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 Vanished Best Friend — The Executioner's Helplessness
Morning light spilled into the Sanson estate.
The Rue de la Chapelle was filled, as always, with the smell of curing leather drifting over from the neighboring Deni-Lefèvre workshop. When he opened the window, the stench of blood from the slaughterhouse mixed in, stinging the back of his nose.
Charles-Henri Sanson sat at the dining table, staring at the bread in his hand. His black hair was tied back in a single tail, and his deep brown eyes looked somehow sunken. With his white shirt sleeves rolled up and a black vest, he looked less like an executioner and more like some young scholar.
"...Aren't you going to eat?"
His father, in his wheelchair, spoke in a hoarse voice.
"No, I'll eat."
Charles tore off a piece of bread and put it in his mouth. It had no taste.
It had been like this for days now.
Ever since that night, when his sister Marie-Josèphe had screamed, "I will never forgive them," the air in the house had stayed taut. At every meal his sister ate in silence, her eyes unnaturally sharp. The flame of revenge had not yet gone out.
But something else weighed heavier on Charles's heart.
Jean.
His childhood friend, his only true friend. A printer in the Saint-Marcel district, a man who always wore a cheerful smile.
He hadn't been seen in three days.
"Father."
Charles raised his head.
"Do you know Jean? The printer from Saint-Marcel. He's been missing for three days."
His father shook his head slowly. The aftereffects of his stroke made both his words and movements slow.
"...I don't know him."
"I suppose not."
Charles let out a small sigh.
Jean was one of the few people who treated him without caring about his family's line of work. When they were children, Jean had laughed and helped Charles when he was being pelted with stones near the Place de Grève.
"You're an executioner's son, right? That's awesome!"
Charles still remembered that sunlike smile.
"...What am I supposed to do?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"God, please forgive me."
He gripped the cross pendant at his chest. The cold metal bit into his palm.
Jean was caught up in something dangerous.
That premonition had never left him.
In the corner of the dining room, André Legris was quietly clearing the dishes. He was a servant of the Sanson household and served as Charles's assistant at the execution grounds. A man in his mid-thirties, taciturn, speaking only when necessary.
"André."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm going out for a while today. Look after things here."
"Understood."
André bowed deeply.
Charles stood and took his coat from the wall. A dark navy coat, plain. Not the executioner's black mantle. Ordinary clothes, to blend into the city.
"Father, I'm heading out."
His father, still gazing out the window, gave a small nod.
The autumn wind brushed his cheek as he stepped outside.
The cobblestones of the Rue de la Chapelle were wet with morning dew. Craftsmen were opening their workshop doors, and the street echoed with the sound of carriages and the shouts of tradesmen.
Charles headed for the Saint-Marcel district.
The eastern part of Paris. A quarter where the poor laborers crowded together.
The place where Jean's workshop was.
About thirty minutes on foot.
Crossing the Seine and threading through narrow alleys, the air changed.
The Saint-Marcel slum.
The cobblestones were cracked, and sewage ran in open channels. Washerwomen scrubbed sheets in the filthy water. Children ran barefoot, and beggars sat slumped against the walls.
It had been a long time since he'd come here.
Jean's workshop was at the back of an alley.
"Hey, isn't that the executioner?"
He heard someone whisper.
"Don't. Don't make eye contact. The taint will spread."
Charles pretended not to hear.
He was used to it.
The La Croix Tavern.
A small tavern where the common folk of Saint-Marcel gathered. The signboard bore a cross and stalks of wheat. The owner, Pierre Lacroix, was a former shipwright of fifty. It was the place where Jean and Charles had often met in secret.
He pushed open the wooden door, and a bell chimed.
Though it was before noon, the inside of the tavern was dim. About five tables were lined up, and at the counter along the wall, a bearded man was nursing a glass.
"Welcome."
The owner, Pierre, poked his head out from behind the counter. A solidly built man with a sailor's tattoo still on his arm.
"...Charles, is that you?"
Pierre's voice dropped slightly.
"It's been a while, Pierre."
"It's about Jean, isn't it."
Charles nodded silently.
Pierre pulled a wooden cup from under the counter and poured cider.
"Drink. Two sous a cup."
"Thank you."
Charles took the cup and sipped. The sweet-sour scent of apples spread through his mouth.
"Jean was arrested three days ago."
Pierre spoke in a low voice.
Charles's hand stopped.
"...Arrested?"
"Yeah. The officials from the Parlement came storming into his workshop. On suspicion of printing seditious documents against the state."
"Treason..."
His mind went blank.
"That can't be. Jean is just a printer. Politics—"
"Charles."
Pierre looked at him with sharp eyes.
"Did you really not know?"
"Know what?"
Pierre glanced at the tavern entrance, then lowered his voice.
"Jean was secretly printing pamphlets to evade the censors. Excerpts from Enlightenment books, essays criticizing the execution system."
"Censorship evasion..."
"He had a printing press hidden behind a secret door in the back. The officials confiscated piles of pamphlets from there."
Charles was speechless.
Jean.
That cheerful, happy-go-lucky Jean.
Thrown in prison on suspicion of treason.
"...Why would he do something like that?"
"Unlike you, Jean wanted to change this world."
Pierre said this while wiping the counter.
"He used to say it all the time. Poor people die from false accusations just because they're poor. A world like that is wrong."
"False accusations..."
The memory of the Calas affair flashed through his mind.
The Protestant merchant Jean Calas had been executed on the false charge of killing his own son. The one who carried it out was Charles himself. Later, Voltaire proved the miscarriage of justice.
At the time, Charles had been able to do nothing.
"Where is Jean now?"
"The underground cells of the Châtelet. Under the Parlement's jurisdiction."
"Can I see him?"
"No. Visits are limited to lawyers and family. Executioners aren't allowed in."
Executioners.
The word stabbed into his chest.
"...Because I'm an executioner."
"That's right. You're the King's sword. Don't meddle in the courts. That's the law of this land."
Pierre's voice sounded dismissive, yet somehow sorrowful.
A young man emerged from the back of the tavern.
He looked about twenty. Messy hair, an apron stained with ink. A printing apprentice, no doubt.
"Um... are you Monsieur Charles?"
The young man approached nervously.
"Jean's close friend?"
"That's right. And you are?"
"I worked at Jean's workshop. I can't give my name. I'm sorry."
The young man bowed deeply.
"Before Jean was arrested, he gave me this."
The young man pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. A small, folded piece of paper.
Charles took it.
"What is this?"
"Jean said that if anything happened to him, I should give this to you."
He unfolded the paper.
On it, in rough handwriting, was written:
"To Charles. I'm fine. Don't worry. Walk your own path."
"...Jean."
His voice trembled.
You idiot.
There's no way you're fine.
"Um, there's one more thing."
The young man lowered his voice.
"The same day Jean was arrested, something happened in the same district."
"Something?"
"A noblewoman was assaulted. In a back alley in Saint-Marcel."
Charles furrowed his brow.
"But that incident was hushed up. No one was arrested. Neither the victim's name nor the attacker's name was ever made public."
"Hushed up...?"
"Yes. Doesn't that seem strange? Normally, the whole district would be in an uproar until the culprit was caught. But no one knows anything. It's as if it never happened at all."
The young man's voice trembled with anger.
"And the next day, Jean was arrested. On suspicion of treason."
"...No."
"Jean was set up. He was made a nobleman's scapegoat."
The young man clenched his fists.
"Jean was the executioner's friend. That's why he was targeted. They used someone no one in that district would help as a stand-in."
The executioner's friend.
Those words tore Charles's heart clean in two.
"...It's my fault."
"No! Jean never said a single word like that—"
"But because I'm an executioner, Jean was targeted."
Charles's voice was barely audible.
Me.
My very existence.
Dragged my best friend down into hell.
"Do you have any idea who did it?"
Pierre asked in a low voice.
"...It was the Marquis de Luxe."
The young man glanced around and lowered his voice.
"De Luxe?"
"A counselor at the Parlement of Paris. Publicly a devout believer, but behind the scenes he assaults women in his jurisdiction. Rumor has it he's even had people executed on false charges to silence them."
The Marquis de Luxe.
The man who had killed Alain, Marie-Josèphe's first love.
The man who had burned down the school and the orphans.
"...That bastard."
Charles's hand trembled.
His whole body grew hot with rage.
"Do you have proof?"
"No. That's why Jean is still locked up."
The young man bit his lip in frustration.
"But Jean is innocent. All he ever wanted was to teach poor people how to read. The pamphlets weren't meant to kill anyone. They were words meant to keep people alive."
Tears welled in the young man's eyes.
"Please. Save Jean."
The young man bowed deeply.
Charles couldn't say a word.
He wanted to save him.
But how?
I'm an executioner.
I don't even have the right to speak in the courts.
By the time he left the tavern, it was fully midday.
The streets of Saint-Marcel were as noisy as ever. The cries of peddlers, the clatter of carriage wheels, the wailing of children.
Charles walked on, clutching the slip of paper.
"I'm fine. Don't worry."
"There's no way you're fine."
He muttered it aloud.
Jean.
You're always like this.
Even when you're hurt, you laugh and say, "It'll work out."
But this time, it won't work out.
Treason.
Death.
And the one who'll carry it out—
"...Is me."
His feet stopped.
His chest tightened.
He couldn't breathe.
As Monsieur de Paris, the executioner, he carried out the death sentences approved by the King.
That was his job.
If Jean's execution was decided.
Would he cut off his best friend's head with his own hands?
"God, please forgive me."
Charles gripped the cross at his chest.
His fingertips were cold.
The Parlement of Paris was housed within the Palace of Justice on the Île de la Cité.
A massive stone building floating on the island in the Seine. It towered beside Notre-Dame Cathedral, feared by the citizens as the seat of the King's justice.
Charles stood before the palace gates.
The Parlement had about a hundred and twenty magistrates. A privileged class only nobles could join. The Marquis de Luxe was one of them.
"What's your business?"
The guard at the gate eyed Charles sharply.
"I want to talk about Jean, a printer from the Saint-Marcel district."
"And who are you?"
"Charles-Henri Sanson. Monsieur de Paris."
In that instant, the guard's expression changed.
"The executioner...?"
The guard took a step back.
"Wait here."
The guard disappeared inside.
Charles waited before the gate.
The autumn wind beat against the palace's stone walls.
How long had he waited?
The guard returned.
"You may enter."
Charles stepped into the palace.
High ceilings. Cold stone corridors. Portraits of magistrates past lined the walls.
Led by the guard, he was shown to a room in the back.
"Wait here."
The room was a plain reception chamber. A wooden desk and two hard chairs. Through the window, he could see the withered trees i
Novelia is an AI-powered platform to read original light novels and fan fiction, create your own in just a few taps, and chat with the characters. New, illustrated episodes arrive daily — free to start.