"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 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 rolled his shoulders, the wooden platform beneath him creaking like a stage before his final act.
His dark hair fell loosely around his face, tousled by the breeze, while a faint, amused smile played at his lips.
After all... isn't this what they wanted? A villain to burn at dawn.
"By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced," the herald proclaimed. "may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
The herald turned slowly to Sylas, his eyes full of hatred. "Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Sylas blinked slowly, tilting his head with a mocking smile. "A coin. May I see one?"
A pause filled the air. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to stop.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, sharp and bitter as the chill in the air.
"A coin?" someone choked out. "He still wants to see gold?"
The whispers grew louder, turning into a storm of fury.
"He sold my brother a map to an 'immortal grade 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—he ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred M-Moans! I—I... I went there to confess!"
The room burst into laughter, quickly followed by outrage.
Through it all, Sylas remained motionless, his face a mask of indifference, even as his thoughts roared beneath the surface.
All I wanted was a coin. Just one.
Was that too much to ask?
Stealing from the rich...
Perhaps, but... no. It was necessary. Justifiable.
The rich had so much, and I had nothing.
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 cut through the crowd, snapping Sylas out of his thoughts.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on How to Avoid Scams! But when we arrived, the only thing on the board was: Fools."
Sylas sighed.
Alright, I may have robbed the poor too, he admitted, not without a hint of resignation. But in my defense, they didn't have much to lose.
There was a fleeting sense of justification, like the weight of his sins lightened when seen from a different angle.
It's not like they were any better off before I came along.
A chorus of shouts followed.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
In the midst of the storm of jeers and accusations, one voice cut through, steady and clear like a heartbeat in chaos.
"He saved my daughter," the old woman rasped, clutching her cane with defiance. Her gaze dared anyone to speak against her, unyielding as a storm. She remembered begging for help, but no one listened. Then a stranger appeared—the only one who answered.
No one comes for the poor. Not unless there's profit. Or guilt.
Her daughter stood behind her, waving desperately through the crowd, tears running down her face, her voice shaking with panic as she called out his name.
A thin man stepped forward from the back of the crowd, his voice quiet but clear.
"He taught my son to read," his eyes downcast. "He always said... knowledge was the one coin no one could steal."
A heavy silence fell over the crowd as the unexpected truth sank in. Quiet whispers spread, filled with confusion and doubt.
"He may have lied," someone muttered, "but not always to harm."
The words stirred up a loud argument. "Lies!" someone yelled from the back, and others began shouting too. But some people weren't so sure.
"Maybe he didn't mean to do it out of hate," someone said quietly, and the crowd began to hesitate.
The tension grew, with angry and confused voices arguing, until one command cut through them all.
"SILENCE."
The crowd went quiet. Everyone waited to hear what would happen next.
Then, as if on cue, they all looked up.
On the royal platform above, the King stood. His figure towered over the crowd, like a storm ready to unleash its power.
Power. The one language this kingdom never forgets. And here stands its loudest speaker.
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, very much un-abducted. The air around them buzzed with tension as they glared daggers at Sylas, their eyes sharp and accusatory.
His youngest, instead of glaring, blushed and quickly looked away—confused, even as Sylas faced execution.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King said coldly, his voice a frosty blade. "Your tongue will wag no more."
The King waved his hand, giving the order. The executioner stepped forward, face hidden under a dark hood, holding an axe that glowed with a cold red light—promising death.
The crowd held its breath, as time slowed in those final, dreadful moments.
Sylas took a slow breath, his mind drifting as if the world around him had become distant. The busy square, the people watching, even the loud sound of his chains—all of it felt unreal.
He looked at the girl, tears streaming down her face. She met his eyes and cried out, "Brother! Don't go—please!"
He gave her a faint but genuine smile—the first he had shown since his parents' death.
So even now, someone cries for me. What a strange thing… to feel warmth at the end.
Then, he looked up at the sky, as if searching for something neither of them could ever find.
The heavens have never answered, so why would they start now?
He whispered barely above the wind, so softly that only the air seemed to hear his words.
"If there's an afterlife...," he muttered
The blade came down.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"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.
He reached instinctively for his pocket. Empty. No coin. Of course.
Dead? Is this death? Impossible. It feels too real.
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.
"If this is afterlife, it needs some serious renovations."
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."
Small. Dirty. No luxury. Damn it. Not even a proper mattress. What kind of afterlife is this?
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.
Wait. No. This doesn't feel right. What's the point of a second chance if I'm stuck in the gutter?
Why here? Why this? There's no way... No way I'm going to waste another life in this… this.
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.
Focus. No time for weakness. I'm alive again. At least... that's something.
But Who am I? What's left of me now? I'll have to figure it out.
As if the question had summoned it, a sudden, blinding pain stabbed through his skull.
Ugh! What—? What now? His body jerked, a strangled groan escaping his throat as he collapsed onto the bed.
Hands clutching his temples—No! This can't be happening...
Images. Flashing. Flickering. Not his own memories, but they felt real. "What are these?"
Gasping for air, sweat dampened his hair. The pain… subsiding. Finally.
"…Sylas Mortis," he whispered, voice rough.
Sylas Mortis? Why does it feel like...
The name lingered on his tongue—familiar. But also, foreign.
My name's still Sylas... But now... I have a last name.
With a strained effort, he pushed himself upright and staggered toward the window.
Sylas glimpsed his reflection in the cracked glass—piercing red eyes, sharp cheekbones, a face that could pass for royalty… or something far more dangerous.
A face meant to rule… or ruin.
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
I can already feel the heirs begging for my autograph.
The thought lingered in his mind, laced with irony. He had already expected their desperation, their scrambling for favor.
Typical.
Ambitious, yet skillless.
A single signature, and they'll bow. Fawn. Beg.
How amusing.
His eyes shifted to the view outside, the scene unfolding.
A thick fog clung to the air, swallowing the dark expanse of the forest.
Amidst the mist, a small, fragile figure stepped into the woods—the child's movements unnatural, like a puppet.
Sylas watched, a cold weight pressing into his chest.
The child moved like a marionette on invisible strings, each step slow and wrong.
Not normal.
Not alive.
Something's inside it.
Knock, knock
A sudden knock crashed against the door—sharp, urgent, off—tearing him from his thoughts in an instant.