The Cursed Emperor's Second Life

"Don't come any closer!" Maelor's voice cracked through the vast hall. He slapped away the servant's hand on his shoulder, then clutched his neck with both hands. His skin was intact. There were no wounds, no blood. Only his pulse raced beneath his palms. He was breathing hard. He sat in a high-backed golden chair. His royal robes covered his shoulders, and a thin crown pressed against his forehead. "Your Majesty?" The servant took two steps back, his face pale. "I only wanted to straighten your robe." Maelor did not answer. His eyes darted around the room. White marble pillars. A red carpet stretching the length of the hall. More than twenty ministers and nobles stood in rows, all staring at him. He knew this room. He knew every face in it. And he knew exactly what day it was. His coronation day. Five years before the empire collapsed. In an instant, another memory struck him. A square crowded with people. Cold wooden boards pressed against his cheek. Thousands of voices shouted his name with hatred. Someone threw a pile of rotten filth, hitting him squarely on the temple. The executioner raised his axe. He did not have time to say a word. The sound of metal, then darkness. Maelor lowered his hands from his neck. He drew a breath and exhaled slowly until his pulse settled. He had died, and now he had returned. There was no point in panicking. He had five years, and he knew everything that would happen during them. "Your Majesty," a deep voice interrupted the silence. "Forgive me for disturbing you. There is still one matter to settle before the ceremony concludes." A fat man in blue robes stepped forward from the line of ministers, knelt, then presented a scroll bearing a red seal with both hands. Maelor recognized him before the man even gave his name. "I am Torvald Brenn, Minister of Justice," he said. "The council has decided the verdict in the Eastern Rebellion case. Forty-one prisoners, execution at dawn tomorrow. All that remains is Your Majesty's signature." Maelor stared at the scroll. He remembered this document. In his previous life, he had signed it without reading a single word because the ministers had told him it was merely a formality. Forty-one people died that morning. His name appeared on every verdict, so his name was also the one the people cursed until his head fell. "Give it to me," he said. Brenn handed over the scroll with a faint smile that was almost impossible to notice. Maelor unrolled it and read the names one by one, without rushing. There were farmers, village teachers, and an elderly physician. Not a single noble. "Who investigated their cases?" Maelor asked without raising his head. "The council court, Your Majesty." "The evidence?" "The defendants' own confessions." "Confessions after three months in detention?" Maelor raised his eyes. "Or after they could no longer stand?" Brenn's smile vanished. "The council's procedures comply with the law, Your Majesty." "Whose law?" Brenn did not answer. Several ministers exchanged glances. An old general in the back row cleared his throat softly, as if trying to warn someone. Maelor stood. He held the scroll with both hands, then tore it straight down the middle. Crack. He tore it again. Pieces of paper and the red seal fell onto the marble floor. Several landed in front of Brenn's knees. The hall froze. No one dared breathe too loudly. In the corner, a servant dropped a silver tray. The sound echoed all the way to the ceiling. Maelor descended two steps from the throne. His pace was slow, his gaze cold and fixed on the ministers. One by one, those who had stood tall moments earlier lowered their heads. "Listen carefully," he said. His voice was low and unwavering. "This is my first order as ruler of the empire." "Cancel the executions. Open every cell in the Eastern Prison. Those forty-one people must be free before sunset." A thin minister stepped forward, his face turning red. "Your Majesty, they are rebels!" "If they truly are rebels, prove it in an open court," Maelor replied. "Use witnesses, not whips." "That has never been done in this empire." "Then it will be done now." The minister fell silent. The noble beside him swallowed hard and clutched the edge of his robe. Brenn was still kneeling. He picked up a piece of paper from the floor, then slowly rose to his feet, his knees trembling. His expression had returned to calm, but his eyes burned. "Your Majesty," he said softly. "The council has spent months working on this case. Tearing up the council's verdict in front of the entire court is the same as trampling on imperial law." "A law used to kill innocent people deserves to be trampled on," Maelor retorted. "And I will trample on it again if necessary." A long silence followed. Whispers rose from the back rows, followed by others, growing louder. One word passed from mouth to mouth, becoming clearer with every repetition. Tyrant. A large duke stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You have barely sat on the throne for an hour, Your Majesty, and already you are stripping the council of its authority. The people will call this tyranny!" "The people will call it whatever you teach them to call it," Maelor said flatly. "And I already know what you've been teaching them." The duke stepped back half a pace. His hand fell away from his sword. Maelor turned and returned to the throne. He did not wait for anyone's approval. The two guards beside the steps straightened their backs, unsure whether they should look at the ministers or their king. "Captain of the Guards," he called. "Send twenty soldiers to the Eastern Prison now. Bring an order of release bearing my name. Arrest any jailer who refuses." "At once, Your Majesty." The captain saluted and ran out of the hall without looking back. Maelor sat down. He leaned back in the golden chair and looked at the ministers one by one. Some lowered their heads in fear. Others returned his gaze with hatred. Three men in the middle row did not look afraid at all. They were merely calculating. They are the most dangerous ones, Maelor thought. In his previous life, those three had also prepared the stage for his execution. "Anything else?" he asked. No one answered. Only Brenn stepped forward, placed the piece of paper on the lowest step, then straightened with a smile that was now unmistakable. "There is one thing, Your Majesty," he said quietly, but loudly enough for the entire hall to hear. "The council will remember this day. And tyrants never sit on that throne for long."