Winter had settled upon the Empire, the year 309, and the venerable Dragon Square bore witness to its three hundredth winter. The sun, sluggish in its ascent from the east, cast a pallid yellow glow upon seventeen colossal statues, aged as the very foundations of the Empire, their surfaces now etched with the scars of three centuries of relentless wind and rain.

These statues, guardians of time, now revealed the wear of their age, cracks marking their weathered faces. A breath of wind whispered through, dislodging fragments like snowflakes that descended gracefully to rest at the statues' feet.

The once lively Dragon Square lay in an unsettling hush, thronged by thousands, each bearing a stoic silence. From Dragon Square to the sprawling Dragon Avenue within Windhelm, a formidable assembly of nearly ten thousand warriors, adorned in resplendent golden armor, stood unwavering. They were the Imperial Dragon Knights, the epitome of the Empire's martial prowess.

Imperial Dragon Knights and the Royal Knights stationed in Windhelm shared but a single word of difference. Both were the Emperor's blood, the Empire's elite, the mightiest among the seven great legions.

Each warrior stood vigilant, bowstrings taut, blades unsheathed, more poised than facing an imminent demonic incursion.

At the square's center stood a platform, once consecrated for the anointment of a new Dragon Knight, now repurposed with a monstrous butcher's block and a gleaming, razor-sharp axe.

This stage wasn't set for the initiation of a new Dragon Knight or the vending of meat; instead, it awaited the live enactment of a beheading.

Alexander Edward George and his councilors, seated upon an equally elevated dais with expressions as impassive as the statues, observed. Amelia, the heir to the three golden dragons and the Empire's future Empress, stood nearby, her face pale, fists clenched tightly. Prime Minister Duke Cassandra lounged casually beside them, toying with her freshly manicured hands.

All eyes were fixed on the unfolding spectacle.

The central character in this macabre drama was none other than the Empire's most renowned general, the Dark Dragon, Duke David Johnson, dubbed by demons and orcs as the "Angel of Death."

Perched within a carriage drawn by four swift steeds, traversing the expansive Dragon Avenue of Windhelm, I found myself ensconced in an uncomfortable ride. Though the horses were of exceptional quality, the carriage itself was dilapidated, cramped to the point of affliction. Enclosed by iron bars thick as forearms, with gaps wide enough for a fist to penetrate, it resembled more a cage than a conveyance. Due to its low roof, I had to create a hole to thrust my head out.

Adorned with over a hundred pounds of my preferred black ornaments, meticulously crafted by the Empire's artisans over seven sleepless nights, the accessories proved impenetrable to blades. Fortuitously, I was within a carriage; else, the constant clatter of accessories would have proven unbearable.

Surrounding me, eight trusted Illusion Knights, personally chosen by the Emperor, anxiously escorted me, fearing an attempt on my life that might jeopardize my on-stage performance.

Understandably, they were on edge. I, David Johnson, the Dark Dragon, had sparred with Emperor Alexander Edward George and the Scarlet-Armored Dragon Cortes in the palace half a month ago, with twelve Illusion Knights cheering on the sidelines. Despite their collective efforts, I emerged victorious. Were it not for the abrupt activation of the Blood Curse within me, the Illusion Knights wouldn't have endured the strain of escorting me here.

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The Blood Curse's influence manifested in the form of a Dragon Plague writhing within my body.

I had fallen ill, afflicted with the ailment most dreaded by Dragon Knights—the Dragon Plague.

Fearing my demise, monks affixed seven Dragon Seals and six Demon Seals onto me. They severed my tendons, preventing me from wandering and causing harm.

The carriage transported me across Dragon Avenue, passing through a path carved by a thousand newly transformed human soldiers, forming a human wall to maintain order for me. It halted before the elevated platform.

These transformed soldiers, donning features such as rabbit ears, cat eyes, wolf claws, fox mouths, and monkey cheeks—a myriad of human-animal hybrids—used their shape-shifting abilities for this purpose.

For the first time in my illustrious life, I basked in the limelight.

Liberated from the cramped carriage, I found relief. Though intolerable due to its diminutive size, the carriage provided some solace as my ailment rendered me nearly insensate to pain.

My fortune remained remarkable. Ordinarily, the Dragon Plague would swiftly claim a Dragon Knight's life. However, just before my "spar" with the Emperor, he had me drink a cocktail meticulously prepared with the world's sweetest spice—the venomous Dragon Grass. Unexpectedly, the poison and the Dragon Plague engaged in a standoff, extending my days.

My body, now a battleground for these conflicting forces, had suffered mutilation, leaving me unfeeling.

Receiving the highest level of attention, carried by Illusion Knights Tiger and Wolf to the platform, the Empire's Chief Justice, Hamora, commenced the recitation of lines specially crafted for my performance. His lines, odorous and lengthy, comprised a staggering one hundred and twenty-eight accusations. In my lethargy, I couldn't fully grasp their import.

Essentially, the accusations asserted every conceivable transgression: adultery, embezzlement, land usurpation, home occupation, princess harassment, Emperor insult, assassination attempts, conspiracies, collusion with demonic forces, and treason. A grand total of one hundred and twenty-eight accusations.

I couldn't help but marvel at his ingenuity—such a variety of charges devised for my performance.

In the shadowy recesses of my second transformation's darkest hours, I must admit to committing numerous wicked deeds. Yet, those same maidens later found affection in their hearts for me, and together we forged a harmonious existence.

Regarding the harassment of the princess, one could argue it was she who courted trouble. In those times, my actions merely involved a few fleeting touches, a couple of stolen kisses, and the claim of her first kiss—nothing more. As for insulting the emperor, can he not bear criticism for his mistakes without turning it into a grave offense?

The charge of assassinating the emperor is a gross injustice. On that fateful day, he was the one to unsheathe his long sword first, seeking sport. Moreover, he had numerous lackeys aiding him—a blatant unfair advantage. How does that transpire into an act of assassination?

As for the accusation of colluding with the demon tribe and betraying the country, it sounds more like a jest.

Among the demon and orc tribes, I am known as the Death Angel. My current stature stands atop the countless bodies of demon and orc warriors. In the tribal lands, my name is wielded by elders to strike fear into the hearts of crying children in the dead of night.

"Continue crying, and David Johnson might come to devour you!"

Betrayal? Who would lend credence to such a notion?

Various sundry charges, such as embezzlement, land usurpation, house occupation, coerced transactions, and the like, are even more preposterous.

Even the illustrious Emperor Alexander, with his composed demeanor, found the oration excessively protracted. With a gesture, he signaled, and the Chief Justice promptly concluded the speech, segueing into the closing statement.

"By unanimous decree of the Judicial Council, it has been determined that David Johnson shall face death by dismemberment. His liver shall be offered as a sacrifice to cleanse the honor of dragon warriors sullied by his nefarious deeds, his limbs destined to nourish the dogs, his corporeal form consigned to the flames, and his severed head shall adorn the city gate..."

Inwardly, I cursed at the sheer absurdity. I am no swine to be carved into pieces, immolated, and fed to dogs!

But alas, I lacked the strength to voice my protest vehemently. The Dragon Plague and the venomous Dragon Grass had rendered me frailer than an infant.

"The merciful Emperor, in light of his unforgivable crimes, has chosen to bestow the most merciful punishment—merely beheading for his heinous acts!" Hanmolarby proclaimed the final verdict.

The spectacle unfolded, and a hushed stillness descended upon the surroundings. My head rested upon the lofty executioner's block, quietly anticipating the arrival of that decisive moment, a kaleidoscope of memories from the past flickering before my eyes.

"Either become a hero like George I, eternally etched in history, carving out enduring achievements, or face the guillotine with no sanctuary in death!"

My father's counsel resonated as if spoken just yesterday, lingering in the recesses of my mind. The old man's predictions, always eerily precise.