The square of Lovina was a sea of faces, a million people packed shoulder to shoulder, their collective breath a humid mist in the autumn air. All eyes were fixed on the raised stone platform where Arthur Belmont, the infamous Demon Prince, knelt. The execution block, slick with the morning dew, was his final stage. He was 35 years old, and the end of the 3rd Great Holy War had brought his downfall. After a decade of commanding the heretics and rebels, of wielding the cursed Gravity Magic that bent light and crushed flesh, his reign of terror was over.
His father, King Richard Belmont, stood before him. The so-called Mad King, whose tyranny had driven Arthur to rebellion in the first place, now wore the solemn mask of a righteous judge. A gleaming holy sword, gifted by the Church of Light, was in his hand.
"People of Lovina!" King Richard's voice boomed, magnified by a holy artifact. "Today, we cleanse a stain from the soul of our kingdom! My own son, Arthur Belmont, has committed crimes beyond mortal comprehension. He has forsaken the Holy Light and embraced darkness. For a decade, he has been a plague upon our lands."
He began to list the atrocities. "For the crime of heresy, for mocking the sacred will of the gods! For the crime of treason, for raising a bloody banner against his own kin! For crimes against humanity, for using his vile magic to slaughter innocents at the Battle of the Obsidian Fields! For the war crimes of burning the holy city of Vespera to the ground! For the murder of countless holy knights! For sedition, blasphemy, and the insurrection of the Southern Provinces!"
The crowd roared, a mix of triumph and hatred. They had been taught from birth that Arthur, a bastard born, was a cursed child, a Demon Prince who carried the taint of darkness. They spat at his name, a lesson learned after the great famine where priests declared him the bringer of misfortune. The King continued his litany, each crime a hammer blow of condemnation. "He is a man who consorted with the abominations—the elves and the beastfolk—and dared to love one of their wretched slaves, tainting our sacred bloodline. For all these sins and more, he is condemned!"
Richard paused, his gaze cold and unforgiving. "Arthur, do you have any final words before you face the light of judgment?"
Arthur raised his head, a single, bitter laugh escaping his lips. His father's words were a symphony of lies, a twisted reflection of his own cruelty. Richard, who had ordered the execution of the elven girl Arthur loved, who had left him to mourn alone in the western wing of the palace. It was all a farce. A beautiful lie the weak clung to, a fabrication of a god to justify their own sins.
He opened his mouth, and his voice, though rough, carried an unbreakable defiance. "Listen to me, you miserable, pathetic wretches!" he roared. "You think you are free? You are all slaves! Slaves to a lie, a story concocted to keep you in chains! There is no god! The so-called divine authority you preach is nothing more than the fiction created by the weak to justify their own vile deeds. And my father, the so-called 'Mad King'? He is no more divine than the filth on his boots! The Belmonts have no divine right! We are all just humans, born of flesh and bone, but he, with his crown and his lies, has made a mockery of it all. You are all cattle led to the slaughter, and I spit on every single one of you! Go fuck yourselves!"
The crowd fell into a stunned silence. His words, a poisonous truth, were more damning than any holy curse. A genuine, almost manic laugh, a maniacal laugh as if he were a jester at his own final show, echoed across the square. Richard's face contorted in a silent rage. He would not allow his bastard son to die with the last word.
The King raised his sword, its holy light blinding against the crimson of the rising sun. A flash. A swing. And then, black.
Arthur's consciousness felt as if it were sinking into an endless, quiet void. He drifted, suspended in a sea of nothingness, but his mind, sharp and defiant, was still his own.
"They were so sure of their lies. Of their god. Of their righteous crusade. They called me the Demon Prince, a heretic, a monster. But they were the real monsters, hiding their sins behind a gilded facade of piety. They took everything from me. My love, my family, my purpose. Now, they've taken my life. They think this is the end. That their triumph is complete. But I refuse. I refuse to let go. I would gladly burn the world to the ground if it meant watching their divine lie turn to ash."
As the monologue ended, a searing pain, sharp and visceral, jolted him. It was as if every cell in his body was on fire, a shockwave of agony that pulled him from the abyss. He gasped, his eyes flying open to a unfamiliar ceiling. He was in a bed, the sheets soft beneath him. The scent of lavender filled the air. He sat up, his body feeling… lighter. Younger.
He stumbled out of bed and saw a full-length mirror leaning against the wall. The face staring back at him was not the hardened, scarred visage of a 35-year-old warrior. It was him, but younger. Fifteen years younger. The lines of war were gone, the scars on his cheeks from a duel with a holy knight were nowhere to be seen. He ran a hand over his face. Smooth skin, full of youthful arrogance. He was 20 again.
This room, this bed, the scent of the palace he had long since abandoned. He was back in the western wing. The 3rd Great Holy War had not yet begun. He wasn't the broken man who had just been executed; he was the Demon Prince before his rise to power, before he had been fully consumed by his rage.
He was a man who, just months ago, had his elven love executed at the hands of his father. He was a man who, just one night ago, had a mysterious hooded woman enter his room and gift him a powerful spear and a power of absolute obedience.
The past was not just a memory; it was a second chance. He hadn't just been sent back in time; he had been given a new beginning.
A cruel, bitter smile formed on his lips. This was not a gift from some benevolent god. This was a second chance to get his revenge. A chance to burn the world and all its lies to the ground.