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 Demon of the Courtroom — The Severed Bond of Siblings
The stone corridors of the Paris High Court had been freezing since morning.
Charles-Henri Sanson, dressed in formal black, stepped into the Palace of Justice on the Île de la Cité. The cross pendant at his chest swayed faintly with each stride. His black hair was tied back in a single knot, and his deep brown eyes fixed steadily on the far end of the dim corridor.
(This is the last place.)
To clear his best friend Jean's name, he would appeal directly to the High Court. As an executioner, he had no right to interfere in judicial matters. He'd learned that the hard way when they'd turned him away at the gate last time.
But even so.
A witness named Hélène had been attacked and gravely wounded. Jean's execution had been moved up to seven days from now. There was no time left.
"Master Charles, are you truly sure about this?"
His servant André Legris, walking beside him, spoke up anxiously. A taciturn man in his mid-thirties who served as his assistant at the execution grounds, he had come along today as Charles's escort.
" Yes. If I back down here, Jean dies."
"But the man we're facing is a judge's assistant. People like us have no—"
"I know. Even so, I have no choice but to try."
Charles clenched his fist.
Two guards stood before the courtroom doors, clad in silver breastplates and holding long spears. The moment they saw Charles, their faces twisted with open disgust.
"What do you want?"
"Charles-Henri Sanson, executioner. I request an audience with Judge's Assistant the Marquis de Luxe."
"An audience? A mere executioner, with the Marquis?"
The guard snorted.
" I am the keeper of justice, appointed by His Majesty the King. And I am bringing a petition before this court. Is there a problem?"
Charles's voice was quiet. But his eyes burned sharper than they ever had.
The guard flinched for a moment.
"...Let him through."
The heavy wooden doors swung slowly open.
The courtroom was larger than he'd imagined.
A high ceiling, old portraits lining the walls, and the judge's bench at the far end. Several nobles sat in the gallery. Every one of them began whispering the moment they saw Charles.
"That's the executioner?"
"We'll be tainted."
"Why is someone like that here?"
Charles ignored them and walked to the center of the courtroom.
Beside the judge's bench, on a slightly lower tier, sat the assistant's seat. A man was seated there.
Black hair streaked with white, slicked back. Cold gray eyes. A large scar on the back of his left hand, and a mole beneath his right eye. He wore white clerical-style robes with a silver cross at his chest.
Antoine de Luxe, Marquis.
Forty-eight years old. Judge's assistant of the Paris High Court. And the very man who had killed Alain—Marie-Josèphe's first love—and framed Jean with a false charge.
The Marquis looked at Charles and smiled broadly.
" Well, well. If it isn't Master Sanson, the executioner. What business could you possibly have in a sacred courtroom such as this?"
His voice was greasy, clinging to the ear with a sickening unpleasantness.
" I've come to petition against the wrongful conviction of the printer Jean-Paul Mercier."
Charles straightened his back and looked the Marquis straight in the eye.
"A wrongful conviction, you say?"
The Marquis tilted his head with exaggerated surprise.
"The man has already been convicted of printing seditious documents against the state. The evidence is in. The witnesses are in. And you call it wrongful?"
"That evidence was fabricated."
Charles stepped forward.
"On the day of the incident, an assault on a noblewoman occurred in the Saint-Marcel district. To bury that crime, Jean was made a scapegoat. I found the witness. But the next morning, that witness was attacked by someone and gravely wounded."
A stir ran through the courtroom.
"The witness was attacked?"
"Is that true?"
The Marquis's expression didn't change.
" Oh? How unfortunate. But Master Sanson—what does any of that have to do with Mercier's guilt?"
"Everything. The man who committed that assault was you. The Marquis de Luxe."
Charles pointed at the Marquis.
The courtroom went dead silent.
The next instant—
" Hahahahahaha!"
The Marquis burst into loud laughter.
"This is priceless! An executioner accusing a judge's assistant! And without a shred of evidence!"
The Marquis rose to his feet.
"Master Sanson. Do you understand your position? You are nothing but an executioner. A tool that carries out sentences ratified by His Majesty the King. For a tool like you to speak on judicial matters is utterly insolent."
The Marquis's voice rang through the courtroom.
"Before you claim a wrongful conviction, you should be ashamed of your own abuse of authority. An executioner pleading for a criminal's sentence to be reduced—unheard of. This is nothing short of blasphemy against the Crown."
" Blasphemy? I don't want to kill an innocent man. That's all."
Charles's voice rose.
"An innocent man, you say?"
The Marquis slowly approached Charles.
"Mercier is not innocent. There is evidence. Don't let your emotions run away with you just because he's your friend. Fulfill your duty as an executioner."
The Marquis leaned in and whispered into Charles's ear.
" Or what? Are you saying you deny the King's ratification?"
Charles was struck speechless.
(The King's ratification...)
Jean's execution order had already been ratified by the King. To deny it meant treason against the Crown. If an executioner like him did such a thing, his entire family would be executed.
" I see you understand."
The Marquis smiled with satisfaction.
"Then, Master Sanson, I'll ask you to take your leave for today. I've heard everything you have to say. And I reject it all."
The Marquis jerked his chin at the guards.
"Remove this man from the courtroom."
Two guards seized Charles by both arms.
" Let go of me! I'm not finished!"
"You are finished. Your only role is on the scaffold."
Charles was dragged from the courtroom.
The doors slammed shut.
"Damn it...!"
Charles drove his fist into the corridor wall.
The stone split the skin of his knuckles, and blood seeped out.
"Master Charles!"
"...I'm fine. This is nothing."
Charles stared at his bleeding fist.
(I'm powerless.)
The political impotence of being an executioner. He'd been made to feel it down to the marrow of his bones.
"God, please forgive me. What am I... what am I supposed to do?"
Charles gripped the cross pendant.
Just then, André noticed something.
"Master Charles. Look there."
In the direction André pointed stood a man.
A black coat, a hat pulled low. A messenger from the High Court.
"Master Sanson. I have something to deliver to you."
The man held out a sealed letter.
Charles took it.
The wax seal was blank.
"Who is this from?"
"You'll understand once you read it."
The man said only that, then left.
Charles opened the letter.
Inside was a single scrap of paper.
On it, in rough, hurried handwriting, was written:
'Brother. I've infiltrated de Luxe's mansion. I'll find his weakness, I swear it. Don't worry. I'll settle this my own way. —Marie-Josèphe'
"Marie...!"
Charles crushed the paper in his fist.
His little sister had gone and thrown herself into danger alone. Again.
---
At the same time.
Marie-Josèphe Sanson stood behind the de Luxe residence at the eastern edge of the Marais noble quarter.
Her golden curls were hidden beneath a hat, and she wore a man's jacket and trousers. Her blue eyes glittered strangely in the dark alley. The sixteen-year-old girl held her breath, watching the mansion.
(So this is that bastard's mansion.)
A fine three-story stone residence. On the surface it hosted lavish salons, but there were rumors of a dungeon beneath it. About thirty servants. The gatekeeper was a former sergeant named Louis Belton.
(No way in through the front. I'll slip in through the back with the servants.)
Marie-Josèphe tried the back door.
It wasn't locked.
(Careless. Well, works for me.)
She slipped silently inside.
The servants' corridor was dim and dead quiet.
(The Marquis's private chambers are on the second floor, at the back. That's what my information network says.)
Marie-Josèphe climbed the stairs and made her way down the second-floor hall.
Expensive paintings hung on the walls. Thick carpet underfoot. The nobility's extravagance grated on her nerves.
(This is what they spend money on—money that people from the slums couldn't earn in years. Disgusting.)
She crept to the door of the Marquis's private chambers, killing her footsteps.
She pressed her ear to the door.
Nothing from inside.
(No one's here.)
Marie-Josèphe opened the door.
The room was furnished with heavy, opulent pieces. A large desk, a leather chair, bookshelves covering an entire wall. And on the desk, a mountain of documents.
(There it is.)
She approached the desk and picked up the papers.
The first sheet.
'Record of the Marquis de Luxe's debts at the gambling den "The Three Barrels." Total: fifty thousand livres.'
(Fifty thousand livres! That's an insane amount!)
Marie-Josèphe's mouth twisted.
(There's no way a noble's salary could repay a debt like this. He's got to be pulling in dirty money from somewhere.)
She tucked the record inside her clothes.
She kept digging through the documents.
The next one.
'Execution record of Alain Dubois. September 1763. Killed by four private soldiers on the orders of the Marquis de Luxe. Body burned along with the school. Six orphans caught in the blaze.'
Marie-Josèphe's hand trembled.
(Alain...)
Her first love. That smile. That warmth. All of it stolen by this Marquis's orders.
She bit her lip. She tasted blood.
(Found it. Proof that he killed Alain. With this, I can...)
She tucked that record inside her clothes too.
Then another sheet.
'Records of false charges for silencing witnesses. Victim list: Hélène Villeneuve and twelve others. All imprisoned or executed after assault.'
(Twelve people...! How many lives has that bastard...!)
Marie-Josèphe's vision went red with rage.
(I'll never forgive him. I'll be the one to end him, with my own hands...)
That was when it happened.
"Who's there!"
A shout came from behind her.
Marie-Josèphe spun around.
Three private soldiers stood there, sabers drawn.
(They found me!)
She grabbed the documents from the desk and ran for the window.
"Don't let her escape!"
One of the soldiers swung his saber down.
Marie-Josèphe dodged on instinct.
But she couldn't avoid it completely.
Shhk.
A sharp pain shot across her face.
"Ghh—!"
The saber's blade grazed her left cheek. Blood dripped.
"You're a woman?"
The soldier knocked off Marie-Josèphe's hat.
Golden curls tumbled out.
"It's a woman! The intruder is a woman!"
"Seize her!"
The three soldiers lunged at once.
Marie-Josèphe fought back.
But she was outnumbered. And they were trained soldiers.
Within moments, she was pinned to the floor.
" Let go of me! You pigs!"
"Shut up!"
A soldier kicked her in the stomach.
"Guh—!"
She curled up in pain.
(Damn it... this is the worst...!)
---
Night.
A man visited the Sanson residence.
He was one of the Marquis's private soldiers, in a black coat.
"Master Charles-Henri Sanson. An invitation from the Marquis."
"From the Marquis?"
"Your sister is being well taken care of at our residence."
Charles's face went pale at the soldier's words.
"What have you done with Marie?!"
"The Marquis will explain the details in person. Come quickly."
Charles grabbed his coat and flew out of the house.
---
The salon of the de Luxe residence.
It was a space of dazzling luxury.
Golden candlesticks, silver tableware, a fresco on the ceiling. The carpet was so thick his feet sank into it.
Antoine de Luxe, Marquis, sat sprawled across the center of a long couch.
A wine glass in his hand.
" Ah, Master Sanson. So good of you to come. Do sit down."
" Where is Marie?"
Charles remained st
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