"Die, you fucking trash!" a voice screamed, slicing through the cacophony.
"Go to hell, you scumbag!" another shouted, the words dripping with pure venom.
The roar was a physical force, a wave of hatred crashing against the raised wooden platform. A sea of contorted faces, their eyes burning with a rage so intense it felt like the air itself was being heated. Every ounce of their fury was focused on one point: the young man tied to a long, rough-hewn pole in the center of the stage.
Clive trembled. The thick, coarse ropes binding him to the pole were not just restraints; they were instruments of torture, biting into his flesh with every slight movement. They were tied to the extent that blood had begun to seep out, soaking the fibers a dark, ugly crimson. The pain from the bonds was a sharp, but it was nothing compared to the agony of the crowd's glare.
"I didn't do it… please… don't do this," he managed to force out, his voice broken, swallowed by the noise of the crowd. It was a useless plea, a whisper in a hurricane.
Spit!
A wet, warm glob smacked against his cheek, sliding down slowly. The man who had been tightening the ropes stood before him, his face a mask of disgust.
"Pathetic," the man sneered. "Do you think lying can save you now, scum? Go to hell where you belong." To punctuate his sentence, he drove a fist hard into Clive's stomach.
The air exploded from Clive's lungs. A coppery taste filled his mouth a second before a mouthful of blood splattered onto the wooden planks between his feet. The world swam, the pain a white-hot fire spreading through his entire body.
"We're ready. He's tied tightly. This will be his end," the man announced to someone Clive couldn't see, before stepping away, his job complete.
Then, a new voice boomed, amplified by authority and riding on the back of the crowd's energy. A man in a crisp military uniform stood tall on the back of a horse, his gaze sweeping over the people before settling on Clive. His eyes were like two furnaces, blazing with a righteous fury that was far more terrifying than the mindless anger of the mob.
"Clive Peterson!" the man's voice rang out, and the crowd fell into an eager, anticipatory hush. "You have committed a great crime by attempting to forcefully sleep with the Princess of Oxforth Kingdom! And on this day, your judgment has come!"
A cheer erupted, a joyful, bloodthirsty sound that was utterly dissonant with the situation. It was a celebration of his impending death.
"You shall be shot to death!"
As the words washed over him, a strange calm descended upon Clive, stopping his trembling body. The frantic fear was replaced by a heavy certainty. There was no escape. The machinery of injustice had ground him down to this final, inevitable moment. The worst part, the thought that screamed in his mind, was the absolute truth: he was innocent. He hadn't even been in the royal district that night. But what use was regret now? What use was truth when the lie had already won?
"Fire!" the military man commanded.
Pa! Pa! Pa!
The sharp, definitive cracks of the rifles echoed.
A sudden, violent impact punched into his body, not once, but multiple times. The world vanished in a burst of searing pain, his already dark vision turning to absolute blackness. The constant ache of the ropes, the throbbing in his gut from the punch, the humiliation of the spit on his face.... it all vanished. The suffering that had defined his existence from the moment of his arrest was simply… over.
Is this how death feels? The thought surfaced in the void, clear and calm. He was surprised. There was no pain. There was only a profound, weightless freedom.
But the surprise was short-lived. The weightless freedom collapsed, twisting into a sensation of falling into an infinite nothingness.
Then, whispers. Faint, distant, like echoes from the other side of a vast ocean.
"Dave… Dave… Dave..."
Clive's eyes snapped open. He jolted upright, a frantic hand clawing at his chest where the bullets had struck, gasping for a breath he thought he'd lost forever. Cool, clean air filled his lungs.
I'm not dead?
The thought was a thunderclap of shock. He patted his torso, his hands meeting soft, clean fabric instead of torn flesh and blood.
"Dave… Are you alright?" a voice called from beside him.
He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. A young girl, maybe seventeen, sat nearby. She had jet-black hair that framed her face, her deep green eyes held an expression that was difficult to read at first glance. But if you looked deeper, past the neutral set of her mouth, you could see a flicker of genuine worry.
Clive stared at her, his mind reeling. Dave? Who was Dave? He looked down at his hands... they were his hands, but they were clean, unmarked. He was wearing simple, unfamiliar clothes. He was sitting on a floor of wood, in a room he had never seen before.
The realization hit him hard, more staggering than the rifle shots.
Where the hell am I?