Innocent IF: The Executioner's Blade That Saves the Future
In an age where the blade of the executioner is both reviled and feared, Charles-Henri Sanson carries the weight of his family's bloody legacy as the fourth Monsieur de Paris. Each dawn brings another life ended by his hand, each dusk another chorus of jeers from the crowd that cheers for death but curses the one who delivers it. Haunted by the wrongful execution of an innocent man and burdened by a profession he despises, Charles dreams of a future where the death penalty no longer exists—a dre
Innocent IF: The Executioner's Blade That Saves the Future - The Reaper's Way Home — Paris, Autumn 1763
[[Title: <<Monsieur de Paris>> duty fulfilled]]
[[Public reputation has declined]]
[[Current evaluation: Grim Reaper, the Defiled, Murderer]]
…Huh?
No—it's not like any of that is actually displayed in front of me. I don't have anything that convenient. Every bit of it is just something I already know.
A cold autumn wind swept across the Place de Grève. The smell of blood caked into the cobblestones still lingered deep in my nose.
Charles-Henri Sanson stood at the corner of the execution platform, wiping the family's ancestral executioner's sword, La Miséricorde, with a cloth. The hem of his black cloak swayed in the wind. His black hair, grown to his shoulders, was tied back in a single knot, and his deep brown eyes gazed somewhere far away. His slender but muscular frame was wrapped in a white linen shirt and a black vest.
On the fingertips of his right hand were calluses shaped by the sword's grip. Proof that he'd held it since childhood. Beneath his clothes, on his chest, were the brand of the family crest and a small cross pendant.
Twenty-one years old. Fourth head of the Sanson family. Appointed by the king as the executioner of Paris.
"Grim Reaper!"
One of the onlookers shouted.
"You filthy-handed bastard!"
"Go to hell!"
Five thousand spectators hurled abuse at him, each in their own words. The same crowd that had been cheering just moments ago, watching the execution. They'd eaten skewers, drunk wine, enjoyed the death sentence as entertainment—and now they cursed the man who carried it out as though he were something unclean.
Charles silently sheathed his sword.
(Someday, I hope this work disappears.)
He murmured it in his heart. If he said it aloud, someone would surely hear. And if they heard, they'd laugh—what's the executioner going on about now?
The bell of the Hôtel de Ville rang once more. The bell of proclamation. The sound that marked the end of an execution.
On the east side of the square, Jacques Morel, the owner of the tavern "The Three Barrels," was calling customers into his shop. Execution days were always packed. The cider sold like water. Once the execution was over, everyone washed down the lingering thrill with drink.
Smoke from Madame Louise's stall, grilling Grève-style sausages, drifted on the wind. It smelled delicious. But right now, he had no appetite.
When he returned to the executioner's waiting room, his assistant André was waiting for him.
"Thank you for your hard work, sir."
"...Yeah."
Charles answered briefly and washed his hands. The water turned red. He washed them again and again. It felt like the stain would never come out.
"I'll take care of the cleanup. Please go on ahead."
"Sorry. That helps."
He removed his cloak and folded it. The black cloak he wore only during executions. Ordinarily, he was just a young man. At least, he wanted to believe so.
As he left the square, the abuse flew at him again.
"A murderer's walking around!"
It was a child's voice.
He didn't turn around. If he turned, he'd remember that child's face. And if he remembered, it would appear in his dreams.
The city of Paris was dyed in the colors of dusk. Beyond the Seine, the shadow of Notre-Dame Cathedral was visible. A ferry glided across the surface of the river.
Only the sound of his footsteps on the cobblestones echoed strangely loud.
The Sanson estate was on Rue de la Chapelle, on the northern outskirts of Paris. A district lined with slaughterhouses and leatherworkers' workshops—a place thick with smells. Nobles would never come near it. Which made it convenient for an executioner's family to live there.
A two-story stone house. No nameplate. From the workshop of their neighbor Denis Lefèvre, the stench of tanning leather drifted over. Some nights, they couldn't open the windows.
When he opened the front door, the smell of dinner greeted him.
"Welcome home."
André had somehow made it back first. He was quick on his feet.
"Where's Father?"
"He's waiting in his room."
He headed for the dining room. Along the walls of the long corridor hung portraits of his ancestors. The first, the second, the third. All of them executioners. All of them with the same face. No—maybe it was just that he resembled them.
At the far end of the dining room, a man in a wheelchair was gazing out the window.
Jean-Baptiste Sanson. Charles's father, and the third Monsieur de Paris. Since a stroke had felled him, half his body no longer moved. His speech had grown slurred as well.
He had once been an executioner described as "ruthless and cold." He carried out sentences with a severity that made criminals across Paris tremble, and he had never failed once. So Charles had heard.
But the father before him now was just an old man.
"...I'm home."
His father turned slowly toward him. It took a moment for his eyes to focus.
"...Welcome back."
It was a hoarse voice.
Charles took his seat. André brought over the soup.
"Today... who was it?"
"Hanging. The crime was robbery and murder."
"I see."
That was all.
Conversations with his father had always been like this. Reports on the work. Confirmation of technique. He had no memory of ever talking about anything else.
He had been a sensitive child. When he vomited during dissection practice, his father had left the room without a word. He'd worn a look of disappointment. That face—he still remembered it even now.
His father had been a perfect executioner. Which was probably why a son unsuited to the profession had been such a nuisance to him.
He brought the soup to his lips. Warm. It seeped down to the core of his body.
"...Father."
His father raised his head.
"Someday, I'm going to put an end to this work. I'm going to abolish the death penalty."
The moment he said it, he regretted it. Again. In front of his father, his true feelings always slipped out.
His father was silent for a while.
Then, the corner of his mouth twisted ever so slightly. An expression that could have been a smile or could have been tears—impossible to tell.
"...That's difficult."
That was all he said, and then he turned his eyes back out the window.
A smile tinged with resignation. There was no other way to describe it.
Charles drained the rest of his soup.
The Sanson family had inherited the post of Paris executioner for generations. "Guardians of justice," appointed by the king. The salary was three thousand livres a year. Three times that of a skilled craftsman. Financially, they were well off.
But they were excluded from some of the church's sacraments. They couldn't join the trade guilds. People called them "the defiled" and kept their distance.
And yet, to hone their execution techniques, they studied anatomy and became versed in medicine. With knowledge gained from corpses, they sometimes saved living people.
A profession full of contradictions.
Dinner ended, and Charles returned to his own room.
When he opened the window, the smell of the neighboring workshop drifted in. A familiar smell.
He sat on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.
(Abolish the death penalty.)
He'd thought it countless times. Said it countless times. But how?
An executioner's role is to carry out the king's justice. To abolish the death penalty would mean denying the king's justice. Could the son of an executioner even say such a thing?
But.
He remembered the faces of today's onlookers. The faces that had rejoiced at the execution. And the faces that had cursed him. They were the faces of the same human beings.
Those people just want to see death. Justice doesn't matter to them at all.
Even so, those who commit crimes must be punished. There are victims. There are grieving families. Perhaps the death penalty is necessary to preserve the order of society.
But what if it's a wrongful conviction?
Last year's Calas affair. The Protestant merchant Jean Calas was executed on the false charge of killing his own son. Charles had carried it out.
Later, Voltaire proved the conviction wrongful.
He had killed an innocent man.
Something tightened painfully in his chest.
He could never forget Calas's face in that moment. He had proclaimed his innocence to the very end. And Charles had taken that head—
He stopped thinking.
The night deepened.
He woke to a sound.
Somewhere far off, something like a crash. No—that wasn't it. It was inside the house.
Charles sat up and strained his ears. Silence.
But something nagged at him.
He slipped out of bed and stepped into the corridor. Cold air crawled around his feet.
He went downstairs. From the direction of the storeroom, he could faintly hear something.
The execution equipment storeroom. A stone room, kept locked. His father should have the key.
When he approached, the door was slightly ajar.
"...Is someone there?"
No answer.
Charles pushed the door open.
Inside the storeroom, the execution equipment was arranged in neat order. Parts of the gallows, whips, branding irons, and spare swords. All of it meticulously maintained.
There was something off about the far wall.
A section of the wall was shifted, just barely.
Charles placed his hand against it. He pushed.
With a clunk, a section of the wall rotated.
A hidden door.
Inside was a small room.
Musty air. Against the wall stood something like a small altar. A cross had been placed upon it.
And on the floor, a single book had fallen.
An old journal, bound in leather.
Charles picked it up.
On the cover, his father's name was engraved.
Jean-Baptiste Sanson — Record of Executions
He opened it.
Inside, past execution cases were recorded in meticulous detail. The names of the condemned, their crimes, the method of execution, the date. And his father's reflections.
"March 12th. Hanging. Robbery and murder. He was a young man. He wept to the very end. He called out his family's names."
"June 8th. Beheading. A noble's murder in a duel. It was a splendid end. My blade severed his head in a single stroke."
Dispassionate records.
But now and then, there were passages where emotion seeped through.
"Did this man truly commit the crime? There was too little evidence. But the verdict was handed down. I had no choice but to carry it out."
"A child was crying beneath the scaffold. Said to be the condemned man's son. I killed his father in front of that child."
Charles's hand trembled as he turned the pages.
This wasn't just a record book.
It was a record of his father's anguish.
And on the page for 1762, there was an entry about that case.
"March 10th. Breaking on the wheel. Jean Calas. The crime of killing his son. But I believed in his innocence. He loved his son to the very end. A man like that could never have killed his child."
"If this execution had been halted, the future of France would have changed."
The moment he saw that scribbled line, Charles's breath stopped.
Father knew, too.
That Calas was innocent.
And yet he carried it out.
As the sword of the king's justice.
He turned the page.
On the final page of the record book, in a different hand, was written:
"Don't become like me."
And beneath that, in small letters:
"Marie-Josèphe."
It was his sister's name.
Clunk.
The sound of a window opening.
Cold wind rushed into the room all at once.
Clutching the record book to his chest, Charles turned around.
In the window frame stood a figure.
Backlit by the moonlight, looking down at him.
"...Marie."
Marie-Josèphe Sanson. Seventeen. His half-sister.
Her blonde curls were hidden beneath a man's hat. Her clothing was men's attire as well. A black shirt and black trousers. She never wore dresses.
Her blue eyes glinted in the moonlight.
But those eyes held none of their usual defiant spark.
They were wet with tears.
And yet, deep within them, an unnatural light burned.
"...I'm home."
Her voice was trembling.
"What happened? What's wrong?"
Marie-Josèphe leaped down from the window and approached Charles unsteadily.
"Alain—"
Her voice broke off.
"Alain was killed."
Charles was sp
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