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 Morning of Condemnation — The Hour When the Brother Slays the Sister
The pale light of dawn stained the cobblestones a ghostly blue.
The spires of the Paris City Hall rose black against a sky still trailing the last remnants of night. Since before sunrise, more than five thousand people had crowded into the Place de Grève. Men, women, the old, and children alike—all with eyes burning bright, breath misting white, fixed on the execution platform at the center of the square.
"Won't it start already?"
"Today's criminal's that printer, right? Treason against the state, they say."
"The executioner's that young Sanson. Cutting down his own friend, I hear."
"Now that's a sight worth seeing."
Jeers and laughter rippled through the crowd like waves. From the skewer stalls, the smell of charred animal fat drifted up.
From the bell tower of the City Hall, the pronouncement bell rang.
Gong.
Twice.
Three times.
Each time that heavy sound filled the square, the murmur of the crowd fell silent for a moment.
It was execution day.
---
The executioner's waiting room was a small stone chamber.
No windows, and the damp air hung stagnant. Along the wooden shelves by the wall were lined ropes, shackles, and leather masks. On the central table lay a single sword.
La Miséricorde.
The execution sword passed down through the Sanson family. A two-handed blade, weighing about 2.2 kilograms, with a ninety-centimeter edge. Its unique center of gravity was designed to sever the cervical vertebrae in a single strike. The sword of the king's justice. Meant to be used for criminals.
Charles-Henri Sanson took that sword in his hand.
His black hair was tied back in a single knot, and his deep brown eyes stared at his own face reflected in the blade. Twenty-one years old. Executioner of Paris—Monsieur de Paris.
His hand trembled.
The blade clinked against the mouth of the scabbard.
"...My hand is shaking."
Charles looked at his fingertips. The calluses from the sword's grip had gone white and hard. An executioner's hands.
Jean's smile from last night surfaced in his mind.
Beyond the iron bars, his best friend had been smiling.
'I'm glad you're the executioner.'
He'd said that, and smiled.
Charles's stomach clenched tight. Bile rose to his throat. He pressed a hand to his mouth.
"Sir, it's time."
At the entrance to the waiting room stood his assistant, André Legris. A taciturn man in his mid-thirties. He served as assistant at the execution ground. In his hands, he held thick hemp rope for binding the criminal.
"...Yes."
Charles sheathed the sword.
"The rope—I've prepared it."
"Yes. Here."
André held out the rope. Charles took it. The hemp fibers scraped roughly against his palm.
"Sir, you look pale."
"I'm fine."
Charles answered shortly.
He couldn't possibly be fine.
He was about to cut down his best friend.
---
The execution platform stood at the center of the square.
A wooden scaffold about four meters high. Beside the permanent gallows, a beheading block had been assembled for today. Around the platform, officials of the High Court stood in a long row. Clad in black legal robes, they surveyed the square with expressionless faces.
When Charles emerged from the waiting room, the murmur of the crowd swelled all at once.
"There he is!"
"The young reaper!"
"Hey, can he actually cut properly?"
"Bet he's got cold feet!"
Jeers flew. Mockery flew. To the common people, the executioner was an object of fear and contempt.
Charles climbed the stairs to the platform in silence.
One step. Another.
His legs were heavy as lead.
When he stood atop the scaffold, five thousand gazes pierced him all at once.
"Bring out the criminal."
One of the High Court officials gave the order in a cold voice.
The guards dragged a man out from behind the platform.
His brown curly hair was wild and disheveled, his cheeks hollow, his bright brown eyes sunken. Ink stains on the fingers of his right hand. A face that—when he smiled—should have shown dimples.
Jean.
Twenty-two years old. A printer from the Saint-Marcel district. Charles's only true friend.
"Hey, let go of me! I'm innocent! I'm innocent!"
Jean twisted desperately, trying to break free of the guards' grip.
"Stop struggling!"
A guard struck Jean in the stomach with the butt of his weapon.
"Guh—!"
Jean's body folded. Even so, he raised his head.
"Charles! I didn't do it! You know that! There's no way I'd commit treason against the state!"
Jean's cry echoed across the square.
"Silence!"
The official cracked his whip.
"Your crime has been established by the High Court. Pleading innocence is a disgraceful spectacle."
"No! It's fabricated! That bastard de Luxe set me up!"
"Hold your tongue!"
A guard stuffed a cloth into Jean's mouth.
Jean's shout became a muffled sound. Yet his eyes looked straight at Charles.
(Charles, please...)
Those eyes said it.
Charles tightened his grip on the sword.
His fingers went white.
"Executioner, are you ready?"
The official looked at Charles.
"...Yes."
Charles answered.
His voice trembled.
---
Among the crowd stood Marie-Josèphe Sanson.
She was dressed as a man. Her blonde curls hidden beneath a hat, she wore a man's coat and trousers. A white bandage was wrapped around her left cheek. Only her blue eyes shone strangely in the dim crowd. Sixteen years old. Daughter of the Sanson family.
Inside her clothing, she concealed a single sheet of paper.
Documents stolen from the de Luxe residence. Decisive evidence recording the marquis's crimes.
(Brother...)
Marie-Josèphe looked up at her brother on the platform.
He stood with the sword in his hand.
His profile was pale as death.
(Was I wrong?)
Marie-Josèphe bit her lip.
The wound beneath the bandage throbbed.
Her infiltration had cornered her brother. The marquis had threatened him—execute Jean if you want to save your sister. If she hadn't been caught, maybe her brother wouldn't have had to cut down Jean.
(This is the worst... it's my fault.)
She clenched her fists.
---
Charles placed the rope around Jean's neck.
"...Forgive me."
Charles murmured, low enough that only Jean could hear.
Jean, his mouth still gagged, shook his head.
(Don't apologize, Charles. It's not your fault.)
Jean's eyes said it.
Charles made Jean kneel on the base of the beheading block.
Jean's neck was exposed.
Charles raised La Miséricorde in both hands.
The blade caught the morning light and shone white.
"Executioner, carry out the sentence."
The official's voice rang across the square.
The crowd held its breath.
Five thousand gazes converged on Charles's sword.
Charles raised the blade.
In that instant, his father's room surfaced in his mind.
The mansion on Rue de la Chapelle. Deep in the storage vault, behind a false wall. His father Jean-Baptiste's secret chamber.
In that room, he had found the old execution records.
And in them, these words were written:
'If this execution had been halted, the future of France would have changed.'
And then Jean Calas.
1762. The Protestant merchant Jean Calas had been executed on false charges. The one who carried it out was Charles himself. Later, Voltaire proved the wrongful conviction.
His father's regret.
His father's anguish.
His father had harbored the same weakness as he did.
(God, please forgive me.)
(I am...)
The sword trembled.
(I am about to cut down an innocent man.)
(Jean is innocent.)
(I must stop this execution.)
(But if I stop it, I'll be executed for dereliction of duty.)
(More scars will be carved into my sister's face.)
(What am I supposed to do...!)
Charles's arms shook.
The sword stopped.
It stopped just before the downward swing.
The crowd began to murmur.
"What's he doing?"
"Hurry up and cut!"
"The reaper's got cold feet!"
Jeers flew.
Still gripping the sword, Charles shouted.
"This man is innocent!"
His voice was trembling.
Yet it rang clearly across the square.
For a moment, the square fell dead silent.
"What are you saying!"
A High Court official came charging up onto the platform.
"Executioner, are you insane! This man's crime is established! The king himself has given his sanction!"
"He's innocent! This man was framed by the Marquis de Luxe!"
Charles shouted.
"Silence! An executioner overturning a verdict—unprecedented!"
The official grabbed Charles's arm.
"Let go!"
Charles shook the official off.
The crowd began to fall into confusion.
"The executioner's saying he's innocent?"
"What does that mean?"
"What the hell is he saying, that guy!"
Voices of bewilderment and anger mingled.
---
Marie-Josèphe gasped.
(Brother...!)
Her brother had shouted.
That this man was innocent.
That indecisive brother of hers.
That brother who revered God and the king.
He had defied the royal command.
(You... you really mean it.)
Marie-Josèphe's chest grew hot.
(I have to do it too.)
She gripped the documents inside her clothing.
At that moment, at the rear of the crowd, several men moved.
Burly men in black coats.
The Marquis de Luxe's private soldiers.
They were slowly, steadily closing in on Marie-Josèphe.
---
"Executioner, dereliction of duty is a grave crime! You'll be executed too!"
The official tried to pin Charles down.
Another official climbed onto the platform.
"Charles-Henri Sanson! Do you mean to desecrate the king's justice!"
"The king's justice is not the killing of innocent men!"
Charles shouted.
"Silence! This man is guilty! The evidence and witnesses are all in place!"
"That evidence was fabricated!"
"Fabricated? Don't make me laugh! Who would do such a thing!"
"The Marquis de Luxe!"
At Charles's words, the official's expression changed.
"On—on what grounds..."
"I found a witness. But that witness was attacked by someone. To destroy the evidence!"
"Silence! For an executioner to insult the marquis is lèse-majesté!"
The official seized Charles by the collar.
At that moment, a shout rose from below the platform.
"Don't stop my brother!"
It was Marie-Josèphe.
She burst out to the front of the crowd and flung off her hat.
Her blonde curls shone in the morning sun.
"I am the daughter of the Sanson family, Marie-Josèphe! I'll expose the Marquis de Luxe's crimes right here!"
She pulled the documents from inside her clothing.
"Look at this! Proof that the marquis assaulted women and had them executed on false charges to silence them!"
The crowd stirred.
"A woman's near the execution platform!"
"The Sanson family's daughter?"
"The marquis's crimes?"
At that moment, the men in black coats lunged at Marie-Josèphe.
"Seize her!"
One of the private soldiers grabbed Marie-Josèphe's arm.
"Let go!"
Marie-Josèphe tried to shake the man's hand off.
"Be still!"
Another soldier pinned her shoulder.
"Kuh...!"
The wound beneath the bandage flared with pain.
Even so, she didn't let go of the documents.
"This is evidence I risked my life to get! I won't hand it over!"
She bit into the soldier's arm.
"Gyaa!"
The soldier screamed.
"Why, you little—!"
Another soldier grabbed Marie-Josèphe's hair.
"Let go! Let go of me!"
Marie-Josèphe thrashed.
---
From atop the platform, Charles saw his sister.
(Marie!)
The soldiers were swarming her.
She clutched the documents, resisting desperately.
(What I have to protect isn't just Jean.)
(It's my sister's life too.)
Charles shouted at the officials.
"If this execution isn't stopped, I'll be cut down by your hands! I don't care! But don't lay a finger on my sister!"
The officials flinched for a moment.
In that opening, Charles ran down the platform stairs.
"Marie!"
Charles ran to his sister.
"Brother...!"
Marie-Josèphe raised her face.
Tears glistened in her blue eyes.
"Brother, I won't let your decision be in vain!"
She held the documents high.
"Everyone, listen! De Luxe assaulted women and had them executed on false charges to silence them! The man I first loved was killed by him too!"
Her cry rang across the square.
The crowd began to stir.
"The marquis assaulted women?"
"Executed on fals
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