"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice rang out across the stone square. "Known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
A heavy silence fell.
The crowd held its breath.
The sky above was a relentless, cruelly blue, as though the heavens themselves demanded a perfect view of the unfolding justice.
"You stand condemned by crown and council alike," the herald continued. "For driving forty-three noble houses and three dukedoms to ruin with silvered lies, and for the brazen abduction of three royal daughters—your fate is sealed."
Chains rattled as Sylas shifted ever so slightly. He stood at the center of the execution platform, wrists bound behind his back, iron shackles coiled tight around his ankles.
His dark hair fell loosely around his face, tousled by the breeze, while a faint, amused smile played at his lips.
"By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced," the herald intoned. "may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
Then the herald slowly turned to Sylas, eyes filled with scorn.
"Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Sylas blinked. Then, lifting his head with a slight tilt, he asked—almost lazily.
"May I see a coin? Just once more."
A pause filled the air.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Gasps swept through the crowd like wind through dead leaves.
"A coin?" someone choked out. "He still has the nerve to ask for gold?"
The murmurs swelled, rising into a storm of fury.
"He sold my brother a map to an 'immortal artifact'!" a red-faced man roared. "It led him straight into a f**king cannibal village!"
A bishop, face flushed crimson with rage, shot to his feet and pointed a trembling finger.
"He ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred Moans! I—I went there to confess!"
The room erupted—half with laughter, half with outrage.
Through it all, Sylas remained motionless, his expression a mask of unreadable calm.
I only wanted to see a gold coin. Is that truly so much to ask? Is it a crime to take from the rich?
He remembered being five, eyes fixed on a jar of honeyed plums glinting in a shop window. He reached for them, only to have the shopkeeper slap his hand away—no coin, no sweets.
His father had chuckled, then handed him a single coin. Just one. It gleamed in the sunlight like treasure. He stared at it, wide-eyed, before trading it for sugar and delight.
That was the first time he understood: gold made the world say yes.
A voice suddenly rang out from deep within the crowd, shattering Sylas's thoughts like broken glass.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on 'How to Avoid Scams!' But when we arrived, the only thing on the board was: 'Fools.'"
A chorus of shouts followed.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
Alright, I did steal from the poor… though, to be fair, they didn't have much to lose.
Amidst the storm of jeers and accusations, a single voice broke through like a heartbeat in the chaos.
"He saved my daughter," the old woman croaked, gripping her cane.
She had begged for help, but no one listened. Then a stranger came, the only one who answered. Her eyes, filled with defiance, dared anyone to question her words.
Behind her, her daughter stood, waving frantically through the crowd, tears streaming down her face as she shouted his name, her voice breaking with desperation.
A gaunt man suddenly stepped forward from the back of the crowd, his voice soft but clear.
"He taught my son to read," he said, his eyes downcast. "He always said... knowledge was the one coin no one could steal."
A heavy silence fell over the crowd, thick with an unexpected truth. Murmurs rippled through the mob, uncertain and hesitant, refusing to settle.
"He may have lied," someone muttered, "but not always to harm."
The words sparked a heated argument. "Lies!" someone shouted from the back, and others joined in angrily. But some whispered in doubt. "He didn't do it all out of malice," one voice said, causing a ripple of uncertainty through the crowd.
The tension mounted, voices clashes of anger and confusion, until one command sliced through it all.
"SILENCE."
The crowd held its breath, waiting, as a heavy silence settled over them, everyone straining to hear what would come next.
Then, without thinking, all eyes turned upward, drawn to the source of the sound.
On the royal platform above, the King stood. His figure towered over the crowd, like a storm ready to unleash its power.
Once one of the Ten Heroes of the Crimson Calamity, the King now stood regal and imposing, his white cloak billowing with authority.
Beside him, the three princesses sat—alive, very much un-abducted. The air around them buzzed with tension as they glared daggers at Sylas, their eyes sharp and accusatory.
His youngest daughter though, who seemed out of place. Instead of glaring, her cheeks flushed, and her gaze quickly shifted away from Sylas, her thoughts a tangled mess she couldn't control.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King said coldly, his voice a frosty blade. "Your tongue will wag no more."
With a flick of his hand, the King issued the command. The executioner stepped forward wearing a dark hood, axe in hand, an artifact gleaming with a cold, crimson light, promising death.
The weight of fate hung heavy, the crowd's breath collectively held, as time seemed to stretch in those final, dreadful moments.
Sylas inhaled slowly, his mind detached, as if the world itself had grown distant. The bustling square, the onlookers, even the harsh clatter of chains, everything felt surreal.
His gaze settled at the girl, tears streaking down her face. She met his eyes, her heart heavy, and whispered, "Brother..." Her voice trembled, carrying years of unspoken pain.
He offered her a faint smile, his gaze drifting to the sky, searching for something neither of them could ever find.
Then, barely a breath above the wind, he whispered... so softly that only the air seemed to catch his words.
"If there's a next life," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The blade came down.
"I want to be rich."
A flash of silver.
Then—
Darkness.
~~~~~~
A body lay still in the dim room suddenly jolted upright.
The man gasped for air, his chest rising and falling in frantic heaves, as though he'd just clawed his way out of drowning. Sweat slicked his skin, his eyes wide, darting in panic.
"Am I... dead?" he murmured, his hand flying to his throbbing head.
But the sensations around him shattered any illusion of comfort.
The weight of a thin, itchy blanket over his legs. The creak of old wooden floorboards beneath the bed. Sunlight filtering through a small, cracked window, illuminating motes of dust in the air.
He sat up abruptly, blinking against the haze of confusion.
His eyes scanned the room, taking in the sparse furnishings: a single bed with a thin mattress, a simple wooden table, and bare walls with a rusted candle holder.
Everything screamed "poor."
He spoke in a low voice, almost disbelieving. "Did I really get a second chance?"
A flicker of hope lit his eyes—only to be crushed a breath later by a scowl.
"But why here? I said I wanted to be rich, damn it."
With a sigh, he dragged a hand down his face and pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled, just for a moment, then steadied himself.
What's done is done. At least I'm alive again but… who am I now?
As if the question had summoned it, a sudden, blinding pain stabbed through his skull.
A strangled groan escaped his throat as he collapsed onto the bed, hands clutching his temples. Images flashed behind his eyelids by memories not his own.
When the pain finally subsided, he lay there, gasping for air, sweat dampening his hair.
"…Sylas Mortis," he whispered, his voice rough.
The name lingered on his tongue, strangely familiar, yet unmistakably foreign.
"My name's still Sylas... But now I've got a last name."
With a strained effort, he pushed himself upright and staggered toward the window.
Sylas glimpsed his reflection in the fractured glass—piercing red eyes, sharp cheekbones, a face that could easily be mistaken for royalty… or something far more dangerous.
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
This face? Oh, it's going to make me more money than I can count.
His eyes shifted to the view outside, the scene unfolding.
A thick fog hung in the air, clinging to the dark expanse of the forest.
And there, barely visible through the mist, a child—small and fragile—stepped toward into the dense forest.
Sylas watched, unease settling in his chest. The child's movements were unnatural, as though he were drawn by forces unseen, each step taken with an odd, unsettling rhythm.
But then, a sudden knock crashed against the door, tearing him from his thoughts in an instant.