First, I recommend to re-read chapter 21.
Third Trial
Sweat drips down my skin, soaking me as every breath becomes torment. The air refuses to fill my lungs, now aching and exhausted. It hurts. It hurts so much that it feels almost laughable to think I could face this with a smile.
I thought I was ready, that my emotions would flow like a calm river. Instead, they're a raging torrent threatening to drown me.
'Who would've thought it would all end like this?'
I can't even find the words to describe it. The confusion and pressure knot tightly in my throat, suffocating me. But I must speak. If I don't, everything I've dreamed of will collapse.
My heart leaps at the thought of that word.
'My dream...'
"The Count Luz is no murderer," someone whispers among the jurors, barely audible—a murmur sneaking through the heavy air. "Nobles help, sure, but few dirty their hands for their people. The Count Luz is an exceptional man."
The murmur spreads, timid but growing. The whispers swell into a wave of support, yet they fail to calm the storm inside me.
When I meet her gaze, I see her—Emilia. She smiles at me as if everything will be fine, as if she isn't carrying the weight of my failures and fears. Her amethyst eyes shine with a piercing light, almost blinding, as though trying to guide me to a place I cannot reach alone.
'Just do it for everyone. You're Marco Luz, after all.'
But I know the truth. I'm afraid. Truly afraid. Afraid of failing, of falling short.
'I don't know how to get out of this...'
"Answer, Count Luz." Miklotov's voice booms like a hammer, cutting through the air with authority. I can't help but flinch.
"Yes, answer. We're all eager to hear your defence." Julian smiles, his expression venomous, hiding an anticipated victory.
The truth, the lies—they all blur together in my mind. Words are weapons, sharp edges that can cut in any direction.
'My dream... no. Our dream.'
Emilia's eyes call to me. Her smile, even under pressure, is a beacon in this suffocating darkness.
'To lead society toward growth.'
Clenching my hands tightly, I find the resolve I thought was lost.
"As you claim," I begin, my voice clear but laced with restrained anger, "there have been two occasions where a noble attempted to take my life and that of my people."
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes briefly before focusing on the jurors.
"The great Count Harald started this war, demanding control of my creations. And Marquis Roswaal L. Mathers... took a more direct approach."
I place a hand on my chest, my voice now carrying a weight that hangs over the room.
"He tried to kill me... and my people."
A murmur of disbelief ripples through the crowd. The judges exchange glances, whispering urgently. The air feels heavier, as if the entire courtroom is holding its breath.
"The reason he failed and escaped is simple: I made a soul contract with him."
With deliberate movements, I unbutton my jacket. A blue light glows from my chest, bathing the courtroom in an ethereal glow.
"The contract has strict conditions. If he breaks them, his soul will be destroyed. If I fulfilled his request, everything he owns would become mine, and he'd never attack me in Irlam again."
The murmurs grow louder. Their incredulous expressions tell me that, while my truth is clear, it isn't easy to accept.
"All property transfers were done legally. The battle we fought took place before this agreement, and once it was sealed, he left without another word."
My conviction echoes in every syllable, but Julian does not miss the chance to interrupt.
"Still just words. If only someone could back them up..."
The courtroom doors creak open. My heart skips, and my lips twist into a bitter smile as I see who enters.
"Then allow me to provide the proof you need."
And there he is.
Reinhard van Astrea.
The red-haired knight strides in, his imposing figure covered in blood and sweat. His clothes are stained with blood that isn't his, his lips are split, and his face—once a symbol of serenity—is now tense, almost unrecognizable with fury.
"I, Reinhard van Astrea, with my authority as the Sword Saint and Imperial Knight of the Kingdom of Lugunica..." His voice rings out, cold and precise like a blade's edge. "...bring two individuals who hold crucial evidence..."
But I barely hear the rest. My gaze locks onto the two figures accompanying him. Felt and Garfield.
Or what's left of them.
Felt walks like a ghost, her golden hair matted with dried blood. Her eyes are empty, unable to focus on anything. Garfield, at her side, is a shadow of the young man I once knew. His body is riddled with open wounds and oozing burns.
His right arm... is gone.
'Damn it!' My mind screams, but no sound escapes my lips.
They look at me, and in their eyes, there's only pain.
I did this.
I chose this path.
And the weight of that choice threatens to crush me.
"It was necessary." I take a deep breath, steadying the storm inside me.
'The weight of guilt no longer crushes me, not anymore.'
I've been a fool—I can admit that. But the truth is clear, almost irrefutable. I could've used Reinhard to bend everything to my will, and yet, I chose a more gruelling, longer path.
I knew what I was doing, but I didn't grasp what was truly at stake.
Now, though, everything has changed.
All I need to do is lead—to be a commander for my people. Someone who directs them, who guides them. Reinhard follows me; he knows this well because he understands that everything I do is for the good of this world—for their sake. And yet, I question myself.
'What's the point of all this?' He, like everyone else, is human.
And though he may look like a god, he's as vulnerable as anyone else. He will grow old and die, like any person.
Power comes with a price, and the sacrifice required to wield it can be worse than the reward. The weight of my decisions presses down on me, but I know words alone won't change anything. This is the moment to face the truth. To confront what it truly takes to build a kingdom that isn't built on lies.
'Feel the truth deep in my soul.'
Felt, like everyone else, must-see reality—even though she's just a child. Even if she doesn't understand the cost of such a vision. The horrors she's witnessed are part of the journey, a burden we all must bear.
Even those whose bodies and souls are shattered by suffering must become part of what's to come.
This is the time to break the chains.
I don't need gods or heroes, only those willing to put everything they are into the future. Reinhard, like any human, will die.
If everyone depends on him when that happens… what will remain?
If men, women, and nations grow without leaning on him—without leaning on any hero—then his presence will only serve as support in moments of absolute need.
Only when there's no other choice, that's when Reinhard should shine.
Even so, I must help him. I must push him to act more, to grow. He must become a new kind of commander.
I need Felt. I need Garfield. I need everyone willing to make the sacrifices necessary for this world.
I realize now that all of this was necessary. Only by facing the worst can we aspire to something better. The future isn't built on empty words but on sacrifice.
Praying to gods will only make us weaker.
The tension in the room is thick as Felt begins to speak. Her words don't fall on deaf ears—they pierce the heart of everyone present in the hall.
"Look at yourselves, sitting up there, so high and mighty, defending a monster you might actually know. Bordeaux Zellgef, that monster."
The hall falls silent instantly.
Frederick Le Gran stiffens, but something in his expression falters, as though those words have struck deep. He rises to his feet, but his posture is broken.
"Rubbish! Even if you're a candidate for the throne, you have no right to speak that way about a sage of the kingdom. Bordeaux Zellgef is a great noble, and—"
"SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!"
Reinhard's voice booms like thunder, and the entire hall trembles. Frederick collapses back into his chair, stunned, humiliated by nothing more than the Sword Saint's piercing gaze.
Marcus Gildark steps forward, positioning himself in front of Reinhard. His stance is rigid, his eyes locked firmly on Reinhard's like a stone in the middle of a raging storm.
"Threats will not be tolerated in this sacred chamber. Even if you're the Sword Saint, you must—"
Reinhard cuts him off, moving past him with a solemn yet unyielding air, his eyes narrowing.
"I won't stay silent any longer. This ends now. You're free, Marcus. Now, I'll do my duty."
Without further delay, Reinhard retrieves a large bag and begins pulling out metias, one by one, carefully placing them on the table before Crusch. The echo of the objects landing resonates throughout the hall like the toll of judgment's bell.
The knights, moving with precision like the gears of a perfectly calibrated clock, position each metia under the watchful eyes of everyone in the room.
Frederick steps forward, his face flushed with rage.
"This is a blatant violation of justice! It breaks every established code!"
The judges exchange silent glances, but none of them speak. They know Reinhard; they understand who he is and what he represents. This man, a symbol of righteousness, could never be a villain—or someone they could hope to stop.
"I agree with Sage Frederick," declares July Cariana, her tone sharp as the edge of a blade. "As a judge, I will ensure that Count Marco Luz and the knights of Lugunica face severe penalties for this transgression."
I smirk as I hear her words. Everything we've planned, those tiny grains of sand, now carry the weight of a storm.
'But this isn't over yet.'
Crusch steps forward, her pace slow and deliberate, as if the weight of her sorrow presses harder than the air itself. Her expression, though composed, carries a depth of pain that makes it almost tangible.
She kneels before Felt and Garfield, gently taking their hands in hers.
"The throne candidate Felt and the shield of the sanctuary, Garfield Tinsel, are the true heroes of this kingdom."
Her smile is faint, but beneath it lies a rage only a broken heart could contain.
Then Emilia approaches them both. A radiant light emanates from her, bathing the room in a fleeting moment of peace that starkly contrasts with the chaos surrounding them.
"Look!" I exclaim, standing tall with a triumphant grin as light floods the hall.
I hold up the magnifying lens, adjusting it for everyone to see.
"What you see before you are twenty-two metias, capable of capturing the exact truth of what lies before them. As you all know, these metias cannot be altered once activated, meaning every image is real."
The lie will fall.
The moment to enforce the truth has come.
With one final cry, I shatter the chains that have bound me until now. The truth is here, laid bare before everyone, undeniable.
Harald's gaze locks onto me with a dangerous intensity, but I meet it with a smile—a smile devoid of kindness, filled instead with unshakable control. I'm not the only threat in this game, and he knows it.
No one knows it better than him.
"This trial, as a means to..." I begin, but—
"Silence!" Frederick interrupts, his voice brimming with authority. "Count Luz! This is a disgrace to dignity! To justice!"
Boom!
A tremor shakes the hall—not from the ground, but from the sheer power radiating from the Sword Saint.
A dense, crimson aura surges forth, palpable and suffocating. Reinhard, Felt, and Garfield step forward, flanked by knights who've already seen the horrors we've unleashed. Their eyes hold no hesitation, only a demand.
The truth must be accepted, or there will be consequences.
"Bring Erick Costuul here!"
This isn't my world.
I can't sit idly by while corruption gnaws at the soul of my people. My power, my control—it must be wielded to eradicate this evil, no matter who unlawfully stands against me.
The hall is ours now.
I am no longer the observer. I am the one setting the pace.
A firm, unyielding pace.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the mansion of the great Sage Bordeaux Zellgef."
The images projected reveal utter chaos—bodies twisted into grotesque shapes, scenes so harrowing they steal the breath from anyone who dares look too long. But the true shock comes moments later.
A wave of horrified murmurs sweeps through the room as the metias unveil their contents. Grotesque scenes fill the air with unbearable tension. Some nobles turn pale; others barely suppress the urge to retch.
In the photographs, meticulously stacked and displayed, are pills.
But these aren't just pills; they are the embodiment of a deeper, more sinister horror—one I can't fully comprehend but enough to destroy those responsible for creating them.
"The images don't lie."
The documents are here as well. The truth is on the table, and there is no hiding from it. The great sage and the Duke of Costuul—two untouchable names for generations—will fall today.
This is the day.
Today, justice becomes real in Lugunica.
Crusch, ever calculating, speaks again. Her words echo with an unyielding truth.
"The prisoners used in the war ranged from petty thieves to serial killers. All were coerced under promises of pardon."
The images show their bodies hanging, miasma dripping from them. The next image, however, is even more disturbing.
I piece it together.
A connection I never anticipated.
Mabeast corpses mixed with human bodies, fragments of each contained in sealed vessels.
The mutations I've witnessed, the horrors hidden away—all of it begins to make sense. The corpses, the mabeasts—they all serve a purpose.
No, this isn't just madness.
It's the act of a lunatic.
The images stop on a different photo.
A family.
The quality of the metia isn't perfect, but it's enough. An old man surrounded by his family, a serene, peaceful scene... but something is wrong. A knight in uniform appears in the photo, his expression is one of pride.
Crusch frowns, confusion clouding her gaze as she searches for answers in the image. Garfield, however, doesn't need words. He marches toward the table, grabs the photo, and slides one metia under the magnifying lens.
A monster appears. Its form is distorted, unrecognizable, but it wears armor—the same armor we've seen on those who were supposed to protect us.
These aren't humans.
They are monsters born of greed.
"Those bastards don't even hesitate to turn their own people into monsters!" Garfield's voice is low, heavy with pain.
His expression hardens, and I see it. Garfield has faced this.
What cost my daughter her life, what nearly destroyed Crusch—this is all part of a war that should never have existed.
And yet, those bastards continue to play with life.
Felt looks at me, and a book flies into my hands. I don't need to open it to know it's our final card.
The war we fight isn't just for justice—it's for survival.
The reign of those who manipulated us is nearing its end.
This is the final judgment—the reckoning for all who silently condemned us. And today, it won't be their truth that prevails.
"The ledger of Bordeaux Zellgef!" I shout, raising its high for all to see. "Now we can prove Harald Costuul planned the use of these pills during the war."
The hall erupts into chaos.
Harald rises, his face pale as chalk. But before he can speak, a new figure enters the scene: his own son, Erick Costuul. His presence is an emotional earthquake—his hair nearly white, his expression cold and resolute.
His footsteps echo like a drumbeat marking the start of an inevitable confrontation.
The entire room holds its breath.
Erick advances with steady steps, each one resonating like a deep echo in the silence. His eyes, shining with a mix of anger and resignation, lock onto Harald, who instinctively recoils.
The hall falls into an absolute hush. Erick, his gaze unwavering, knows this is the decisive moment.
"My father, who rule a city of demi-humans with a velvet glove, secretly hate them all along. And among all the lies he wove, the greatest of them was me," Erick says, his voice tense but controlled, like someone dismantling a false structure piece by piece before the onlookers.
Erick pauses, and every eye in the room fixes on him, waiting. The atmosphere grows oppressive as Erick, with a subtle movement, begins to lower his pants slightly. Then, to everyone's horror, a small, pale white tail emerges from the folds of Harald's trousers.
Or rather, a severed tail, with only a fragment of what it once must have been.
"My mother..." Erick's voice hardens. "She was a demi-human. Just a mere concubine my father used as a tool. He used me as a successor to consolidate his power while hiding the truth. I was born in the basement of his mansion, treated like a shameful secret. And to ensure no one ever discovered my origins, he cut off my tail and cursed me with a spell that prevented me from transforming."
Erick watches as Harald stiffens, his eyes darting for a moment, but Erick doesn't let the opportunity pass.
"His actions didn't stop with physical imprisonment. His true crimes go far beyond that." Erick reaches out as someone hands him the ledger of Bordeaux Zellgef. He pulls a bundle of papers from his tunic, his voice rising with palpable strength. "This is the account book of Bordeaux Zellgef, a man much revered but who has been complicit in atrocious acts."
With precise intent, Erick points to a specific entry in the ledger's pages. Clearly listed is the name of a transaction: 'Transformation Pills – 4,000 units.' The figure is accompanied by a detailed breakdown—payments to a clandestine manufacturer producing these terrible pills, capable of turning any human into a grotesque monster.
It's clear that Bordeaux has kept meticulous records.
The fact that they weren't hidden implies he didn't care if they were discovered.
"He didn't want anyone to know this: those pills serve a clear purpose. And not only are they recorded in his ledger, but they're also found somewhere my father never thought I'd look—the ledger of Harald Costuul."
Erick turns and walks slowly to the other side of the room, where Harald's ledger rests on his desk. Every eye follows him. Then, with a cold smile, he opens the book and points to a specific passage.
"Here, in this ledger, my father documented a seemingly innocent transaction: '4,000 fig seeds.'" Erick lets the silence stretch, heavy and unbearable. "The transaction is clearly recorded, but it's not what it seems."
The judges exchange confused looks until Erick, calm and deliberate, reveals the twist.
"The fig seeds were, in fact, a code—a cover to conceal the purchase of those transformation pills. Why? Because fig seeds are rare, cultivated in highly specific regions, and are valuable in underground markets. But there's something even more important—the same market where my father bought the seeds is also known to supply demi-humans used in manufacturing these pills. Just like the demi-humans offered to the monster Bordeaux."
The murmurs in the hall grow louder, but Erick presses on. He knows this is the critical point—the missing link between the two transactions.
"To hide the origin of his purchase, Harald registered it as fig seeds. But do you know what? The day of that purchase coincides exactly with the date Harald acquired the transformation pills in Bordeaux's ledger."
Erick turns to the judges, his gaze sharp and resolute.
"My father's mistake was believing he could erase all the evidence." He pauses. "The fig seeds are a façade to cover the transformation pills. If you examine the details of the purchase, you'll find they were acquired through a specific channel—the same channel used for the pills. And not only that. The payment was made through a system involving the same network of merchants that distribute those pills. The pattern is unmistakable. The connection undeniable."
Erick delivers his final blow, and the tension in the room becomes almost unbearable.
"If you don't believe me, I have one last piece of evidence." His gaze bears into Harald like a dagger. "On his leg, just below the knee, you'll find one of those pills. If you cut it open, you'll see the same pill presented in this trial."
A shout of outrage erupts from Harald's side.
"You bastard! You planted something on me!"
Erick doesn't flinch. His smile is cold and lethal.
"No, Harald. I didn't plant anything. I simply revealed the truth. And that truth condemns you, because your evil is something the world cannot forgive."
The hall falls into silence. The judges can no longer deny the connection between the transactions. Harald knows he has been caught; his face drains of color. Erick stares at him, his voice now soft but deadly.
"Your name will go down in history—not as a leader, but as a monster. And you will pay for everything you've done."
The echo of his words lingers as I turns to the council of wise men, bowing with a gesture both firm and humble.
"It is your decision whether the truth deserves to be revealed. I am prepared to face any consequence but know this: if we want a future where everyone can move forward, we cannot ignore what stands before us today."
My voice tremble—not with fear, but with the intensity of his emotions.
"I cannot do it alone. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't do my part. If I don't, the kingdom of Lugunica will collapse under the weight of its own corruption."
The murmurs among the judges grow. Their eyes meet with uncertainty until one gaze hold steady, different from the others. Miklotov. His eyes, heavy with infinite sadness, slowly rise.
His expression holds no reproach, only resignation… and something deeper.
With a presence that silences the crowd, Miklotov stands. His movements are slow, almost ritualistic. When he raises his hand, every gaze turns to him. The red light emanating from his chest makes time seem to freeze.
"Let's drop our masks," he says, his voice resonating like the echo of an old man who has seen far too much. "This kingdom needs a fresh start."
My breathing quickens as I see him point at Frederick.
"It's time for you to pay for your crimes."
Before I can process what's happening, the magic in Miklotov's hand unleashes in a blinding flash, engulfing Frederick.