The stone beneath Filianus was cold enough to freeze his thoughts, but unfortunately, not cold enough to freeze his fears.
He pressed his back against the dungeon wall, feeling each rough-hewn block through his torn shirt. The dampness seeped through the fabric like icy fingers, reminding him that in about six hours, he'd never feel cold again.
'Well, this is a fantastic start to my second life.'
Three days. That's all it had taken for his grand reincarnation adventure to turn into a public execution. Three bloody days.
The memories were still mixing in his head like oil and water—his old life as a broke software tester named Thayne, and this new existence as Filianus Muckweed III, disgraced noble's son and apparent heretic extraordinaire.
'Muckweed. Even the universe has a sense of humor.'
But the joke wasn't funny anymore.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. Heavy boots. Multiple pairs. Filianus's stomach clenched, but he forced himself to breathe slowly.
'They're not coming for me yet. Still too early.'
Through the single barred window, pale morning light filtered into his cell. Dawn was breaking over Astoria, painting the sky in soft pastels that would have been beautiful if they weren't marking the countdown to his death.
He closed his eyes and tried to separate the tangle of memories in his head.
Unlike how the novels portrayed it, it was actually impossible to differentiate both memories.
They both felt like they were his and he had truly lived through both lives.
There was Thayne's memories: Twenty-four years of mediocrity, bad decisions, and an unhealthy obsession with fantasy novels. Dead from a ceiling fan accident that was embarrassing even by his standards.
Then there was Filianus's memories: Sixteen years of trying to be the perfect noble son, awakening both a Soul Weapon and Soul Seed at his coming-of-age ceremony, and watching his family's faces transform from pride to horror in the span of a heartbeat.
The dual awakening. That's what had damned him.
In this world, you were supposed to manifest one divine gift—either a Soul Weapon if you were male, or a Soul Seed if you were female. Having both made you a heretic. An abomination. A walking blasphemy against the natural order.
'The natural order can kiss my ass.'
But that defiant thought felt hollow when he remembered his mother's face.
Lady Catherine Muckweed had gone white as fresh snow when the temple priests declared him corrupted. Her perfect composure had cracked just for a moment, and Filianus had seen something that cut deeper than any blade—disappointment mixed with genuine fear.
Not fear of him. Fear for him.
That made it worse somehow.
The footsteps were getting closer now. Filianus opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, counting the water stains. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.
'Focus on something else. Anything else.'
But his mind kept drifting back to three days ago.
-----
The Awakening Ceremony had been perfect. Too perfect.
'The great hall of House Muckweed was packed with nobles, clergy, and curious onlookers. Banners hung from every pillar, displaying the family crest—a rather unfortunate design featuring what looked like a constipated eagle perched on a pile of… well, muck.
'Filianus had stood in the center of the ceremonial circle, wearing white robes that cost more than most people made in a year. His father, Lord Garrett Muckweed, watched from the family dias with barely contained excitement.'
"Today," the High Priest intoned, his voice carrying across the silent hall, "young Filianus will receive his divine blessing and take his rightful place among the awakened."
'Standard procedure. Simple. Clean.'
Then the ritual began, and everything went spectacularly wrong.
'The first manifestation was normal—a Soul Weapon, a gorgeous black sword that materialized in his right hand. The crowd murmured approval. His father beamed.
But the energy kept building.
Filianus felt something else stirring inside him, something that shouldn't exist. The second awakening hit him like lightning striking twice in the same spot.
A Soul Seed bloomed to life in his chest. He could feel it pulsing with warm, living energy—completely opposite to the cold steel in his grip.
The hall fell silent.
The High Priest's face went through several interesting color changes before settling on a sickly green.
"Heresy," someone whispered.
And just like that, Filianus Muckweed III became the most dangerous person in the room.
-----
The cell door clanged open, jerking him back to the present.
"Time to go, heretic."
Guard Captain Morris stood in the doorway, flanked by four armed men. The Captain was a decent sort—he'd even brought Filianus an extra blanket yesterday—but his face was stone now.
Duty was duty.
"Already?" Filianus pushed himself to his feet, surprised by how steady his legs felt. "I was having such a lovely time contemplating my mortality."
"Save the jokes for the crowd," Morris said, but there was no heat in it. "They'll appreciate the show."
Shackles clinked as they secured his wrists. The iron was cold and heavy, inscribed with runes that made his skin tingle unpleasantly.
'Soul-binding chains. They're really not taking any chances.'
The walk through the dungeon felt surreal. Each step echoed off stone walls that had witnessed countless final journeys. How many condemned men had walked this path? How many had been innocent?
'How many had dual awakenings they couldn't explain?'
They climbed narrow stairs toward ground level, and with each step, the sound grew louder.
Voices. Hundreds of them.
The crowd was already gathering.
"Popular event," Filianus observed.
"Heretic burning draws a crowd," Morris replied grimly. "Especially when it's noble blood."
'Burning.' Right. He'd almost forgotten that part.
They reached the main level of the fortress, and through the windows, Filianus could see the execution square. A wooden platform had been erected in the center, surrounded by enough kindling to roast a dragon.
His stomach did an uncomfortable flip.
'This is really happening.'
But the worst part wasn't the pyre. It was the faces in the crowd that he could already see gathering—faces he recognized. Neighbors. Former friends. People who'd known him his entire life.
People who were here to watch him burn.
"Five more minutes," Morris said, checking a pocket watch. "The executioner is still setting up."
Filianus nodded, not trusting his voice.
Through another window, he caught sight of a familiar carriage bearing the Muckweed family crest. His heart clenched despite himself.
They'd come to watch.
'Of course they had. Appearances matter, even at your son's execution.'
But was that fair? The memories were still jumbled, but he could feel the genuine love that had existed in this family. His father's pride when teaching him swordwork. His mother's gentle hands tending scraped knees. His sister Eleanor's laughter echoing through the manor halls.
He was an orphan in his last life so the warmth of family meant a lot to him than it should have.
'They loved Filianus. They just can't love what he became.'
That thought hurt more than the shackles.
"Sir?" One of the younger guards was looking at him with something that might have been sympathy. "Is there… anyone you want to send a message to?"
Filianus considered it.
What could he say? Sorry for being an abomination? Thanks for sixteen years of family dinners before you decided to have me burned alive?
"No," he said finally. "I think we've said everything we need to say."
The guard nodded and looked away.
Morris checked his watch again. "Time."
The doors to the execution square opened with a groan of old hinges.
The roar of the crowd hit him like a physical force.
Hundreds of faces turned toward him as he stepped into the morning sunlight. Some curious, some angry, some fearful. A few looked genuinely sad.
'At least someone will miss me.'
The platform loomed ahead, surrounded by guards in ceremonial armor. The executioner stood beside the pyre—a tall man in a black hood who looked like he'd been specifically designed to haunt children's nightmares.
'Professional to the end.'
But Filianus's attention was drawn to a section of the crowd cordoned off for nobility.
There they were.
His family.
Lord Garrett stood rigid as a statue, his face carved from stone. But Filianus could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Lady Catherine sat beside him, veiled in black. She wasn't looking at the platform. She was staring at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.
'She can't even watch.'
And there was Eleanor, his little sister. Fifteen years old, barely a year younger than him. Tears streamed down her face openly, and she was gripping their mother's arm.
'She wanted to say goodbye. They wouldn't let her.'
The sight of her tears hit him harder than anything else.
These weren't just borrowed memories anymore. Somehow, in the space of three days, these people had become his family. His heart had accepted them completely, even knowing how this would end.
'Damn it.'
He'd built walls around his emotions, prepared himself for a stranger's execution. But this felt like betrayal on a level he hadn't expected.
The march to the platform felt endless and far too short at the same time.
Step by step, past faces that blurred together.
Step by step, toward the pyre that would be his final rest.
Step by step, while his heart broke for a family that had already buried him in their minds.
The executioner's voice boomed across the square, reading charges that Filianus barely heard.
Heresy. Corruption. Threat to the natural order.
All true, technically.
But as he looked out at the crowd—at his people, in a strange way—Filianus realized something that surprised him.
He wasn't angry.
He was just… tired.
Tired of being afraid. Tired of the chains. Tired of seeing disappointment in his father's eyes and grief in his sister's tears.
'Maybe this is mercy.'
The executioner finished his pronouncement and gestured toward the platform.
It was time.