A Life Restarting From Execution

In a crimson sunset like blood, the frenzied voices of the crowd echoed with a crazed madness. It was as if they were thirsting for the execution show that was about to begin…

“Why did it come to this?”

“Shut up and walk!!”

With both hands bound by rope and dragged along by soldiers, a young man appeared—prompting the voices to grow even louder.

The citizens before him hurled jeers and screamed his way.

“Kill him!! Kill him!!”

“Punish the cold-blooded Prince Arthur!!”

“A gold-obsessed monster who heals only nobles!!”

Why did it come to this?

This time, the young man—Arthur Pendragon, the second prince of the kingdom—asked himself in his heart.

Was it because he ignored the suffering of the wounded and sick commoners, using his precious healing powers only for nobles?

Was it because he said, “If there’s no bread, let them eat cake,” to the starving citizens?

Or was it simply because, despite their suffering… he did nothing at all?

He could see the guillotine being prepared for him. The one giving the orders was Arthur’s half-brother, the third prince, Mordred.

In the public eye, Mordred was a hero who united the commoners and rural nobles against the aristocracy, leading a successful revolution. He was celebrated and called the “Rebel Prince.”

But Arthur never understood.

Why did he do such a thing? He was royalty too. If he had done nothing, a life of comfort and privilege should have awaited him.

Yes, Arthur remembered the words Mordred once said to him with a sorrowful expression: “You don’t understand people’s hearts.” For some reason, those words pierced him deeply.

With a clang, the guillotine was set. Preparations were finally complete. His ropes were untied, and instead, chains made of a special metal that sealed magic were fastened to him.

At first, he tried to resist, but after repeated beatings, his spirit broke. He no longer had the will to fight.

“Move it, Lord Arthur.”

“Oww!!”

A soldier yanked the chains on purpose, sending a sharp pain through his arm. Arthur screamed unintentionally, and the crowd roared with delight.

With that pain, Arthur finally understood. Ah, he saw now… being hurt or wounded felt this awful…

But still… no one ever told me that, did they? Everyone said things would be fine if they just listened to me.

There were nobles who told him to ignore the voices of the people. Nobles who said healing magic was only for the chosen—the aristocracy. Those same nobles had already been executed or fled the country to save themselves. None had stood by Arthur.

No, there were a few…

The face of a maid girl who was kind to him even after his sentence was decided came to mind. And the face of his former fiancée, who kept advising him despite how little he listened.

If it would come to this, he should have been kind to that maid. If it would come to this, he should have listened to his former fiancée. While thinking such things far too late, his body was pressed down and fastened into the guillotine.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt…”

“Heh, suffer all you like.”

Even his final murmur was drowned out by the soldier’s sneer. Then, with a cold thunk, blood spattered… and Arthur Pendragon’s life came to an end.

“Uwaaaaaaaaahhh!!”

A pitiful scream echoed through Arthur’s room in the royal castle.

‘Huh? I can talk…?’

Panicking, he touched the base of his neck—Arthur’s head was still attached. And as usual, there was no pain.

“Ahaha, that was just a dream, right…?”

Laughing nervously to suppress his fear, he looked in the mirror and saw a luxurious robe made of rich materials, unblemished skin, and the (self-proclaimed) intelligent-looking face of a blond boy around fifteen years old.

Not the tattered cloth of a rag, not the scarred skin bound in magic-sealing chains. He was back in his original body—and let out a sigh of relief.

Huh? Around fifteen…?

Arthur frowned, sensing something was off about his appearance. He was sure the revolution had happened when he was twenty, and that he’d been imprisoned afterward.

He looked at himself again and confirmed—he looked much younger.

This was during the golden age of Britannia, when Arthur still wore fine clothes and dined on luxurious meals.

Back then, he hadn’t even imagined a revolution could happen.

Was that a dream…? That hellish vision…?

“Yeah, it was a dream… I mean, I’m Arthur Pendragon, the so-called treasure of Britannia!! There’s no way I would be executed!! Ahahahahaha!”

He tried to convince himself of that, but something deep within his heart objected.

After all, Arthur remembered. The coldness of the prison cell where he was confined, the pain of being bound by magic-sealing ropes, and—above all—the eyes of the citizens filled with hatred and scorn…

“Excuse me, Lord Arthur… I’ve brought your tea.”

“Who goes there!!”

While recalling such dreadful memories, a maid entered with a knock, and Arthur reflexively raised his voice.

“Ah! H-Hot!!”

Startled, the maid let out a cry and spilled the pot of tea she was holding, scalding her hand in the process.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, Lord Arthur… I’ll clean this right away and prepare a new pot of tea…”

“Hey, are you alright…?”

As Arthur started to speak to the flustered maid, he froze.

That common black hair, those large, round eyes, and her well-developed chest—he recognized her.

She was the same girl who had stayed by his side until the end in his previous life…

He remembered her gentle demeanor in that dream and couldn’t stop himself from moving closer.

“I deeply apologize, Lord Arthur. Not only did I spill your tea, but I also soiled the floor…”

“That doesn’t matter. Show me your hand—where the tea splashed. Is it burned?”

“Eh, but…”

She looked at Arthur in fear, despite the pain, trying to pick up the broken shards of the pot.
Arthur took her hand and examined it.

Her skin was faintly red—if left untreated, it might blister.

“Lord Arthur, what are you…?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll heal you.”

Arthur smiled gently at the maid, who was trembling for some reason. She gasped in surprise.

“Lord Arthur!! You mustn’t! You can’t use that power on something like this… That power is only meant to be used by those who are chosen!!”

“Why the hell not? Injuries hurt, you know. Pain is suffering. Heal the wounded.”

Ignoring the maid’s attempt to stop him, Arthur used healing magic.

The injury vanished in an instant.

This was Arthur’s ability—the very reason nobles held him in such high regard.

“Thank goodness… Looks like everything’s fine. Um… is something wrong?”

After confirming the swelling had gone down, Arthur let out a sigh of relief.

He smiled while still holding her hand—yet she blushed furiously.

“I-It’s nothing… I’ll go grab the broom!!”

Without waiting for permission, she dashed off.

Ah… there were so many things he wanted to talk to her about…

As Arthur thought this, a strange voice echoed in his head:

Then, he noticed a notebook with a plain white cover on the desk, glowing faintly.

“What is this…?”

Grabbing it without thinking, Arthur let out a gasp of disbelief.

Because inside, it described in detail the events that had led to his execution…