"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice rang out across the stone square, cold and sharp as steel,
"known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
A heavy silence descended upon the gathered crowd, each person holding their breath in anticipation.
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 the three royal daughters beneath moon and torchlight—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."
A heavy silence settled over the chamber.
Then the herald slowly turned to Sylas, eyes filled with scorn.
"Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Silas blinked, slow and deliberate. Then, lifting his head with a slight tilt, he asked—his voice calm, almost lazy,
"May I see a coin? Just once more."
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 damn cannibal village!"
Another voice rose sharply above the clamor.
"He said he'd teach us 'Ten Secrets to Outsmart Royal Taxation'—then vanished with our fees!"
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, just once more. Is that truly so much to ask? Is it a crime to take from the rich, when they have so much to spare?
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!"
Sylas smirked to himself. Alright, I did steal from the poor… though, to be fair, they didn't have much to lose anyway.
"SILENCE."
The word cracked through the air like thunder.
The crowd immediately fell silent.
All eyes turned to the royal platform, high above the square.
The King had risen.
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, and glaring daggers at Sylas. Well, all but one, who seemed preoccupied with an inexplicable blush.
"Your charm has faded, Silas," the King said coldly, his voice a frosty blade. "Your tongue will wag no more."
With a swift gesture, he motioned toward the executioner.
The burly man stepped forward, axe in hand, his face shrouded beneath a dark hood. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming with a chilling promise.
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 and jeers—everything felt surreal, muffled by a growing void.
He tilted his head back, his eyes searching the vast, endless sky above.
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, "I want to be rich."
The blade came down.
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.
Sylas 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 hanging.
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—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 Silas... 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? It's going to make me more money than I can count."
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
He turned toward the door, his hand twitching instinctively—searching for a weapon he no longer carried.
Another knock echoed through the room.
In silence, he approached the door, his palm resting against the wood. With a groan, the door creaked open.