The line was quiet. Save for the creak of chains, the wheezing breath of the condemned, and the scent of blood soaking through sand and stone.
Zad stood seventh.
He didn't know why he was here. Didn't know the people around him. Didn't even feel like himself.
All he knew…Was that his name wasn't Zad ibn Salem.
I'm Ali. I was in Riyadh… wasn't I?I died… didn't I?
Ahead of him, the sixth prisoner—a ragged woman—kept muttering to herself. Her voice barely a rasp.
"I thought my magic would save me… I thought my magic would save me…"
Her robe had once been royal purple—the kind worn by nobles or court witches—now torn and caked in ash. Her amber eyes were bloodshot and vacant. Her lips trembled like someone halfway through a curse that refused to end.
"Silence, heretic witch. "A guard slammed the butt of his spear into the stone beside her.
Behind her, fourth in line—stood a child.
Barefoot. Thin. Skin like sun-scorched clay. A faded robe dragged behind her, tied at the waist with fraying rope. Her short black hair stuck to her forehead in sweat.
She tilted her head, voice far too calm for someone about to die.
"Please. I don't want to die." "I'm still useful. I can scrub floors. I can sew. I don't cry like the others."
No response.
She clicked her tongue.
"Tch. Useless."
Zad blinked. A child. Not crying. Not begging. Just... irritated, like she was playing the role of a child while actually being one.
He noticed a faint glow in her eyes—subtle, strange—But it vanished the moment she uttered that word:
"Useless."
His mind locked onto that image, burned into memory like a photograph under firelight.
No…Was it memory? Or was it the card?
A question stabbed through his thoughts:
What kind of place is this?
"Eyes forward!" The nearest guard grabbed Zad by the collar and yanked him upright.
"You. Slave. You're in line for execution for the attempted murder of Governor Ma'arif of Azizah Town."
"Huh?"
"Don't act dumb," said a second guard."We found you with the knife still in his gut. No one else was there. And if that wasn't enough—"He spat at the ground."Traces of magic were found on you. Heretic filth never learns."
Zad couldn't breathe.
This wasn't his body. This wasn't his world.This wasn't his fate.
But it was happening. It was real.
"Please! I swear, I didn't do anything! "The third prisoner sobbed, voice cracking." I never practiced witchcraft, please believe me!"
"Shut your mouth!" barked the guard. "Lies and tears won't save you. You'll be beheaded with the rest."
Then. From the very back of the line, A smooth, measured voice echoed down the corridor:
"I suggest you reconsider, soldier."
Heads turned.
The tenth prisoner stood tall despite his chains. His golden hair shimmered unnaturally beneath the torchlight. His robe, though torn, bore the silver embroidery of high nobility. His skin was polished bronze, his eyes impossibly blue—like shards of ice touched by sunlight.
"If you execute me," he said calmly, "you'll spark a diplomatic disaster. I am Saifan ibn Qudsi, heir of Baron Saif of the Eastern Coast. I demand an audience."
"Shut it!" snapped the guard. "You were caught crossing city lines without documentation—during wartime. You're no different from the others."
Wartime…? Zad's heart raced. Cell phones. Sirens. Concrete streets. Riyadh. All gone.
"PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING!" The ninth prisoner, a skeletal man with hollow cheeks and blue hair, thrashed in his chains. "YOU WANT MY BODY? TAKE IT! I'M GOOD, I SWEAR—JUST DON'T KILL ME!"
The guard didn't flinch.
"I've no need for a male whore. And I'm not into that anyway."
Zad's stomach twisted.
He looked down at his hand. There it was. A card. Heavy. Bloodied. Cold to the touch. Etched with a black skull and glistening red ink.
The Shaytan Card.
He flipped it over slowly.
"Only in death shall you find the answer."
What the hell does that even mean?
The card pulsed faintly, red and wrong. Its surface shimmered like wet ink. He wanted to throw it away. But it clung to him. As if it belonged there. As if it had always been his.
Even now, surrounded by strangers in a line for slaughter, some quiet instinct whispered:
This… is the reason you're here.
"What are you staring at?" one of the guards snapped.
"Huh? This card—don't you see it?" Zad lifted it slightly in confusion.
The guard narrowed his eyes. "Trying to play tricks with me, slave? The last one that tried lost both his hands."
Another guard scoffed beside him. "There's nothing in your hand, idiot."
Zad froze. They couldn't see it.
Not the skull. Not the blood. Not the writing on the back.
Why?
Then a voice slid in beside him. "Don't show it to them."
Zad turned, the ragged woman in front of him, the witch as they called her, was looking directly at him now, her amber eyes sharp and awake.
"That card… if it's what I think it is… then you carry the lick of Shaytan."
Zad blinked. "The what now?"
She tilted her head, lips curling in amusement.
"A mark of the Accursed. A demon. A god. A nightmare. Call it what you want. But no one gets a card like that without paying a price."
"You must've sold a thousand souls to get that card. I mean, even a Witch as feared as me has to ask... how? It's made of torment and suffering. Only shytans give out things like that, and they're the root of all evil in this world."
"Honestly, if you weren't chained beside me, I'd think you were something way more terrifying."
Zad stared at her, stunned. There was awe in her voice…But also fear. And greed.
She wanted the card. Or feared it. Or both.
"I don't even know why I have it," Zad muttered.
"Unfortunately… I can't help you. Not like this. But if you meet the conditions of the card—maybe… just maybe, there's a way out of this."
"Conditions?" he asked. He flipped the card again.
"Only in death shall you find the answer."
He remembered the gunshot. The blood on concrete. A dying breath in a Riyadh alley.
"I already died once... Did I actually transmigrate?" he muttered. "No... from what I remember, transmigration is an absolute myth."
He tried to focus, tried to think.
"Yo. Big bro."
The child from before, still barefoot, still calm, was watching him over her shoulder.
"You look pretty messed up. That's normal. Most slaves freak out the first time they face death."
Her golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable. Bitterness, maybe. Or something even older.
"Don't stress about it. We don't get to choose how we die. That's just how this world works."
"Still," she added with a grin, "your little murder attempt made a lot of people happy. That bastard governor's been torturing slaves for years. You almost took him out."
She gave him a small thumbs up.
"Too bad he lived. I would've loved to see his guts spill."
She wasn't pretending to be brave. She wasn't crying because she wasn't scared. She had simply stopped hoping.
"So since we're all dying anyway… I'm Amal. Also a slave. Nice to meet you."
"What's your crime?" Zad asked. "You're a child. Are they seriously going to execute you?"
Zad was baffled. In his original world, this would be a violation of human rights, but it seemed the concept didn't exist in this new one.
She snorted.
"Child? You think that matters here?" "This world hates everyone equally. Five or fifty. It doesn't really care."
"But… your name?"
"Zad. Zad ibn Salem," he said, choosing to use his new name instead of his old one, whether out of fear or due diligence.
Amal raised an eyebrow.
"Huh. You share a name with the king. What a coincidence."
"Please! Just let me offer my body! Anything! Please!"
Amal sighed and crossed her arms.
"Drop it, Leon. These guards don't care."
Zad blinked. "You two know each other?"
"Same master," she said, not turning. "Tried to kill him together. Got caught."
The witch in front of Zad turned her head slightly, gazing at Amal.
"How unfortunate. For a child to end up here…"
"Spare me the pity," Amal spat. "I don't care. I really don't. If anything, I get to leave this shithole faster than the rest of you."
"Tough luck to the losers still trying to live."
"Then I suppose I must accept my fate as well," said the golden-haired noble from the end of the line, glancing at the child. "I can't let a child act braver than me." He spoke calmly, without panic, as if he were resigning to a long journey, not death.
Then—The doors opened.
A metallic groan. A sudden blast of light.
Beyond the threshold…
The square of execution.
And rising from it—The roar of a crowd.
"No. No, not here," the Witch whimpered, her voice cracking. "My Mana… she's waiting at home. I can't leave her alone…"
The guards began to move.
"Move," one barked. "Time to face your Maker."
Chains clanked, dragging like funeral bells.The prisoners resisted instinctively—Some dug their heels into the ground, trembling—But it was no use.The guards yanked them forward with practiced cruelty.
"No! Please!" Leon shrieked. "I'll do anything! Ask my clients—I'm good in bed—!"
"Shut it, male whore," the guard growled, slamming a boot into Leon's ribs.
Saifan stumbled beside him, head held high despite the chaos.
"No need to bruise me," he said with a tight, bitter smile. "I've already accepted my fate."
"Tch. Both of you are annoying," came a cold voice from the eighth in line.
Zad turned.
It was a figure he hadn't noticed before—Completely cloaked from head to toe in dark fabric. Their face was hidden.Their voice was androgynous, sharp, and eerily smooth—impossible to place as man or woman.
Genderless. Identityless. Mysterious.
But chained, like all the rest.
The first four prisoners were pulled outside.
Then came Zad's turn.
He stepped forward—
Sunlight burned his eyes. And then—he saw it.
A wide golden plaza, baked under the desert sun. A raised wooden execution platform sat at the center. And on that platform: the guillotine.
Tall. Iron-framed. The blade above rusted, thick, and crusted with dried blood. Manual-operated. No automation. The executioner would pull the chain himself.
Hundreds had gathered. Crowd after crowd stretched across the plaza, shouting like animals.
Children sat on shoulders, smiling. Vendors sold fruit. Women fanned themselves, screaming insults like curses.
"HERETIC! DIE!""MONSTER!""FILTHY SLAVE!""THAT'S THE BASTARD WHO TRIED TO KILL THE GOVERNOR!"
A rotten tomato smacked Amal in the shoulder. She flinched, then wiped it off without a word.
Spit. Stones. Rotten fruit. All kinds of things were thrown.
They didn't come here for justice. They came to enjoy this.
Amal spoke under her breath, voice shaking.
"…This is bad. I know I said I accepted it, but… I really didn't want to die."
The executioner stepped forward. A tall man in dull red armor. Helmet shadowing his eyes. Face unreadable.
His voice was cold and flat.
"We will begin from the first in line and move in order." He looked at a scroll. "The circus performer."
A man stepped forward, smiling wide. Despite the chains, he bowed theatrically.
"Ah, my turn already? What a shame. After all," he grinned, "I'm the greatest clown in all of Agrabiyya."
Zad turned. And this time, he really looked.
The garish robes. The white face paint smeared with sweat.The grin that hadn't budged since they'd arrived.
The clown had been silent the whole time. Not because of fear.But because he knew something.
No. It wasn't confidence. It was certainty.
"Isn't that the clown who abducted children?" someone in the crowd shouted. "The one who killed them for fun?"
"The infamous child-killer… it's him?"
The crowd roared with rage.
"If he's the first to die, imagine how filthy the rest are!"
Fruit and stones flew through the air.
The clown gave a mocking bow.
"My reputation precedes me."
"Tch. Disgusting freak," muttered the Witch beside Zad, her voice low and seething.
Zad's stomach turned. This wasn't just another prisoner. This man was evil. Proud of it. And Zad was in line behind him.
"Am I seriously being lumped in with this maniac…?" he muttered.
If this was their first example. If this was the image the crowd saw. Then the rest of them were already condemned.
"Put your head on the block," the executioner said, unmoved. "Your time's up, clown."
"Fine, fine," the clown chuckled. "Things are over for me anyway. I had my fun."
He knelt.
Placed his head on the wooden slab. The rusted blade hovered above him.
Think, Zad. Think. Ali. No—I'm not going to die again.
He yanked at the chains.
No use. They bit into his skin. Unyielding.
"Give it up," said the Witch.
"These chains are anti-magic. I can feel it." "And even if they weren't—I've been drained. Ten days without food. Without wine." "I'm a Witch. They knew how to starve me."
She looked at the rest, Amal, Leon, Saifan, the clown, and shook her head.
"Even the noble. Even the child. Even the clown. We're all doomed."
"I saw it in my premonition. Today… we die."
She said it like a fact. Not a fear.
"It's sad," she added. "But it's the truth. Just accept it, Zad."
The clown whispered to the slab:
"Ah, my beautiful children. I'm coming to you now."
"We'll be together again," the clown whispered. "In heaven…"
"Oh, how I love—"
SLICE.
The blade dropped. Blood sprayed. A painted head fell.
"AAAAAAAAAH!" Amal screamed, turning away.
The crowd howled with joy.
Next!" the jailer called without waiting.
From the crowd, a child said, excited, "This is my first time seeing a real execution..."
The next man stepped forward willingly.
A red-haired prisoner with wild, empty eyes. He kicked the clown's body off the slab and lay down himself.
"Excited, are you?" one guard mocked.
"I just want it over with," the redhead muttered. "Get it done."
The red-haired man grit his teeth. "Just f***ing do it already!"
And
SPLAT.
Another head rolled. The crowd cheered again.
The Witch glanced at the guillotine.
"If I had more power…" she whispered. "Maybe… maybe we could've escaped."
Zad turned, frantic.
"You're a Witch, right? Come on, cast something. I don't know, necromancy, a fireball, just freak them out a little."
"I need a source," she said dryly. "Wine, energy, they denied me both. That's why I'm useless now."
She rattled her chains slightly.
"These are anti-magic, sure, but I'm a creative woman. I could work around them, if I had even a sip of power left."
"Unless you can piss wine, I don't see that happening anytime soon."
Zad instinctively stepped back, unsettled. "This Witch is insane…"
Suddenly, Amal screamed.
"I don't want to die!" Her voice cracked , finally breaking under the weight.
Leon turned toward her, voice softer than usual.
"Amal... don't worry. I'm here."
"Help me, Leon… I'm sorry. I acted tough. But I'm scared."
Even the two guards , until now stone-faced , shifted slightly. Cruel as they were, even they seemed uneasy at the sight of a begging child.
But none of it mattered.
"I said NEXT!" the executioner roared.
The guards jumped to action.
Without another word, they grabbed the third prisoner, the man who'd wept about his wife and children.
"No! No, please! I have a wife — kids — don't—!"
"Tch. Absolute monster, that one," the Witch muttered coldly.
The guards slammed him down.
"STOP! PLEASE—!"
SPLAT.
Blood sprayed across the platform. Another head rolled.
Amal screamed, covering her face with both hands.
Zad clenched his fists so tightly that blood leaked from his palms.
"Witch! Are you seriously just going to watch the kid die?!"
She said nothing at first. Her face was unreadable.
"I told you already," she said at last. "Without wine, I have nothing."
She paused, then added softly:
"My name… is Emil."
But Zad wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Amal — small, shaking — and Leon, who had broken formation and now stood beside her.
"Please," Leon begged the guards. "Let her go. She's just a child."
He stepped forward, spreading his arms.
"Take me instead. I beg you."
"Hey, you! Don't move from your line!" one of the guards shouted.
Leon didn't stop.
"I can't let them kill her! Amal is only a child!"
He shouted the words toward the crowd, hoping for mercy.
But it fell on deaf ears.
"A child? Isn't she a slave?" someone jeered.
"Yeah , and an ugly one at that. She's worth nothing."
Mob mentality. Just like the real world, Zad thought bitterly.
"NEXT!" barked the jailer.
The guards obeyed.
They grabbed Amal.
"No! No! PLEASE — I DON'T WANT TO DIE! "She kicked. Bit. Screamed. Scratched at their armor. Nothing worked.
"I still need to know… I still need to know what happened to my sister!"
"Leave her be!" Leon cried. "I beg you, Executioner!"
Zad stood there, frozen. He couldn't move.
The Witch — Emil — said nothing.
Her silence was a blade sharper than the one hanging above them.
Then a calm voice rose from the end of the line.
"Mister guards," said the golden-haired nobleman. "Can't you at least spare the child?"
His tone was even, but his eyes were fierce.
"Even by this town's standards, this is beyond cruel."
One of the guards sneered.
"She tried to kill an important figure. Her and that whore-boy friend of hers. I don't know what Eastern customs you nobles cling to, but here? Slaves have no rights."
Saifan didn't flinch.
"Do you have children?"
"…Yeah," the guard muttered.
"Then tell me," Saifan asked. "Would you let your child die like this?"
There was a pause.
Then, bitterly:
"I wouldn't. But this is the real world."
Saifan scoffed under his breath.
"Next! You useless dogs. Bring the girl. Lay her down."
The guards moved.
"PLEASE! PLEASE!"
She struggled, kicked, bit — it didn't matter.
Leon sobbed in the background.
"PLEASE! NOT HER! TAKE ME INSTEAD!"
But it was useless.
Zad watched it all unfold.
"Please! Please! PLEASE! PLEASE PLEASE I BEG YOU — LET ME—"
SPLAT.
The blade fell.
Amal's head rolled, final and clean.
Blood soaked the platform.
It landed beside the others — a small, broken thing.
"A…aah…"
Zad breath had left him.
The crowd roared. But not all of them cheered.
"That poor child…" someone murmured.
"That's Agrabiyya," someone replied coldly. "Slaves don't have rights. She should've known."
"May her soul return to the Maker," said a softer voice.
The Witch Emil closed her eyes and whispered, "Death came to us today."
Then came the fifth, the androgynous one with cyan hair. Zad had barely noticed them until now, since they stayed silent most of the time, avoiding attention. Their eyes widened in panic as the guards approached.
"Agh! It's my turn—WAIT! Please, investigate my case! The records will show I'm innocent!"
The guards didn't even pause. They slammed them onto the block.
"Please… wait! I beg you—"
"I'm innocent!"
"PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!"
HAAAYA!
SPLAT.
The blade did its work.
Another head fell.
"Hah... haaah..." Zad breathed. "Five people… already dead."
The Witch looked up and smiled softly.
"Seems I'm next."
There was no fear in her voice, only exhaustion.
"Next," the executioner barked.
The guards moved without pause.
They grabbed the Witch, Emil and dragged her toward the block. She didn't struggle.
"How rough," she muttered, smirking bitterly. "Treating a woman like this."
The crowd erupted in chants more vicious than ever.
"Is that the heretic Witch?!"
"That bitch! Don't give her the easy way. Make her suffer!"
Rotting fruit. Rocks. Spit. Hate rained down on her from every direction.
Zad clenched his fists. The anger this time was personal. Zad noticed that in this world, witches might be stigmatized.
"They weren't like this yesterday," she said. "The crowd... they're crueler than usual, harsher, bloodthirsty."
She turned slightly, eyes soft as she looked at Zad.
"It's like someone's pulling their strings. Manipulating their emotions. Whoever it is... they really want us to die hopeless."
"Ahah. Well. It worked."
She closed her eyes as they pushed her forward.
"Even at the end... I was hated," she whispered. "Mana… forgive me."
"KILL THE WITCH!" the mob screamed.
And then—
"Hyaaah!"
SPLAT.
Her head hit the dirt. Blood splashed across the front rows.
"Ugh! Her filthy blood touched me!"
"You're cursed now, idiot!"
They laughed. Howled. Celebrated.
One man picked up her head and juggled it like a toy.
Zad watched in horror. His vision blurred.
"No... not like this. Not like this..."
"I SAID NEXT!" the executioner bellowed, foam at his lips.
The guards came for Zad. They grabbed him roughly, dragging him toward the block. He fought. Struggled.
"Please! This is a mistake! I don't even know why I'm here!"
But nobody cared about the opinion of a slave.
The crowd, still cheering, still hoping for another head to roll, as if they were driven into a frenzy to act this cruel.
Zad was thrown down. His neck pressed to the cold slab. The wood reeked of blood. Sweat. Old death. Tears ran down his face.
I don't want to die… not again...
In his bound hand, the Shaytan Card pulsed. Cold and crimson. Invisible to all.
Behind him—
Saifan clenched his jaw. Leon wept. The nameless entity stood still.
The executioner raised the blade.
"For your crimes against the Governor of Azizah—!"
"NO, NO, NONONONO—!"
SPLAT.
His head hit the ground. The world went black. The crowd roared. Children cheered. Someone tossed his head in the air.
And then—
Silence.
Sleep.
Truth.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere, layered in stone and smoke:
"Those who bear the mark of Shaytan do not die."
"You were licked by him. You are his."
"You will rise again. And again. Until you kill, slave."
Visions flooded his mind.
He saw symbols.
A Crown.
A Coin.
A Hanging Man.
A Tower split by lightning.
A Moon, weeping blood.
Are these... the powers of this world?
No. Not all of them. Not yet.
A final voice, wet, red, alive, whispered.
"I licked you."
"You shall not die."
Its eyes glowed like dying stars. Its skin writhed with symbols. It was uglier than any beast—and more sacred than any god.
Then, in a tongue too ancient for flesh:
"Agri no mgrora, kiki sigul, romantics hetsingai.
Conrila boks, meksikls dosa mekail regabrai.
Anata, seko kam agil argons."
Zad didn't understand.
But the Shaytan did.
And that was enough.
But did he die?