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 King's Sword of Justice — Treason on the Scaffold
Place de Grève.
Five thousand people held their breath, staring upward.
The cobblestone square was slick with the cold rain that had fallen since morning. Thick clouds smothered the sky, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Yet the crowd's fervor shrugged off the chill, and the whole square seemed to pulse with an eerie heat.
Atop the scaffold.
Charles-Henri Sanson stood frozen, his two-handed sword raised high.
Five thousand gazes pierced the back of his black formal coat. Sweat traced down his temple and dripped from his chin, mingling with the rain to leave small dark spots on the stones.
(Please, God, forgive me. I...)
He prayed again and again in his heart.
Before him stood his dearest friend, Jean.
His brown curls clung to his forehead, soaked by the rain, and his once-bright brown eyes were sunken deep. Ink stains—the mark of a printer—still darkened the fingers of his right hand. Hollow cheeks, cracked lips. And yet, Jean was smiling.
"Charles, you're too kind for your own good."
The words Jean had spoken the night before, in the prison cell, echoed over and over in Charles's ears.
"...Please, God, forgive me."
His voice trembled. His hands trembled. The blade of the sword glimmered dully, wet with rain.
La Miséricorde.
The executioner's sword passed down through the Sanson family. Roughly five pounds, with a three-foot blade. Its unique center of gravity was designed to sever the cervical spine in a single stroke. The sword of the King's justice. Meant for use on criminals.
"Executioner, what are you doing?! Carry out the sentence at once!"
The High Court official standing beside him barked in irritation. A man in black judicial robes. His expressionless face betrayed just the faintest trace of impatience.
"This is by order of the King. Refuse to carry it out, and you too shall be executed for dereliction of duty."
At those words, Charles's shoulders gave a violent shudder.
(I know. I know that.)
A scribbled note from his father's execution ledger surfaced in his mind.
'If this execution had been stopped, the future of France would have changed.'
Only now did Charles understand the meaning of those words in his very bones.
To cut down an innocent man.
That was not the King's justice.
To execute a wrongful conviction was murder wearing the name of justice.
"...I cannot cut him down."
Charles's voice was so small it nearly vanished into the sound of the rain.
"What?"
The official asked again, as though he couldn't believe his ears.
"I cannot cut down this man."
This time, clearly.
With trembling hands, Charles raised the sword toward the heavens.
"This man is innocent! To cut down a wrongful conviction is to defy the King's justice! As an executioner—as a guardian of the King's justice—I cannot kill an innocent man!"
His cry rang across the square.
A moment of silence.
The next instant, the five thousand in the crowd began to murmur.
"Innocent, he says?"
"The executioner refused to carry it out!"
"What's going on?"
The voices spread like ripples across water. Not jeers, not mockery. Voices tinged with confusion, curiosity, and just a little hope.
"Y-you, are you insane?! You would defy the King's order?!"
The official's face went deathly pale.
"Even if it is the King's order, that cannot justify killing an innocent man!"
Charles shouted, sword still held high.
"This execution is a sham! The Marquis de Luxe framed this man to bury his own crimes!"
"Silence! To shout such madness here, of all places...!"
The official signaled to the guards.
"Seize the executioner!"
The guards lunged for the scaffold—and then.
"Hold it right there!"
A sharp voice cut through from the crowd.
Every head turned toward the sound.
A girl came sprinting through the rain-soaked throng.
Golden ringlets spilled from beneath a man's hat, and her blue eyes blazed with defiance. A white bandage wrapped her left cheek, and from beneath it, red blood seeped slowly through.
Marie-Josèphe Sanson.
Sixteen years old. Charles's half-sister.
"Don't you dare stop my brother!"
She dashed to the foot of the scaffold and pulled a bundle of documents from inside her coat.
Papers wrapped in oiled cloth to keep them dry.
"Look at this! Proof of the Marquis de Luxe's crimes!"
Marie-Josèphe held the documents high.
"These records show that the Marquis assaulted at least five women in his jurisdiction—and had three of them executed on false charges to silence them! There are gambling debts in here too! That man is the lowest filth, hiding behind the mask of a pious believer!"
The square erupted again.
"The Marquis assaulted women?"
"Executed them on false charges?"
"That Marquis de Luxe?"
The voices grew louder.
"Y-you, on what grounds...!"
The official moved to close in on Marie-Josèphe.
"The grounds are right here!"
Marie-Josèphe spread one of the documents open toward the crowd.
"These were taken from the Marquis's private chambers! I saw them with my own eyes! The record of Alain's murder is in here too!"
Alain.
Marie-Josèphe's first love. A boy killed by the Marquis de Luxe.
The moment she spoke his name, her blue eyes burned with rage.
"That man killed someone precious to me! And now he's trying to kill my brother's dearest friend on a false charge!"
Her voice tore through the rain and rang across the square.
"I will never, ever forgive him...!"
A trickle of blood ran down her cheek from beneath the bandage.
Mixing with the rain, it fell as a crimson drop onto the cobblestones.
"Seize those documents! Arrest that woman!"
A bellow came from the rear of the crowd.
A man with graying black hair slicked back, cold gray eyes. A large scar on the back of his left hand. A mole beneath his right eye.
Antoine de Luxe.
Forty-eight years old. Assistant judge of the Paris High Court.
"That wench is lying! Those documents are forgeries! A filthy scheme by the executioner to bring me down!"
The Marquis shouted, his face crimson.
"Hear me, all of you! Those papers were fabricated by the executioner's clan to frame me! That the tainted children of an executioner would conspire against a nobleman—it is beyond insolence!"
At his words, part of the crowd wavered.
"Can you really trust anything an executioner says?"
"Right, executioners are tainted."
"Maybe the Marquis is telling the truth."
Marie-Josèphe bit her lip.
(This is bad... my word alone won't convince them.)
The stigma against executioners.
It was a wall deeply rooted in this society, immovable.
"Seize the documents!"
The Marquis's private soldiers slipped through the crowd and closed in on Marie-Josèphe.
"Hey, grab those papers from the girl!"
"Don't move!"
The soldiers were rough, hardened men. Daggers hidden beneath their coats, sharp eyes fixed on Marie-Josèphe.
"...Ngh!"
Marie-Josèphe clutched the documents to her chest and backed away.
"Hand over the papers! Or else—"
One of the soldiers reached for the hilt of his dagger.
And then.
"Stop right there!"
From within the crowd rose a frail yet piercing voice.
An old woman stood there, trembling.
Dressed in coarse, threadbare clothes, poor beyond measure. Her white hair was disheveled, and tears had left tracks on her deeply wrinkled face.
"That girl is telling the truth... I too had a daughter, killed by the Marquis..."
The old woman's voice shook.
"My daughter worked in the Marquis's mansion... one day, he violated her... and then, to silence her, he pinned a theft on her... and had her executed..."
Tears streaming, the old woman spoke.
"Back then, I couldn't say a word... because, just like with executioners, no one listens to the voices of the poor... But today, this girl has found the courage to cry out the truth... So I will speak too!"
With a trembling hand, the old woman pointed at Charles on the scaffold.
"That executioner said he will not cut down an innocent man! That man is on our side! I believe in him!"
Her words lit a fire in the hearts of the crowd.
"The Marquis killed my sister too!"
"The wife next door to us suffered the same!"
"That Marquis is a devil!"
"We've been silenced all this time!"
"We can't take it anymore!"
A chain of testimony spread, one after another.
One by one, those who knew of the Marquis's crimes began to raise their voices.
"Y-you people, what are you saying! It's all lies! A conspiracy to bring me down!"
The Marquis shouted, his face ashen.
"Do you know who I am?! I am the assistant judge of the Paris High Court, the Marquis de Luxe! I would never do such things!"
"Liar!"
"Give me back my daughter!"
"Murderer!"
The crowd's fury exploded.
Five thousand citizens shoved past the Marquis's soldiers and surged toward the man himself.
"H-hiii!"
The Marquis stumbled backward.
"You there, protect me! Quickly!"
But the soldiers, overwhelmed by the crowd's momentum, could do nothing.
"Were you going to say that the tainted children of an executioner conspired against a nobleman?"
Marie-Josèphe looked down at the Marquis, documents still held high.
"The only thing your own hands have tainted is yourself. With the blood of the innocents you've killed, your soul is stained pitch-black."
"Y-you wretch...!"
The Marquis glared at Marie-Josèphe.
"Those eyes, that face... you're that girl from back then! The one who was with that Alain fellow!"
"Good memory. Not a single second of the day you killed Alain have I ever forgotten."
Marie-Josèphe's blue eyes glinted, cold as ice.
"I've lived all this time just so I could drag you down to hell with my own two hands."
"H-hiii...!"
The Marquis collapsed where he stood, his legs giving out.
"Grab him!"
"Throw this man in the dungeon!"
The crowd reached for the Marquis.
"S-stop! Don't touch me! Filthy commoners!"
The Marquis screamed desperately, but no one listened to him anymore.
The High Court officials, too, could only stand frozen, overwhelmed by the people's fury.
"W-what in the world is this..."
One of the officials murmured in a trembling voice.
"The people's anger has shattered the absurdity of the courts."
On the scaffold, Charles spoke quietly.
"You overlooked a wrongful conviction and buried the truth. This is the result."
The officials were struck speechless.
"Release Jean."
Charles lowered his sword and addressed the officials.
"...It is no longer possible to proceed with this execution."
With a bitter expression, the official ordered the guards.
"Release the prisoner."
The guards removed Jean's shackles.
Clank.
The heavy iron shackles fell to the cobblestones.
"...Charles?"
Jean stared at his freed wrists in disbelief.
"Jean...!"
Charles leaped down from the scaffold and ran to Jean.
"Charles! You really...!"
Jean threw his arms around Charles.
"Ah... ah, Jean... thank God... thank God..."
Charles wrapped his arms around Jean's back and wept.
"It's thanks to you, Charles. Because you found the courage..."
Jean was crying too.
"You really are something else, you know that?"
Jean gripped Charles's shoulders tight.
"I'm here too, you know."
Marie-Josèphe stood beside them, lips pursed.
"Ah, Marie, thank you too. If you hadn't come, I don't know what would have happened."
Charles smiled at his sister through his tear-streaked face.
"Of course. I'm your sister, after all."
Marie-Josèphe looked away, a little embarrassed.
And then.
"Long live Sanson!"
"Long live the executioner!"
"He protected an innocent man!"
Five thousand voices cheered as one.
"Sanson! Sanson! Sanson!"
The people shouted Charles's name, waved their hands, tossed their hats into the air.
The rain had stopped before anyone noticed.
Through a gap in the thick clouds, a single ray of sunlight broke through and lit the Place de Grève.
"...Please, God, forgive me."
Charles clutched the cross at his chest and looked up at the sky.
"I have defied the King's justice. But I believe—I truly believe—that I was not wrong."
The words were so quiet that no one could hear them.
Yet within Ch
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