"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice rang, cold and sharp as an executioner's axe. "Known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
The sky above was cruelly blue—bright and cloudless. It felt as though the heavens were watching, ready to witness 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."
Forty-three?
A smirk tugged at his lips. I recall thirty-eight... But then again, history favors the loud, not the honest.
Chains rattled as Sylas shifted, the wooden platform creaking beneath him.
His dark hair caught the wind, tousled like a poet's before a tragic death. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, equal parts boredom and irony.
Ah… the three princesses...
One kissed me and called it fate.
Another pressed a blade to my throat and called it love.
The third… gods, what was her name again? The one with the thing for... Stockholm something No... that was the city I ruined playing prince.
A slow breath escaped him, not heavy, not bitter—just... final.
Then came the herald's voice—loud, proud, and oh-so-sure of itself.
"By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced, may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
If cunning were truly a crime... should I not have been crowned king instead of condemned?
The herald's gaze turned toward him, burning with the righteousness of a zealot. "Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Oathbreaker?
Please, this world was forged in betrayal. They just hate when someone plays their game better.
A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle as a whisper, sharp as a secret.
"A coin," he murmured, voice calm, almost amused. "May I see one?"
A silence followed, long and oppressive. The air grew heavy, expectant, as though the world itself had tilted to listen.
A murmur rippled, sudden and sharp—a collective gasp swept through the crowd.
"A coin?" someone choked out. "He still wants to see gold?"
The whispers thickened, rising, coiling, transforming into a storm.
"He sold my brother a map to an immortal-grade artifact!" A red-faced man surged to his feet, voice cracking with old shame and fresh rage. "It led him straight into a f**king cannibal village!"
They scream, as if their suffering is sacred, as if their loss isn't just the price of their own greed.
Another figure stood—a bishop in flowing robes, crimson flushed faced and frantic. He pointed, not with holy anger, but like a guilty man desperate to blame someone else.
"He—he ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred Moans! I—I went there to confess!"
A pause followed. Then—a cough. Someone, somewhere, losing the battle against a laugh.
Sylas's fingers twitched, his lips unmoving but his eyes gleaming with mockery. The signs were right there, weren't they? 'Sacred Moans'—how was that not a red flag? People rarely read the label when desperate for salvation or sin; they only saw what they wanted.
The room erupted in laughter, loud and uncontrollable, followed by outraged gasps. Even the herald couldn't hold it in and dropped his official decree.
But Sylas did not move. Not even a blink. His posture was the very shape of indifference, even as his thoughts roared beneath the surface.
All I wanted was a coin. One. Just one.
Not a kingdom. Not salvation. Not even justice. Just a single coin. The world wanted coin before kindness, coin before mercy, coin before sweetness.
He learned that young. Maybe five. The memory was blurry, like a painting ruined by rain, but it never truly faded.
He had stood at the shop window, eyes wide, nose pressed to the glass like a beggar at a palace gate. Honeyed plums, glowing in the sun. He reached out. The shopkeeper slapped his hand away. No coin, no sweets.
Then his father—smiling like it was all a joke—pressed one coin into his hand. Just one. It gleamed like magic, like fate, like a promise. He stared at it, afraid it would vanish. Then he spent it.
That was the moment he understood. Gold made the world say yes.
A sharp voice cut through the noise, snapping Sylas back to the court, the eyes, the judgment, and the waiting silence.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on How to Avoid Scams! But when we arrived, the only thing on the board was: Fools."
The crowd erupted in laughter and outrage, but Sylas remained unmoved, letting out a soft, weary sigh.
I may have robbed the poor too," he mused, a wry smile twisting his lips. No guilt, just the cold grind of inevitability.
The thought danced in his mind, curling like smoke. Was it any different? Nope! They didn't have much to lose anyway.
The laughter shifted to a more menacing roar, their words sharp as daggers.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
What a beautiful irony. What is a lie, when the world itself is built on them?
The accusations hit him like rain on stone. The storm raged, but one voice cut through—like a heartbeat.
"He saved my daughter."
The old woman's voice was raspy, but steady. She gripped her cane tightly, eyes sharp with defiance. She remembered. She knew him—not for his sins, but for the one time he stood when no one else did.
The crowd shifted behind her, revealing her daughter in the distance.
Tears ran down the young woman's face. "Sylas!" she called, voice shaking as she reached out, but something unseen held her back.
The irony wasn't lost on Sylas—no one cared for the poor unless there was something to gain or, at best, the guilt that clawed at the soul.
The words were meaningless—or should have been. Yet they clawed at Sylas, awakening something he thought dead. The crowd's judgment? It was nothing. It meant nothing.
A heavy silence fell, suffocating and oppressive. The crowd's murmurs grew—not out of confusion, but doubt.
"He may have lied," someone whispered, uncertain. "But not always to harm."
A laugh curled in Sylas throat—bitter, amused. Harm?How... foolish they were to think so. Lies were his gift, his curse. He spun them for power, yes. But mostly? For gold. And gold.
The argument flared. "Lies!" someone shouted, their voice sharp with anger.
Other voices rose, not in agreement, but in conflict.
"Maybe he didn't mean it," someone murmured, unsure.
The crowd hesitated. They faltered. But they were not the ones who would decide.
"SILENCE."
And they fell silent. Every breath held, every heartbeat paused.
Then, as if the world itself had tilted, all eyes turned upward.
The King stood on the platform—cold, commanding. Behind him, the throne loomed, built on the fall of the defiant.
Once one of the Ten Heroes of the Crimson Calamity, the King now stood proud and imposing, his white cloak flowing behind him with authority.
Beside him, the three princesses sat—alive, and very much 'un-abducted'. Their presence alone was a rebuke.
One glared, her expression a sharpened blade aimed straight at his neck. The second, soft-eyed and silent, offered him an apologetic glance. The third… her gaze wavered. Blush bloomed on her cheeks, and she quickly turned away, as though ashamed to meet his eyes.
Ah. So it was her. The youngest. The one who'd fallen in love after being kidnapped.
A mistake on her part.
A gamble on his.
A disaster for everyone else.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King intoned, voice polished and cold. "Your tongue will wag no more."
The decree rang final.
A hand lifted.
The executioner stepped from the shadows—hooded, silent. His rune-etched axe pulsed with a faint red glow.
So this is how it ends.
Three princesses at my side.
The King before me.
And me? Just a fraud.
Or was it more than that?
He remembered gaving him a bottle. Said it was ten thousand years old.Let him taste moonlight and vinegar, dressed up as ancient wine. Took his gold. Laughed behind my mask.
Ten thousand coins for a joke. And he called it treason.
But this? This punishment—it's not just for that.
No, these three are the reason.
His daughters.
Ah, how amusing it is. The King, so proud of his precious little darlings, can't quite stomach the thought that I—of all people—was the one to take them. Me. A man of such... refined tastes.
Love. A cruel, tragic thing, isn't it? That's what got me executed, not the scam or lies.
How utterly... pathetic.
Still. Could've been worse. I didn't sleep with them. Not all of them, anyway.
Sylas took a slow breath.
His eyes drifted to a girl, her eyes swollen with tears. "Brother! Don't go—please!"
Another girl, the daughter of that old woman, shouted his name, followed by two princesses, calling out as if he were their only anchor. "Sylas..."
For the first time in years, he gave a small, genuine smile. It was brief, born not of kindness, but of something darker—recognition of what had been taken from him. The first since that night...
When everything had crumbled. His smile faltered, the weight of it pressing down. Could I have protected them? His eyes lingered on the girl still calling to him, and for a moment, he wondered if it mattered at all.
He looked to the sky, where answers drifted out of reach.
Time crawled, each second heavier than the last.
He inhaled sharply, tasting the cold, as he whispered, barely audible to the wind.
"If there's an afterlife...," he muttered, and the words hung in the air. He had no expectation of it.
The blade descended.
A flash of silver sliced through the air, freezing time for a fleeting moment.
A smile tugged at his lips, the last trace of a man who had learned the world was nothing more than a cruel joke.
"I want to be rich."
The world turned dark.
Ugh! What is this?
His head suddenly started throbbing memories coming in A