Reincarnated with the Country System

Kingdom of Latvia, Lata

In the square, a wooden scaffold had been hastily erected beside the old stone well, its timbers raw and dark with moisture. Wind whispered through the narrow alleys of Lata, carrying the scent of pine smoke and iron. Rows of citizens stood still, their breaths fogging in the air, some clutching children, others clutching nothing at all. Few spoke. All watched.

Eric stood atop the scaffold, hands bound tightly behind his back, frost catching in his beard. He wore only a threadbare grey tunic, stained from the prison wagon and barely enough to shield him from the wind that cut like razors. His once-regal bearing was reduced to a gaunt shadow. His beard unkempt, his cheeks hollowed by weeks of imprisonment. But his eyes—his eyes were wide, sharp with something between fear and disbelief.

He saw them: the faces. The people he had sworn to save. Some still recognized him. A few averted their gaze. One old man spit in the snow.

"Make way!" barked a soldier.

The Bernardian formation—twelve soldiers in matte-gray armor, rifles slung—cleared a path to the scaffold. At the head of the column stood Brigadier General Hans. His black uniform was pristine, his boots polished, the silver piping on his coat gleaming like cut glass.

A Bernardian loudspeaker crackled to life.

"Citizens of Latvia," came Hans' voice—sharp, clipped, clinical. "This man is accused of high treason against the Empire. Evidence has irrefutably linked him to the orchestration and financing of multiple insurgencies in the northeastern forests. His identity as a former monarch does not exempt him from justice. It makes him more guilty."

He gestured sharply. Two soldiers shoved Eric to his knees.

The crowd was silent. The people had been ordered to attend. Attendance was mandatory. They came wrapped in coats, their eyes dull. No one moved. No one dared.

The Bernardians had issued a decree:

Attendance Mandatory. Noncompliance will be penalized under Article 11: Subversive Sympathy.

Eric's breath came fast. "I was loyal to the empire!" he shouted. "I gave you this country! I gave you everything!"

Hans stepped forward. His boots clicked on the scaffold's planks.

"You gave us a burning house and asked us to inherit the flames," he said coolly. "You sold your crown, your nation, and your brother for a throne you could not hold. You were not a king. You were a petitioner."

Eric's voice cracked. "My brother was mad. You know that—"

Hans raised a single black-gloved finger. "Stop. You mistake us for a court. You will not plead. You will not justify. This is not your trial. This is your conclusion."

The loudspeaker hissed again.

"Prince Eric of House Karsvalen once petitioned for our aid," Hans continued. "He asked the Empire to intervene in what he called a fratricidal crisis. And the Empire did. We came with our machines. We came with our peace."

Eric looked up at the sky. Grey. Empty.

"And this same man—this beggar in noble clothes—now stands accused of betrayal. Coordinating armed resistance. Providing intelligence to foreign agents. Funding terror. Denying the facts will not change them."

Eric's throat tightened. "Lies."

Hans smiled. "Then name your collaborators."

Silence.

"Nothing?" Hans rose. "Then let your silence speak."

He waved his hand.

The executioner stepped forward, face blank behind his mask, noose in hand. Eric trembled as the rope was drawn taut above him. The crowd remained still.

Hans turned toward the audience, lifting his chin like a conductor about to summon the final note of a symphony.

"Let this be a lesson," he declared. "The Empire does not forget. The Empire does not forgive. And those who traffic in rebellion—be they kings or beggars—will face the same rope."

Then—

A whistle.

A single, piercing tone.

CRACK.

The executioner dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, a bullet embedded between his eyes.

A split second of stunned silence.

Then

Shouts. Screams. The crowd scattered.

"AMBUSH!" a Bernardian officer bellowed.

Gunfire erupted from the rooftops. Smoke bombs exploded in choking clouds. From the alleys and within the crowd itself, figures emerged—clad in black leather and fur, faces masked, blades drawn.

The Shadows.

Latvia's ghost-warriors.

The Bernardian soldiers scrambled into cover, returning fire, but the Shadows had already breached the perimeter—from below.

Manhole covers burst open. Resistance fighters surged out of the sewers, knives flashing, guns barking. One sliced through the scaffold's supports. Another ignited a flare that blinded the nearest guards.

A masked figure vaulted onto the scaffold in a blur, a curved blade flashing. Eric's bonds snapped.

"Move, Your Highness!" the Shadow hissed.

Eric blinked. "Who—"

"No time!" The Shadow shoved him. "Jump!"

Hans fired three precise shots. One Shadow went down, blood fountaining from her throat.

Another Shadow—taller, heavier—pushed Eric down as a bullet struck him in the back. "Go, GO!" he rasped, dying.

A second later, grenades—not Shadows', but Bernardian—rattled onto the square.

BOOM.

The scaffold collapsed, sending Eric rolling into the snow. The blast dazed him. Ears ringing, shoulder torn, he struggled to see through the smoke. Another Shadow grabbed him.

A dagger to a soldier's gut. A vault over a barricade. Another man down.

"SEAL THE SQUARE!" Hans shouted into his radio. "Use gas if you must!"

But the Shadows had anticipated that, too. They triggered pre-planted explosives on the west barricade, collapsing a support wall. Rubble crashed down, blocking reinforcements and clearing a path.

Eric stumbled through the chaos, dragging one leg. "We won't make it!"

"We have to," one shadow shouted, dragging him toward the sewers.

A Bernardian soldier lunged with a bayonet.

Eric, on instinct, ducked. The shadow spun and fired point-blank into the man's face. His helmet clanged to the stone.

Some more rebels threw smoke bombs and by the time the smoke cleared, they had all fled.

"Find him!" Hans snarled. "I want the traitor's heart on my desk before sunrise!"

But the Shadows were already gone.

Hans stood in the blood-smeared snow, his jaw clenched.

"Burn the everything if you must," he said quietly. "Scour every cave and ditch. I want him found. Before the Empire burns this city to the ground."

★★★

In the sewers beneath Lata, Eric gasped, his back against wet stone. Footsteps echoed behind him, distant but growing quieter. The Shadows moved around him, silent as ghosts.

One lowered her mask.

A woman. Pale, sharp-featured. Eyes like flint.

"You shouldn't be alive," she said.

Eric blinked. "Nia?"

She gave a crooked grin. "Ya, me."

He coughed, blood on his sleeve. "Why? Why did you save me?"