him. The shadow will digest all the troubles, filter out the excess, and turn the remaining wishes into shadows.
Much of what happened went something like this: A microscopic universe formed at his feet. It is about the size of an atom, and no light escapes, so it cannot be observed. But it does exist, and it exists for a second in this flowing timeline. It is not stable under all physical models and is destined to be overwritten by another expanding teapot moon.
Fortunately or unfortunately, this didn't happen. The keen shadow took the lead in catching it and all the microscopic life nurtured within it. They are completely decomposed in an instant: the material part is returned to Chaos, and all wishes are greedily taken away by the shadow. All the lives that had survived or were destroyed at that moment, their murmurs fell on the path of gray-white mist. They are so insignificant that even a casual passerby in Shadowland would hardly notice them. Only some very special wise men can notice and distinguish them. Although the Executor always walks in the company of shadows, he has never been able to become such a wise man. Most of the time, he couldn't hear any sounds from the Shadow Kingdom, because they were all lifeless.
It can be said that he neither knew what he had done nor cared much about it. Massacre is a very ambiguous concept, because if the scope of life is wide enough and the definition of taking life is flexible enough, every life can be a predator. When the rule of measuring evil by quantity breaks down, the moral perspective on "murder" becomes rather nuanced. In general, "killing one's own kind" is a widely recognized true murder because it leaves no doubt that the perpetrator's clear intention to "take life" is different from that of inadvertently stepping on someone's own body. Flat insects or microscopic universes are not comparable. That is the denial of life in the mind.
Executors have no peers. No matter from the nature of his existence or his subjective thoughts, there is nothing that can be called his kind now, so he doesn't feel guilty. Of course, he did not emerge due to the endless possibilities of multiplication of all things. In fact, he was completely a carefully designed product - referring to him who became the executor. The raw materials for his production, or the original race, are easy to copy, but the craftsmanship of the maker cannot be reproduced, so he can indeed be called unique.
He was looking for some special sign. Sound and light beyond mortal sight. He discovered both signals: in a place that was both far away and close, in a spatial chamber constructed purely from imagination, he heard the singing of the dead singing along with the golden bells, and at the same time he saw a terrifying red color that reflected life. . His confused hunting senses immediately came to life.
Both of these things must be eliminated first. His turbid body urged him on. He started the job from the beginning to the end: to end everything, he had to eliminate all sources of confusion. the last one. The real last one. He had to finish off the last one once and for all.
The shadows come alive. From the place where all the shadows first spread, at the tip of his left index finger, darkness convulsed and let out a sharp cry. It was a forgotten wish, the dregs of past events and memories, just like other shadows in the Kingdom of Shadows.
This wish has been haunting the executor for quite some time. More precisely, from the day he was created. It was forgotten and lost by him, but like other shadows, the executor always ignored its existence.
However, now, when the executor wholeheartedly traces the red fire that reflects life, this concentration makes some hazy fragments return to his mind. He recalled that at some point in the past he had slid down a high slope in a broadleaf forest. He is going to hunt wild wolves. No. Memories are confused. He is going to catch insects. Maybe. All possibilities merge into one. He must destroy something vital. He is always killing things that matter.
He raised his gun. Or knife. or fire. Anything that could be used as a murder weapon, but he missed it at the most critical moment. The thing survived, and he lost something important. Blood light. Flowers under tree roots. Red coat. Broken leg bones. Uniformly shaped pieces. He couldn't remember what it was. However, it is a memory of failure, no doubt about it. The blood trail led to the deep forest, and he began to chase the red clue. This hunt continues to this day.
Go hunting for forest things.
He slid forward, following the shadow's path. In the Chorus of the Dead and the Vermilion Light, he headed towards the latter without thinking. All kinds of things slide by the shadow path. Heavy matter and uncertain particles. The five-color arc of the rainbow of nonexistence. Four-dimensional maze. All these are dead branches and leaves accumulated in the forest. He stepped over them, pursuing his red-stained prey.
Something is missing. he thought as he glided. A weapon. It sits on a fruit plate piled high with bright red apples. A foldable fruit knife. He reached into his coat pocket and sure enough he pulled out a knife. He might have picked up the wrong one. A blue scimitar, not a fruit knife. But as a symbolic tool for hunting, there is no need to nitpick the details.
Go hunt that thing in the woods. Leaving red wet footprints along the way. A huge, hairy silhouette. Teeth and fangs. There were scraps of meat hanging from the corners of its mouth. The eyes are as cold and bright as a pair of full moons. But it is also cunning - that is to say, it sometimes puts on a suit of clothes and disguises itself as various people to confuse the hunter. Only the red clues flashed brightly among the fallen leaves, proving that it was hiding there, lurking in the bushes beside the forest road, waiting to attack passers-by and then eat gluttonously to grow stronger. To catch that prey, you must first make it hungry.
Let no one take the forest road.
really. He was vaguely aware that he had made such a promise, or that someone had made such a promise to him. But he couldn't recall it. Everything was mixed and mixed in chaos. Every impression he has of the past may be wrong. The key point that can never go wrong, though, is the hunt.
Shadow trails cut through the woodland. The executor flies by like a skater. Behind the deep forest he saw the orange-red light of dawn, and the twisting and echoing five-color rainbow like a swimming dragon. At the end of the red clue, he saw the flower of life of blood and fire reflected on the water. The prey was indeed disguised again, but the secret was leaked from the black eyes and blood-stained clothes. It seems to be younger than before.
The executor blinked. The goddess of death looked towards the thing in the forest.
