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The trinity of death

The trinity of death

Jhunzkie_Rakabuba
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Synopsis
THE TRINITY OF DEATH The Swordsman of Rolling Heads “Heads. Will. Roll.” Ayronee didn’t want a kingdom. He didn’t want a harem. He didn’t even want to be remembered. In his first life, he chose the quiet of the void, leaping from a rooftop to escape the suffocating weight of a world that viewed him as a failure. But the universe wasn’t finished with him. After a violent awakening at the hands of a silver-winged angel, he is cast into a new world as Hexia. Given a body of peerless potential and a mind scarred by the past, he attempts to build a fortress of solitude in a small, forgotten village. He wants the peace he was denied on Earth. He wants the silence of a life where nothing is expected of him. But the world is loud. It is greedy. And it is bloodthirsty. When the shadows of the lawless crawl toward his home, Hexia realizes that peace cannot be found—it must be enforced. To stay silent, he must become the most terrifying sound in the world. He must become the Trinity of Death. He does not duel. He does not struggle. He executes a three-step law: * The Warning: Three words that function as a boundary between life and the abyss. “Heads. Will. Roll.” * The Strike: The Guillotine. A horizontal arc of steel so perfect and clinical that bone yields like water and speed defies the senses. * The Result: A landscape of surgical silence. Heads that roll like severed fruit, eyes still blinking in the dirt, caught in the final second before the brain realizes the body is gone. As the piles of headless corpses grow, a legend begins to breathe. Some call him a demon. Some call him a god. But to the silver-haired woman who refuses to leave his side, he is simply a man drowning in his own emptiness—a man who uses the Guillotine to keep his own heart from beating too loud. The roads are stained crimson. The peace is absolute. For when the Trinity begins, the end has already passed.
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Table of contents
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Chapter 1 - Prologue.

Pray for the wicked.

THE LITANY OF THE SEVERED

(To be read in a low, rhythmic whisper)

In the name of the First Life, which was cast aside in the dark.

In the name of the Second Breath, which was forced by an angel's hand.

We pray for the silence of the blade.

When the world grows loud with the greed of men,

When the roads choke on the shadows of the wicked,

We do not call for a savior.

We call for the Conclusion.

Hallowed be the Warning.

The three words that sever the future from the present.

Before the heart beats, before the breath hitches, the prophecy is spoken:

"Heads. Will. Roll."

Sacred be the Strike.

The horizontal line that divides the earth from the sky.

Not born of mana, nor forged in fury, but carved in the absolute geometry of the end.

The steel that passes through bone as if it were prayer-smoke.

They name it The Guillotine.

Eternal be the Legend.

The one who stands in the center of the crimson harvest.

The ghost of Korn Village who carries the weight of two worlds and the warmth of none.

The judge who does not hate, the executioner who does not rejoice.

The Swordsman of Rolling Heads.

Deliver us from the noise.

Deliver us into the peace of the void.

For yours is the speed, the steel, and the surgical silence.

My name is Hexia.

I am the prayer answered for the innocent.

I am the nightmare realized for the guilty.

I am the Trinity of Death.

And your time... has come to an end.

Amen.

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