Second Trial
The air here is thick, suffocating. Every whisper feels like a shout, every glance weighs like a stone tied around my neck. I can't tell if it's the trial itself or just being in this place that's eating me alive.
The only thing that's clear is that this is a twisted game where losing isn't an option.
'All I have to do is stick to the plan. Keep moving forward. Do it for everyone counting on me. It's that simple.'
I keep telling myself that over and over. A hollow mantra that, for now, keeps me standing. But I'm not fooling myself. My life is on the line, and if we fail...
'Why?'
'Why are my hands shaking so much?'
"Tch." I clench my fists, searching for control that never comes. My palms are soaked with sweat, and every fiber of my being screams that I should be anywhere but here. 'I know what I have to do. It's the only way to save them all.'
But... what if it's not enough?
I can't afford to think like that.
Not now. Not when so many lives are on the line. I can't save myself if it means leaving others behind to die.
"I'm nervous." The confession slips from my lips, a pathetic whisper swallowed by the deafening silence.
"Marco Luz."
Anastasia's voice cuts through the chaos in my mind with surgical precision. When I look up, her amethyst eyes are locked on me.
Unyielding.
Beautiful and cold.
For a moment, I feel like that gaze could pierce through me, exposing everything I'm trying to hide behind this flimsy mask of confidence.
And I hate what that means.
"You must fight." Her smile is almost cruel, like she's savoring the show I'm about to put on. But there's something else in her expression—something that tells me she's betting everything on one card: me. "There's a lot riding on your shoulders."
Her words hit like lead, but I don't respond. I can't.
I used to think we were the same—two sides of the same coin. Now I know how wrong I was. We're not the same.
Not even close.
She smiles in the face of adversity.
I... I just survive.
Even when I try to smile, even when I do smile...
I don't feel okay.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look away from Anastasia. Julius stands beside her, ever the stoic, ever the perfect knight. I'm not sure if his presence calms or irritates me.
"Anastasia Hoshin. Julius Juukulius." I speak their names like a vow, like a promise I'm not sure I can keep. "The letter I sent was true. If you want to stop Priestella from falling, we need more than mercenaries."
I say nothing more.
That's enough.
They already know.
The storm coming isn't just an economic threat; it's a death sentence for the future of an entire city.
"I look forward to our meeting in Irlam." Anastasia's smile widens, triumphant.
As if she's already won.
She hasn't.
Not yet.
When Emilia walks past me, I see the determination in her eyes. She doesn't need to say a word—I know she'll hold up her end of the deal.
And I... I'll do the same.
Crusch is waiting for me. Impeccable. Strong. A pillar I can lean on, no matter that she once tried to kill me.
The crowd is gathering. Thirty-three people stood with us before.
Now, only twenty remain.
It doesn't matter.
We'll win.
Miklotov steps forward, his voice deep and solemn.
"Ladies and gentlemen gathered in this sacred hall."
Silence. Absolute. Every gaze shift toward the judges—distant, imposing figures seated on their elevated thrones.
"The second phase of this trial will now begin. The accused will present evidence and be cross-examined by the accuser's defense."
His words, simple and straightforward, fail to convey the true weight of the moment. Everything hinges on this. Evidence. Arguments. A game of strategy where each move could tip the scales.
Crusch rises, elegant and majestic.
Her eyes lock onto the judges before shifting to the jury. Harald is there, sitting comfortably, confident. As if victory were already his.
'Not yet, you bastard. Not yet.'
"Honorable judges, esteemed jury," Crusch begins, her voice steady and controlled, yet charged with emotion. "As proof of the events during the war between Irlam and Costuul, I wish to highlight what we've already demonstrated."
She pulls a communication device from her pocket, holding it high for all to see.
"This metía was seized from the Witch's Cult."
The silence grows heavier, more oppressive.
"They surpass us in communication. They surpass us in strength. They surpass us in numbers."
She opens the device, and the sounds of war flood the courtroom. Clashing metal. Screams. Orders shouted amid the chaos.
Gunshots.
A brutal reminder of what they're facing.
This trial isn't just about justice.
It's a battle for survival.
And We don't intend to lose.
"Irlam focused on clearing both battlefronts. The contaminated bodies, especially those fallen to Costuul's forces, have poisoned the land. Even animals that ventured near the area died outright," she states, carefully measuring each word.
She knew the images would speak for themselves, but context was everything.
"Objection! Baseless accusations," Harald's defender interrupts, slamming his fist on the podium. His voice echoes through the hall, but the desperation in his tone betrays the confidence he tries to project.
"Sustained. Continue, Defender Crusch," Judge July Cariana orders, her sharp gaze pinning Harald's defender with a mix of firmness and disdain. She barely moves her head, but her presence commands respect.
I don't know her well, but our conflict with the Cult and our track record seem to have won her over.
I'll need to speak with her after the trial—she probably has vital information.
The door creaks open, and Alsten strides in, carrying a large piece of glass that glints under the light. It's the size of an arm, and he cradles it with both hands, as if it were something sacred.
Confusion spreads across the room. Furrowed brows. Unspoken questions.
No one can fathom how this glass fits into the trial.
Without a word, Alsten sets the glass into an improvised stand. His movements are precise as he adjusts the lens.
When the image projects, the room plunges into silence. The air thickens, as though everyone is holding their breath at once.
'I owe Baltazar a good beer for this,' I think, watching the crowd's reactions. Faces shift between disbelief and awe, murmurs spreading like ripples.
"It's enormous… I've never seen anything like it," a knight mutters reverently, his polished armor catching the light. "Scopes don't show this kind of clarity."
None of this has been easy.
Glass here is murky, full of bubbles and impurities. Securing a clean piece was a challenge in itself. I had to build a specialized furnace, designed to melt it evenly.
I used fire lagmites to shield the mixture from contaminants, filtering it with fine sand and crushed quartz—each ratio measured with obsessive precision.
The difference lies in the purification process.
A rudimentary steam-powered machine generates constant vibrations, eliminating trapped air bubbles from the molten glass.
Each vibration, a small triumph. Each flaw removed, a victory in this war against the limits of local technology.
Carving it was another battle altogether.
I craft my own abrasive discs, mixing corundum powder with animal glue. The wheel, connected to the third version of my steam engine, spins steadily.
Every rotation is a gamble; a single mistake could destroy hours of work.
Finally, I try to mimic an anti-reflective coating by applying ultrathin layers of silver. It's not perfect, but it works.
It's no masterpiece, but it serves its purpose.
'It's nothing like a modern one,' I think, staring at it with pride. 'But in this world… it's practically magic.'
"Now, as you can see," Crusch says, turning her attention back to the court, "these are live images from the battlefield."
Oslo holds the metia, carefully adjusting it to project every detail. What once were blurry shadows now appearing with unsettling clarity. Open wounds, mutilated bodies, scorched earth.
The silence in the room is absolute.
The visual impact is overwhelming. A woman in the audience raises a hand to her mouth, her face instantly pale.
"For the dragon's sake! Turn it off!" she gasps, stumbling backward.
The sound of retching breaks the stillness.
Harald watches me from his seat. His eyes, previously filled with disbelief, now show something deeper: fear. He doesn't understand how I did it, but he knows something has changed.
"In this backward world," I whisper to myself, "a simple magnifying glass is enough to bring justice."
From the ground to the horizon, a mass of purple and half-consumed bodies. Bones and body parts scattered everywhere. What the frontlines endured can only be described as hell on earth.
Both sides saw and survived the same hell to return home.
"Could magic like this really turn enemy corpses into… this?" Crusch asks, answering her own question. "Of course. Only the Witch Cult could manage something like that."
This won't prove our innocence, and I know it.
That was never our true goal.
"Commander Oslo reports that, just before they transformed into mindless beasts, they ingested a crystal." Crusch looks at Oslo, who holds up a small, black, circular crystal. "It almost looks like a marble, but this tiny thing ended all those lives."
Crusch glares at the jurors, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
"It could be in your food. It could come as a treat. You wouldn't notice because we can't sense miasma." She clenches her fists. "My client's only intent has been to inform and fight against the Witch Cult."
Winning this trial doesn't mean proving my innocence outright.
"It's a grave issue that this exists without anyone knowing about it. Every kingdom needs to be aware." Crusch turns to the council of sages, her voice firm with conviction. "The decision you make will shape the future of the kingdom—no, the world."
Her gaze holds steady, and everyone seems to realize deep down that this is not just about power or political gain.
"With this, anyone could become a puppet. We wouldn't even know."
Oslo adjusts the metia, stepping closer to where gunfire rages. The room falls into a tense silence, broken only by the echo of shots and distant screams.
Flashes from explosions begin to light up the courtroom, forcing several people to squint.
Then, the projection reveals the horror: a pack of Mabeasts descending on the field. Twisted creatures, grotesque amalgamations of flesh and bone, roaring with inhuman ferocity.
Blood splatters the ground in grotesque patterns as soldiers fight desperately to contain the hordes.
"The route between Irlam and Costuul is overrun with Mabeasts," Oslo announces, raising his voice over the chaos. "If this continues, it's only a matter of time before the Black Serpent is drawn in."
The mere mention of that creature causes several jurors to pale. Others press their lips together, holding back any visible reaction, though their eyes betray the terror they feel.
"With this, esteemed jury and judges, I conclude my first defense."
Crusch's voice is cutting, each word landing like a verdict of its own.
The reason our defenses fall short is simple: we lack critical information. All we have is Erick Costuul's testimony.
And that's not enough.
Crusch closes the metia and walks toward me, her eyes weary but filled with unshakable resolve. We share a silent look, a fleeting smile that acknowledges the weight of this battle.
Sometimes, a smile is the only shield you can raise against the inevitable.
The air thickens as Julian Meyer rises. His smile is measured, calculated.
The kind of smile that signals a trap.
"In the interest of presenting a fair case, members of the jury and honorable judges, I will now address the accused, Marco Luz, as an accomplice of the Witch's Cult." Julian pauses, letting his words sink in, savoring the audience's reaction before continuing. "The images displayed are shocking, yes, but do not be fooled. The defense has sought to distract you from the true crime."
His gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on each face for a moment, as if gauging the impact of his words.
"As her own defender said: 'It could be in your food, it could be in the form of a sweet. You wouldn't notice, because we cannot sense the miasma.'" His tone drips with mockery, every word a dagger.
Crusch and I exchange a glance. She sighs, and I feel the tension knotting on my shoulders.
"Such knowledge, gained in such a short time." Julian steps forward, his voice adopting an almost theatrical cadence. "Detailed descriptions without even being able to prescribe the phenomenon. Her words are her own trap."
I widen my eyes slightly. He's right.
"Objection! Baseless accusations."
"Sustained. Proceed, Counselor Meyer." Solomon van Mercury speaks for the first time, his gaze heavy with disappointment.
The murmurs in the courtroom grow louder.
Eyes meet across the room, full of uncertainty.
"Only the creators of such monstrosities could possess such knowledge." Julian gestures toward the jury. "It's not normal for those who claim they didn't create it to describe it so precisely—unless they've faced the Archbishop of Sloth."
It's an effective blow, a calculated move to sow doubt.
Now, it's my turn.
"I request Marco Luz to take the stand." Julian's voice carries a note of satisfaction as he looks at me.
I keep my composure, though every part of me screams. Slowly, I rise, each step echoing in the courtroom's silence. I feel the weight of every gaze, some filled with judgment, others with pity.
But none offer comfort.
Not even Emilia's worried eyes.
I sit in an oversized chair where everyone can see me, except the judges. Julian smiles, and I cling to my mask of neutrality.
'I'm scared.'
I can't deny it.
I want to run, to leave everything behind. But I know that's not an option. This is my life, and now, I have to face it.
"Count Luz, do you have an intelligence network within the Cult?" Julian's tone is polite, but his intentions are clear.
"No, I have no such network within the Cult," I reply, my voice steady and emotionless.
Julian frowns but presses on.
"Do you possess more Witch's Cult artifacts, aside from the metias presented?"
I feel the sweat on my palms. Forcing my hands to remain still on my lap, I recall something Crusch once told me: 'Write the word "effort" in your mind when everything else fails.'
"We burned the clothes, melted the weapons, and kept a few pieces for research." My voice is firmer than I expected. "We need to understand their weapon quality, their durability. If we're to fight the enemy, we must know them."
I glance at the judges, hoping to convey my determination.
"Irlam has always declared the Witch's Cult as enemy number one. We've taken down one Archbishop and a Great Mabeast. We've fought another Archbishop, wounding him severely."
My words are sharp, but Julian seems to relish them.
"How is it possible that you prepared Yang bullets?" His tone is piercing. "You claim no one can detect miasma, so how did you prepare in advance? How do you know those pills originated from the Cult?"
I clench my hands, keeping my composure.
"Objection!" Crusch's voice cuts through the tension with authority. "That information will be presented as evidence."
All eyes shift to the judges. The trial presses on, and the battle is far from over.
"Overruled." Frederick Le Gran's rough voice reverberates through the courtroom, like a gavel striking finality. "The stipulated laws do not prohibit referencing a witness based on prior knowledge. Answer the question, Count Luz."
Crusch's failed objection weighs heavily in the air. I have no choice but to look ahead, fixing my gaze at the judges.
"Some people are born with the ability to see miasma without being cultists."
"Is there anyone in your city with that ability?" Julian's probing eyes study me.
I nod slowly, intertwining my fingers to steady myself. I cast a brief glance at Emilia before replying.
"Yes. Currently, two people can see it."
"Are these two individuals connected in any way to the intelligence network you established in Costuul?"
"No." I shake my head, unwavering.
"Can you see miasma?"
"No." My voice remains firm. "I can sense it faintly, but I can't see it like those born with that gift."
"I understand you prepared Yang bullets to counter the transformed soldiers. Is that true?"
"Yes, it's true." Cold sweat trails down my forehead, and each word feels like a step closer to the precipice.
I feel the weight of the stares, inquisitive and accusative. The atmosphere thickens, like a storm cloud looming over us all. For a brief moment, my mind drifts away from the present, suspended in a limbo of uncertainty.
"Did you inform your troops they'd be fighting members of the Witch's Cult?"
"Yes." I take a deep breath before continuing. "I made the call as a precaution; due to previous attacks we've endured."
"Did you suspect that Grand Duke Harald Costuul was a member of the Cult?"
"Yes."
Julian smiles, barking his teeth like a predator closing in on its prey.
"What reason did you have to suspect him?"
"None concrete," I reply directly, though I know it won't be enough. "It was a hunch based on his behavior. I wasn't certain of his involvement until Flynn, the disciple of Sage Bordeaux, used a power surpassing that of an Archbishop, wielding miasma."
Straightening my back, I address the jury with determination.
"Yang bullets only cause excruciating pain to cultists. For anyone else, they function like ordinary bullets."
Julian strokes his chin, pondering my words, seemingly satisfied.
But he's not done yet.
"One last question." His tone shifts, becoming more dangerous. "Twice, Count Luz. Twice, a noble from the Kingdom of Lugunica has caused harm to Irlam."
His voice echoes in the chamber, laden with accusation.
"The first was my client, Harald Costuul, your rival." Julian steps closer, his smile widening. "And the second is someone very close to you."
He raises a finger, pointing directly at me, his gaze burning with animosity.
"The great mage, Margrave Roswaal L. Mathers. Tell me, Count Luz: did you attempt to kill him? Why isn't he present at a trial so critical for him? Did you murder him?"
The impact of his words ripples through the room.
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
I close my eyes for a moment, shutting out the stunned gazes of the onlookers. My mind races. I could lie. I could claim ignorance about Roswaal's whereabouts. But right now, even the truth will sound like a lie.
Julian gives me no time to recover.
"Then what's the reason, Count Luz, that such a powerful family, along with the kingdom's most formidable mage, Roswaal L. Mathers, ceded all their properties and titles to you? Can you explain that?"
The room erupts into controlled chaos. Every face turns toward me—astonished, disbelieving—as if they were already passing judgment on me.
"Objection!" Crusch's voice cuts through the noise, strong, trying to buy time.
But in my mind, everything blurs.
'When did they find out?'
I don't know. I have no idea how this information got here. All I know is that I have to think fast.
If I don't, I'll be sentenced.
I'll be killed.
Again.
Once again, the truth will be trampled and lies will be crowned as justice.
'Can I pull this off?'
'Of course not.'
There it is again. That Marco.
The Marco who lives only to fulfill his duty.
His gaze is piercing, cold, and relentless. Everything around me darkens until it's just him and me, facing each other in silence, like two warriors in the middle of an invisible battlefield.
"If you let me take control, I'd take care of everything."
I grit my teeth, holding back the fear that threatens to overwhelm me.
I stare at him, unwavering.
"You wouldn't do it the way I want."
My words are a sharp murmur, a barrier between what I am and what he represents.
I don't want any more sacrifices. I don't want any more innocents suffering. I don't want to carry any more regrets or add more pain to my already worn-out heart.
I have people who support me.
But...
"In life, nothing is ever enough." His voice echoes darkly in my mind. "It doesn't matter how well people support you, or how much they motivate you. Sometimes things just don't go right. Right?"
He's right. Life isn't a straight line. It's not enough to try hard or think positively for everything to get better.
Good things don't happen just because you wish for them with all your might.
"A criminal like him should be sentenced to death." A noble on Harald's side says, his voice cracking like a whip.
"He showed us what he's capable of to intimidate us and dissuade us from accusing him." Another point, his finger shaking with indignation.
I need to think more.
"Silence!" Miklotov raises his voice, his arm outstretched like a wall to stop the chaos. "If the jury continues disrespecting this court, their immediate exclusion will be ordered."
'Garfield! Where the hell are you?'
You should be ready by now, prepared to present the evidence in the third phase, along with Erick's testimony.
'Shit.'
The thought hits me like a punch to the stomach.
'They can't be dead... can they?'