Heavenly Executioner System

Chapter 15: Mark of the Tribunal

Dawn had not yet broken, but the forest surrounding the ruined Burning Orchid Sect lay bathed in a haunting haze of residual karma. The air shimmered faintly, twisted by unseen threads of divine backlash that crackled through the soil and leaves. Where once the sect had stood proudly, now only fractured spires and collapsing towers remained, their foundations crumbling beneath the judgment of a righteous storm.

Lucien stood alone at the edge of a cliff overlooking the scorched grounds. Below, where karma storms howled like grieving ghosts, the last embers of corruption were still being devoured. It should have brought him peace, but there was none. Victory had come with silence, not celebration.

Behind him, deep within the forest, thirteen children slept in a sacred warding circle, tucked away in a mossy grove of spiritroot trees. Each child had once been bound by soul-branding and karmic suppression arrays. Now, they breathed freely. Safe. For now.

Lucien turned to leave—when fire erupted in his shoulder.

Pain lanced through him without warning. He staggered to one knee, hand clamping over the fabric of his tunic as heat radiated from beneath his skin. Then, like a blade piercing the veil of reality, a sigil burned itself into his soul.

System Alert:

FOREIGN BRAND DETECTED.

ORIGIN: UNKNOWN.

SIGNATURE MATCHES 1 ARCHIVED TRIBUNAL PATTERN.

The pain reached its peak and then receded like a tide, leaving behind an ethereal brand on his left shoulder. Three concentric circles surrounded a balanced scale, glowing with a blue-silver light. For a heartbeat, Lucien couldn’t breathe. He recognized the structure of the symbol—not from memory, but from something deeper. Instinct. An echo of divine law.

Then the glow dimmed, seared into flesh and soul alike, and Lucien was left kneeling in the forest, marked.

---

He retreated to a high ridge overlooking the valley, a place where birds did not fly and the wind carried whispers only the cursed could hear. There, under the jagged shadow of an ancient pine, he meditated.

The System’s interface shimmered before him, distorted slightly by the residual energies from the Burning Orchid Sect’s collapse.

System Analysis Complete.

BRAND CLASSIFICATION: LEGACY MARK — TRIBUNAL SIGIL CLASS III.

Lucien opened his eyes. “Class Three...”

He had read about them once, in forbidden texts buried within the hidden archives of the Dawnsworn. The Heavenly Tribunal—that ancient arbiter force which once judged gods and mortals alike—had vanished from the world over a thousand years ago. Or so the world believed.

Only three roles were ever granted a Tribunal brand:

Divine Witnesses. Those who recorded fate.

High Executors. Those who carried out divine punishment.

Apostates. Those who had defied judgment and lived.

The mark gave no answer as to which role he had inherited.

---

Sleep came like a trap. When Lucien closed his eyes that night, it wasn’t dreams that met him—it was judgment.

He stood upon a plane of nothingness, an infinite horizon of starless black. And yet, the world was not empty. Karma pulsed in the void, threads woven like spider silk across space. He was in a realm older than memory, beyond Oracle Sight—a place closer to the divine source than any mortal had touched in centuries.

Figures of light and flame rose before him. Towering beings cloaked in radiant starlight, each carrying massive scrolls and swords that shimmered with pure law. Lucien felt their eyes fall on him, though none had faces.

One spoke, its voice thunder in stillness:

“Justice walks again.”

Then another:

“But not all chains were broken.”

A vision overtook him. He saw himself standing within a shattered tribunal hall. Once-sacred pillars lay in ruin, ancient scales broken and corroded. A throne of judgment—split in two.

Then came the figure. Shadow-cloaked, featureless, yet emanating pressure that pressed Lucien to his knees. It lifted a hand, branding him again—the same sigil, the same mark—this time not on the shoulder, but directly onto the soul.

Lucien screamed in the dream.

And woke beneath the stars, soaked in sweat, clutching his shoulder.

---

He made camp beside a river, its quiet flow the only sound to pierce the silence. The System had said nothing since his return from the vision. For once, its voice seemed hesitant. Silent.

Only after hours passed did a slow ripple appear in his spiritual field. Then the interface returned:

SYSTEM UPDATE:

JUDGMENT AUTHORITY: PARTIALLY OBSERVED.

HEAVENLY TRIBUNAL ARCHIVES UNLOCKED: 3%.

WARNING: LEGACY SURVEILLANCE ACTIVE.

CAUTION: TRIBUNAL ENTITIES MAY STILL EXIST BEYOND MORTAL AWARENESS.

Lucien stared into the fire. It crackled and hissed, like secrets trying to escape.

So it was true.

His System—the same force that had guided him to execute Myra Langley, that had revealed the sins of the Crimson Pact, that now tethered his soul to the threads of karmic law—was not born in isolation.

It was a fragment of something older.

The Tribunal.

Perhaps not dead, only dormant. Watching. Waiting.

And now, awakened by his actions.

He looked down at the mark beneath the torn cloth on his shoulder. It pulsed faintly, as though answering unspoken questions.

He whispered to the river:

“Is this a brand of faith?”

The wind did not answer.

“Or a target?”

Still, nothing. Only the water flowing onward, eternal and uncaring.

---

The next morning, he sat alone beneath the willow tree that leaned over the riverbank. The children remained under guard, still protected by illusion arrays. He had shielded them from one storm. But more were coming.

The Crimson Pact would not relent.

The System, for all its divine efficiency, was evolving beyond what he could understand.

And now, the Tribunal had stirred. Watching him. Marking him. Perhaps shaping him.

Lucien reached for his cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. As he secured the clasp, he tugged the fabric to hide the brand.

He did not fear it.

But it was not time for the world to see.

“I never wanted their mantle,” he muttered.

His fingers curled into fists.

“But if justice needs a flame... I’ll burn until only truth remains.”

He turned away from the river.

And walked toward the next name on the Crimson Ledger.

---

Somewhere in the Shattered South

A ruined tribunal temple stood half-buried in black stone and ash. Wind howled through the cracks, echoing like the breath of the long-dead.

Within, a single priest knelt in red robes, before the statue of the Arbiter—once the symbol of absolute divine justice.

The statue’s stone eyes wept dark ichor.

Then—a sound. A groan of rock.

A crack formed across the statue’s chest. The priest gasped, rising to his feet.

“The Scales...” he whispered.

“They’ve moved.”