"What a sunny day to die..."
The crowd had gathered to witness the execution of a prince.
Art knelt in chains, his head lowered as the intense midday sun scorched the royal courtyard.
Voices rose and fell around him—whispers and mutters carried by nobles, commoners, and guards alike.
Each one of them had come to see the same thing: the moment the axe would fall and sever the prince's head.
He had been labelled a traitor, a heretic, and a disgrace to the Empire of Vale.
However, none of them knew the truth.
Art had already died once.
Nineteen years in the future, he had lived a completely different life.
In that lifetime, he had been a renowned general of war—celebrated for his victories, feared by his enemies, and ultimately betrayed by the very emperor he had served with unwavering loyalty.
He had been executed without honour or farewell.
This time, he had returned, not as a general or a warrior, but as a fragile and unwanted member of the royal family.
His new life belonged to Art Drayven, the firstborn son of the imperial line. He had been born with a weak constitution, shunned by the court, and dismissed as irrelevant.
That version of him was supposed to die here.
But something had changed.
Art slowly opened his eyes. The execution platform shimmered in the heat.
Memories of his first life surged, the battlefield victories, the betrayal, and the precise moment he awakened in the body of this ailing prince, just seconds away from death.
From deep within his mind, a familiar voice stirred. It had whispered to him since the moment he returned to life.
"Do not beg. Do not pray. Rise."
Art clenched his fists. The iron restraints bit into his skin, but he barely noticed the pain.
Across the courtyard, the High Chancellor stood and unrolled a scroll. His voice carried clearly as he read the official declaration.
"Art Drayven, son of Emperor Halren, is found guilty of high treason and the practice of forbidden soul arts. By order of the imperial throne, he is to be executed without delay."
The accusation of practising soul arts was, of course, a complete fabrication.
The court had no real evidence actually. They merely needed a reason to eliminate him.
Art held no influence, no powerful allies, and no position within the imperial line that anyone considered valuable. The notion that someone like him—a sickly, abandoned prince—could master forbidden arts was absurd.
At least, that was what they believed.
The executioner stepped forward, dragging a massive battle-worn axe behind him. Its blade gleamed under the sun, carrying the weight of a hundred executions.
Art looked up.
The moment his gaze met the executioner's, the man hesitated. Only just for a second.
'I will not die before the game even begins. These fools do not realise what they are about to do.'
His voice cut through the courtyard with calm clarity, firm and composed.
"I remember the day this empire burned."
The entire courtyard fell into silence. Then confusion rippled through the crowd, followed by hushed murmuring.
"I remember its fall," Art continued, raising his voice. "I remember because I was there."
The wind shifted. A strange heat began to pulse in his chest, followed by an intense stabbing pain.
"That cannot be happening," Art thought, struggling to remain upright as flashes of light and distorted images tore through his vision.
A burning mark erupted across his collarbone, cutting through his shirt like fire. It glowed with a jagged, dark red hue and took the form of a broken crown. The crest pulsed once, sending a shiver across the execution platform.
Someone in the crowd screamed.
"The Ashen Sigil..." a noble whispered in disbelief. "That is impossible. It disappeared generations ago."
The High Chancellor stumbled backwards, his face became pale with fear.
Art rose to his feet, snapping the chains like brittle branches. Sparks scattered across the platform as the ground began to shake under him.
"...How!?," the Chancellor shouted, trembling.
Art stepped forward without hesitation. He threw himself into motion, fully embracing the chaos in order to escape.
He did not question why this power was awakening now. He only knew it was his only chance.
He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice was hoarse and strained.
"No. I was meant to burn it actually. But hey, family, right?"
The axe descended—but it never reached him. The moment it touched the light surrounding his body, it shattered completely.
A blinding explosion erupted, throwing the executioner backwards. Shards of steel scattered like ash. Screams broke out from the crowd, and panic spread instantly.
Some ran, others fell to their knees in fear. The palace guards stood frozen, uncertain whether to flee or to bow.
Art did not move.
A faint grin spread across his face instantly.
'It seems fate is finally on my side,' he thought to himself with bitter amusement.
He raised his head towards the imperial palace and spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
"Do I earn permission to live now? Because it seems I have just shown what this kingdom truly needs if it is to stand against its enemies..."
As his voice trailed off, his body gave way. His vision blurred, his eyelids drooped, and his strength vanished. He collapsed onto the ground with a dull, heavy thud.