Condemned to Death (High Fantasy/ Anti-Hero)

"It is the glory of God to conceal a matter, and the glory of kings to search it out."

Seren's voice echoed through the dim attic. He stood on a worn crate, candlelight flickering against his small frame. Below him, children huddled in tattered blankets, their wide eyes fixed on him.

"God veils the truth so only the worthy may find it," he continued. "We are His seekers. Though small now, one day we will be mighty."

A murmur ran through the group.

"Mighty like the Lexarchs?" a boy whispered.

"Or the kings in old stories?" another chimed in.

Seren smiled. "Mightier."

Gasps filled the attic.

"For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away."

"We do not know everything now," Seren explained, spreading his arms as if embracing the unseen. "But one day, all will be revealed. The struggles of today, the hunger in our bellies, the cruelty of those who keep us here—none of it will matter, because when the time is right, we shall rise beyond it."

A hush fell.

"But how will we know when it's time?" a girl asked.

"The light will guide us."

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Seren's voice softened. "So do not fear. The darkness may press against us, but the light endures."

"Amen," the children whispered, then louder, "Amen!"

Small hands clapped. A few of the older ones leaned in, whispering among themselves.

"Seren, does that mean we'll leave here someday?"

"Of course," Seren said gently. "We are meant for greater things."

"Like a castle?"

Seren chuckled, about to answer—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Enough playing around! Time for bed!"

Madam Beth's shrill voice cut through the warmth of the moment.

Groans followed as the children shuffled toward the attic ladder, their world of wonder shattered by reality.

"Why does she always ruin everything?"

"Maybe she's afraid of the light," a boy whispered with a grin.

Seren smiled, watching them go. Three remained behind—Rosy, Nike, and Samir. His closest friends.

Rosy folded her arms. "Mightier than kings, huh?"

Seren smirked. "Would you rather be a servant?"

Nike scoffed. "Not a chance."

Samir tugged his tunic. "I just hope we don't get split up."

Seren studied his friend's hopeful face.

"Of course." He smiled. "We'll always be together."

And for the first time that night, he spoke a perfect, beautiful lie.

...

Madam Beth extinguished the last candle, plunging the room into darkness. "Not a sound from any of you, or you'll regret it in the morning." Her voice was sharp and impatient. The door creaked as she pulled it shut, leaving behind only the faint sound of children shifting in their blankets.

Seren lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His body was still, but his mind was anything but.

Seven years.

It had been seven years since he was sent to this world.

He closed his eyes, and his thoughts drifted—to a time before this life, to a truth hidden deep within his soul.

His mind pulled him backward, past the orphanage, past the crying of hungry children, past the filthy walls that imprisoned them.

Back to the void.

A vast, endless expanse stretched before him, untouched by light or time. In that emptiness, he had stood before God. He could not remember why he was there, he just knew that in his first life, he had done something terrible, beyond forgiveness—so great that it had shattered his very soul.

In his last moments, he had begged God to save him.

And in 'His' mercy, God gave him a choice.

A quiet life of penance to repent, or sacrifice yourself for a greater cause—a mission. Seren did not hesitate and made his choice.

"You will bring an end to a world that has strayed too far," God decreed.

He was to become an executioner of a foreign world.

Seren exhaled.

His eyes flickered open, the wooden ceiling above him blurred by the lingering haze of memory.

He vaguely remembered a presence that had stood before him in the void just before he arrived here.

An Angel, its radiant form pulsing like a dying star. Seren had never seen its true face—only the blinding light that surrounded it.

"Seren," the Angel had spoken, its voice both reverent and sorrowful. "Do you not resent 'Him' for this burden?"

Seren did not hesitate. "No. I exist for His will alone. I will not question what He chooses to hide from me."

The Angel's glow softened, its approval radiating through the void.

"Then descend! Harbinger! And fulfill your purpose!"

The world had ripped open before him, and his shattered soul was cast downward—

"Psst! Psst!"

Seren's thoughts were interrupted by a soft whisper. He turned to see Rosy, her wide smile gleaming in the moonlight. Her messy hair framed her freckled face as she leaned closer, her eyes brimming with curiosity.

"Hey, Seren," she murmured, trying to keep her voice low. "Why'd you suddenly start preaching to us about a being called God? There's nothing like that in the children's books we have."

Seren's lips curved into a small smile. "I had some knowledge about this stuff before I came to the orphanage," 

Rosy's brow furrowed slightly. "Knowledge? You're acting like some old man with secrets, you know."

Seren chuckled. "Stories like these give the children something to hold on to. When you don't have parents, sometimes it's nice to believe there's still someone watching over you."

"Whatever," Rosy muttered.

Seren smirked. "Now go to sleep before you start asking even more questions."

"Hmph." Rosy stuck out her tongue playfully but obediently laid back down, pulling her thin blanket up to her chin.

Seren watched her for a moment before his gaze drifted back to the ceiling.

Seven years. Seven years in this world, and it still felt like the beginning of something much darker.

...

Morning light spilled through the grimy windows of the mess hall. Spoons clinked, plates scraped, and children hunched over their meager breakfast. At the head of the table, Madam Beth sipped from a chipped cup, her eyes cold.

Seren sat near the end, flanked by Rosy, Nike, and Samir.

"You know," Nike said, grinning as he stuffed porridge into his mouth, "we should become bandits when we grow up. Food, treasure, and no Madam Beth yelling at us."

Rosy snorted. "You'd get caught on the first day."

"Who'd even listen to you?" Seren added. "You can't get Samir to share his bread."

Samir clutched his crust protectively. "It's mine!"

Seren chuckled, drawing a few glances from nearby children. "If you all became bandits, you'd starve within a week. None of you know how to hunt or cook."

Nike grinned. "Then what do you suggest?"

"Something better," Seren mused. "Something where we don't have to steal or fight to survive."

Rosy's eyes brightened. "Like Lexarchs? They can go wherever they want! And they have enough food to never eat this sludge again."

Nike puffed his chest. "If we become Lexarchs, I'll make sure we all get our own rooms—soft beds, too!"

"And no one to boss us around!" Rosy added.

Samir's voice was hopeful. "Do you think we'll get picked?"

Before Seren could answer, Madam Beth rose from her seat.

"Attention!" she barked. "All children aged seven and older will have their aptitude checked today. Finish your meals quickly."

The hall fell silent. Beth's gaze lingered before she turned, her footsteps echoing as she left.

…

The moment the door shut, the room erupted.

"What's an aptitude check?" a younger boy asked.

"It's to see if we can become Lexarchs!" a girl whispered excitedly. "If we pass, we get adopted and never come back!"

"Two kids from House Five were picked last year," another child added. "They got new clothes, and I heard they eat meat every day!"

Nike's eyes lit up. "Imagine never coming back here!"

Rosy was more cautious. "But what if we don't get picked? What happens then?"

The chatter grew louder—some children buzzing with excitement, others murmuring anxiously.

Samir leaned closer to Seren. "Do you think we have a chance?"

Seren offered a calm smile. "Let's just do our best. If any of us become Lexarchs, let's promise to help each other."

The three nodded, determination flickering in their eyes.

"We'll get out of here together," Rosy declared.

For a brief moment, the air was filled with innocent hope.

…

"Well, that was a disaster."

Rosy stormed out of the examination hall, kicking a loose pebble. "Why the hell are they asking me these stupid random questions?! Like who cares how many major Lexarch Families exist? It's not like I'd ever join one anyway!"

Nike smirked. "So… what'd you answer?"

"Fourteen."

Samir blinked. "There's only three."

"Exactly! That's what I'm saying! Who cares?"

Seren leaned against the wall, chuckling. "You're acting like they'd ever take you anyway."

Rosy shot him a glare. "Shut up."

Before anyone could respond, a sharp voice called from inside.

"Next!"

Nike patted Seren's back. "Looks like it's your turn."

Rosy sighed dramatically. "Welp, don't embarrass yourself like I did."

Seren smiled, stepping forward.

There's nothing to worry about.

God placed him in this world with a purpose. He wouldn't have given him a body that wasn't even capable of becoming a Lexarch.

With that, he entered the room.

…

Inside the room, the stone walls were dimly lit by a single chandelier. At the center, a large, smooth black rock sat.

Behind the rock, there was a long table with ten adults observing him with varying expressions—some bored, others indifferent. Madam Beth sat at the far end, her sharp gaze locked on him.

But one man stood out.

Seated in the center was an old man, silver-haired with a kind, fatherly warmth in his features. The orphanage leader. The one with the highest authority here.

And also… a Lexarch.

"Come, child," the old man said gently. "Take a seat."

Seren obeyed.

Madam Beth's voice was sharp. "Answer truthfully. This is an opportunity that won't come again."

The old man chuckled. "Beth, you're scaring the poor child."

His warm eyes met Seren's. "Relax. Just answer as you feel."

Seren nodded. "I understand, sir."

The questioning began.

"What is your name?"

"How old are you?"

"Do you enjoy living in the orphanage?"

Seren's answers were polite but vague.

Then—

"If given the choice, would you serve a powerful family or live freely?"

Seren tilted his head. "Depends on the circumstances."

The old man's expression remained unreadable.

Then his kind eyes sharpened.

"Let me tell you a story, child."

His voice was soft, yet heavy with intent.

"A great famine once spread across the land, leaving villages in ruin. A starving man wandered beyond the hills, beyond the rivers, looking for food until he found something impossible—a tree standing alone in a wasteland. Its branches were filled with golden fruit, enough to feed his entire village."

The old man's fingers traced the rim of his cup.

"But as he reached for the fruit, he noticed something carved into the trunk—a warning left by those before him. Take, and your village will thrive—but a great misfortune will follow you. Leave it, and your people will suffer, but the world will remain unchanged."

A silence settled.

The old man smiled faintly. "So, Seren… what would you do? Would you take the fruit and save the village, knowing you alone would bear the price?"

The room was still.

Seren's crimson eyes remained calm. He let the question linger, as if weighing the dilemma.

Then—he answered.

"I wouldn't take the fruit."

A shift rippled through the room.

Some adults exchanged mildly displeased glances. A few leaned back, interest fading into something colder.

The old man, however, remained silent.

Seren continued, "I'd return to the village and tell them about the tree. Let them decide whether to take the fruit. And if they do, I'd ask for my fair share as a reward for finding it."

A heavier silence.

One adult furrowed his brows. Another let out a quiet breath—whether amusement or surprise, Seren couldn't tell.

Madam Beth's glare deepened.

Then—unexpectedly, the old man laughed.

"Hahaha. A selfish answer." His gaze lingered on Seren, studying him.

Then, he nodded.

"That will be all."

The warmth returned to his voice. "Alright, Seren. The hard part is over. Now, the aptitude test."

…

Seren stood before the large black stone.

He expected something—a glow, a hum of energy, a pulse of warmth.

He placed his hand on it.

…Nothing.

No light. No reaction.

The room was silent.

Seren frowned internally but kept his expression neutral.

The old man simply smiled. "That will be all, Seren. The results will be announced later."

Seren bowed slightly and turned toward the door.

His mind remained calm.

He wasn't worried about his body not having the aptitude.

God wouldn't fail him.

And if something was wrong—

He would find a way to fix it.