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 - My Father's Scribbled Note — A Morning Without My Sister
The rain had stopped. It was the morning of the third day.
The cobblestones of Rue de la Chapelle were still dark and wet, gray sky reflected in the puddles. From the workshop of the leatherworker next door, Denis Lefèvre, the smell of boiling animal hide had been drifting out since dawn—that smell that clings to the back of your nose and won't let go.
Charles-Henri Sanson pushed open the heavy wooden door of the house with his back.
His black coat collar turned up, black hair tied at the nape of his neck swaying in the wind. Twenty-one years old. Executioner of Paris—Monsieur de Paris.
On the fingertips of his right hand, the calluses from the executioner's sword's grip had gone white and hard again this morning.
(Let's go see Jean.)
Having decided that, he headed north. From Rue de la Chapelle to the Saint-Marcel slum was about forty minutes on foot. Partway there, when he came out onto the road along the Seine, the river boatmen were busy with the morning unloading.
"Good morning."
A boatman passing by greeted him with a startled look. Charles returned a slight nod. Being spoken to by an executioner was normally considered bad luck. Even so, this boatman had been a familiar face for years.
He crossed the Pont Neuf.
The surface of the Seine reflected the leaden sky, gleaming heavily. A single ferry was slowly making its way toward the island.
(Only three days since that day.)
That shout in the Place de Grève.
In front of five thousand people, he had defied the king's order. He had shouted that he could not cut down his innocent best friend, and his sister had held up the marquis's evidence.
Jean was freed.
The Marquis de Luxe was seized by the crowd.
But—Marie-Josèphe had left the house.
"God, please forgive me."
Before he knew it, he had spoken aloud. He gripped the cross pendant over his coat. The cold feel of the metal.
He finished crossing the bridge and walked east along the riverbank road. As he neared the Saint-Marcel district, the cobblestones cracked and the smell of sewage grew stronger. Avoiding the wastewater running through the open gutters, Charles walked along the edge of the road.
The sign of the La Croix tavern came into view.
On the tilted wooden sign, a white cross was painted. The owner, Pierre Lacroix, was rolling a barrel in front of the shop. A fifty-year-old former shipwright. Thick arms and a sun-weathered face.
"Oh, monsieur."
Pierre looked up, wiping his sweat.
"Jean's in the back. Been here since morning."
"Thank you, master."
Charles ducked through the tavern's wooden door.
Inside was dim, a single tallow lamp flickering on the wall. Rice husks were scattered on the floor, crunching underfoot.
At the table in the back was the back of a head with brown curly hair.
Messy hair. Ink stains from the print shop on his right fingers. Thin shoulders.
"Jean."
When he called out, Jean turned around.
His bright brown eyes widened the moment they landed on Charles.
"Charles...!"
Jean kicked his chair aside and ran toward him.
And then, all at once, he threw his arms around Charles.
"You... you really...!"
Jean's arms wrapped around Charles's back. A powerful embrace, strong enough to make his bones creak.
"Thank God you're an executioner...! Because you held back, in that moment... I'm alive...!"
Jean's voice was shaking.
Something lukewarm fell on his shoulder. Jean's tears.
"...Yeah."
Charles put his hand on Jean's back.
(Thank goodness. He's alive. Really.)
Warmth spread slowly through his chest.
"Hey, you're crying too much. You've got snot on you."
Charles forced a smile and patted Jean's shoulder lightly.
"Shut up! I'm not crying!"
Jean, eyes bright red, sniffled.
The two of them sat facing each other at the back table.
Pierre set down two cups of cider without a word. Three sous a cup—the house specialty.
"Charles, there's something I wanted to tell you."
Jean took a sip of cider and his face turned serious.
"What is it?"
"That you defied the king's order on that scaffold. That wasn't wrong. I guarantee it."
Jean's eyes looked straight at Charles.
"You didn't kill an innocent man. As an executioner, as a guardian of the king's justice, you did the right thing."
"...Thank you."
Charles looked down.
"But, Charles."
Jean's voice dropped a little.
"Your smile's stiff. Something happened, didn't it. ...Is it about Marie-Josèphe?"
Charles's fingers tightened around the wooden cup.
"...No."
"Liar. It's you we're talking about—it's written all over your face."
Jean set down his cup and leaned forward.
"Did she do something again? What happened after she dumped out the marquis's evidence that day?"
"...She left. The house."
Charles said it as if squeezing the words out.
"What?"
"Marie left the house. ...That night, she said goodbye to me."
Charles drained his cider in one go.
The sour liquid burned his throat.
"...I see."
Jean fell silent, fiddling with his own cup.
"Sorry. That night, I was swamped with the release paperwork, and..."
"It's not your fault."
Charles shook his head.
"I protected you, Jean. But I couldn't protect Marie's heart."
Outside the tavern, a cart's wheels rattled past over the cobblestones.
"...Hey, Charles. You're too kind, you know that?"
Jean said quietly.
"I don't fully understand what you're feeling. But I can see you're blaming yourself. ...It'll be all right. Things'll work out."
"You think so?"
"They will. You saved me. So you can save your sister too."
Jean smiled. Dimples appeared.
Charles found himself smiling a little too.
But that smile, after all, was still stiff.
It was nearly noon by the time he left the tavern.
Jean said he was heading back to the print shop, so they parted in front of the shop.
"See you, Charles. Next time, it's on me."
"Yeah. Take care."
Jean waved and disappeared into the crowd.
Charles retraced his steps.
(Where is Marie right now?)
The wind off the Seine fluttered the hem of his coat.
The sky was still gray.
When he returned to Rue de la Chapelle, the smell of scorched tallow drifted from the leather workshop next door again today.
Charles opened the door of the house and went inside.
"...I'm home."
No answer.
Silence settled in the dim entryway.
(Right. Marie isn't here.)
Charles took off his shoes and walked down the hallway.
Past the kitchen on the first floor, he stopped in front of the living room. The door to his father Jean-Baptiste's retirement room was closed.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor.
One step at a time, only the creak of the wood echoed.
He stood before Marie-Josèphe's room.
The door was slightly ajar.
"Marie?"
He knocked and pushed the door open.
—The room was empty.
The blanket on the bed was neatly folded. The closet door was half open, and inside was bare. Her dresses, her men's clothes—all of it was gone.
Something was spread out on the desk.
Charles approached the desk.
"What's this..."
What lay there was a floor plan of Marshal Griffon's mansion.
On the parchment, the layout of the rooms was drawn in meticulous black ink. The position of the back door, the guards' station, the passage to the bedroom.
Beside it, the marshal's schedule.
Waking, breakfast, walk, meetings, dinner, bedtime—written in by the minute, hour by hour.
And then, several more sheets of paper.
The steps of an execution, written out in order.
One: Lure the target out.
Two: Bring him to a place without witnesses.
Three: Bind both hands.
Four: Make him kneel.
Five: Sever the cervical vertebrae in a single stroke.
Six: Conceal the body.
Beside it, in small handwriting: "Worst case, even without a scaffold, I'll do it here."
It was Marie-Josèphe's handwriting.
"...Marie."
Charles's hand trembled.
He noticed that her favorite dagger was gone from beneath the plans. The one she always kept in the desk drawer.
"You're serious about this."
Charles sank down in front of the desk as if his legs had given out.
The cold of the floor seeped into his legs.
(That night, Marie said it.)
'You have no right to stop me.'
'I'll live free. Bound by no one. Not by you, not by the king, not by God.'
And, 'Goodbye, big brother. Take care.'
"I couldn't protect her. Again."
He clenched his fist. His nails dug into his palm.
"I protected Jean. But I couldn't protect Marie."
Just then, a faint sound came from the hallway.
Charles raised his head.
(Father?)
He stood and went out into the hallway.
When he went down to the first floor, his father's retirement room door was slightly open.
"...Father."
Charles pushed the door open.
Deep in the dim room.
In a chair by the window sat his father, Jean-Baptiste.
His half-paralyzed body was wrapped in a blanket. Half his face didn't move. Yet the one eye that still worked looked up at Charles.
"...U, u..."
A sound that wasn't words leaked from his father's mouth.
"Father. Marie is gone."
Charles knelt before his father.
"Marshal Griffon's execution plans were left in Marie's room. She intends to carry out her revenge."
His father's eye widened slightly.
"U... a..."
His father's trembling left hand slowly rose.
Those fingers pointed to a corner of the room.
The old chest against the wall.
"That one?"
Charles approached the chest and opened the drawer.
Inside was a single leather-bound journal.
It was his father's execution record book.
"You want me to read this?"
His father slowly nodded.
Charles took the record book and opened it under the light by the window.
The details of past execution cases were recorded in his father's meticulous hand. He turned the pages. The last page.
—There, he found unfamiliar hasty writing.
'Marie-Josèphe—do not become like me.'
Charles held his breath.
Below it, something was written densely in small characters.
'Marshal Griffon, at a dinner party at the palace, took Marie-Josèphe into his study and molested her. My daughter was six years old at the time. In exchange for a letter of recommendation, she was forced to keep silent.'
'I leave this record. Fearing that one day, the day will come when my daughter runs to revenge.'
'I do not want my daughter to walk the same path as me.'
'But I could do nothing.'
"...Father."
Charles's voice trembled.
His father was looking out the window.
The gray sky.
"Father, you knew. What that man did to Marie."
His father did not answer.
Only a single tear traced down his unmoving cheek and fell.
"And all this time, you feared Marie would take revenge."
Charles clutched the record book to his chest.
"I won't abandon Marie the way you did, Father."
His father's hand rose again.
With trembling fingers, he pointed at the record book, and then at Charles's chest.
"...You're entrusting it to me?"
His father nodded once more.
"I understand. I'll stop Marie. I'll bring her back from the path of revenge."
Charles stood.
"To do that, I'm going to Versailles."
His father's eye fixed on Charles.
"God, please forgive me. To stop my sister, I will take up the sword once more."
That was when it happened.
Someone pounded violently on the door of the house.
Bang, bang, bang—the wooden door groaned.
Charles returned the record book to his father's hand and ran to the entrance.
He opened the door.
Standing there was—André Legris.
A taciturn man in his mid-thirties. A servant of the Sanson household, and Charles's assistant at the execution grounds. The man who should now be Marie-Josèphe's personal attendant.
"André... why?"
André was out of breath.
"Master... the young lady..."
André's face was pale.
"Calm down. Come inside."
Charles led André into the living room.
André, forgetting even to sit, began talking while standing.
"The young lady has gone to Versailles alone."
"I thought as much."
"She's proceeding with preparations to execute Marshal Griffon. She scouted the area around the marshal's mansion, disguised herself as a servant, and even got hold of a
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.