"...You have no right to judge me," Fitran said softly, bound to a steel chair, his faint smile revealing a deep sense of helplessness in the terrifying situation, like a child caught red-handed stealing candy, creating an image that emphasizes the absurdity of power at that moment.
His left eye was covered with a black cloth, and his body was covered in bruises. Beside him stood a masked executioner, wielding a heavy club. At the far end of the circular room, an old man in a purple robe nodded slowly. His hands trembled, yet he still issued the command:
"Proceed."
THUD! A powerful blow struck Fitran's stomach, producing a sound that resonated throughout the room.
Their voices resembled the roars of wild beasts echoing, adding a layer of terrifying atmosphere to the unforgettable experience of the spectators, creating a blend of helplessness and thrill. The audience in the stands jolted, caught between horror and exhilaration, as the thin line between fear and pleasure began to blur on their faces.
"Are you connected with the Zira rebel group?" the Judge asked, his voice tense and heightening the already oppressive atmosphere of the courtroom.
"We have traced the magic from the location, and your magical presence can still be felt there," he stated firmly, his sharp gaze filled with suspicion. "Why would a knight, sworn to serve the kingdom, be involved in this?" The judge reminded, his voice echoing in the silent courtroom, that the bodies of the rebels were left to rot in silence, becoming prey for beasts or scavengers, emphasizing the brutality faced by those who opposed and creating a strong warning for others in society not to dare confront the kingdom's deadly wrath.
Fitran smiled once again, the grin not entirely sincere. His expression seemed to disregard everything happening around him, creating an apathetic aura amidst the tense atmosphere of the courtroom.
"It's my duty as a paladin," Fitran replied, his voice succinct yet carrying a cold tone that reflected his indifference. "As a defender of justice," he added, delivering each word with a weight that was etched on his face.
This propelled the entire courtroom into chaos, whispers and rumors spreading like wildfire, further heightening the already oppressive tension in the room.
The courtroom of Gaia is adorned with a magnificent circular shape, placing the accused at the center of the arena, as if becoming the haunting focal point of all attention. Beneath their seats lies a pit known as Schacht des Fluches—the terrifying pit of curses. The presence of mysterious creatures lurking in its depths remains a riddle, while the echo of screams, scattered remnants of bones, and the dripping of blood serve as tangible evidence of the horrors that lurk below.
This process is referred to as Versuch, the lowest form of trial within the hierarchy of Gaia, specifically designed for marginalized commoners. At a higher tier, the middle class may undergo Sitzung—an alternative that offers slightly more humanity, yet remains biased and unjust.
The court leader, known as Schiedsrichter, stands tall in the center of the arena, draped in a flowing white robe, overseeing every detail of the ongoing debate. Beside him are two Kampfrichter, clad in striking black uniforms, prepared to deliver fair judgments, even though they know their decisions are often ensnared in political games. Meanwhile, the executor, referred to as Testamentsvollstrecker, waits with a sharp gaze, ready to carry out the verdict in unimaginable ways.
The laws of Gaia are divided into four strictly regulated categories of punishment:
Category A: Execution by ferocious beasts, where the condemned face terrifying predators eager to claim their lives.
Category B & C: Mechanical executions, employing advanced devices designed to inflict excruciating and unimaginable pain, creating a terrifying spectacle for the condemned to witness.
Category D: Limited torture, where the condemned experience non-lethal but excruciating pain. Category A—the most horrific punishment—is reserved for those deemed to have sullied the honor of the nobility, an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the law.
"...Do you enjoy this job?" Fitran whispered softly to the executioner, his voice barely more than a sigh, as if forging a bond with the executioner in the suffocating silence.
Fitran whispered softly to the executioner, his voice barely more than a sigh, creating an aura of mystery and tension. Only the executioner could hear that whisper, trapped in the oppressive silence. With the aid of the magic he called Ton Handhabung, Fitran controlled his voice, immortalizing this moment in a terrifying stillness, while the other sounds around him seemed to fade, leaving only his voice echoing in the executioner's mind, like the whisper of a bell in the dark night.
The executioner fell silent, his head moving frantically from side to side as if searching for an escape from the increasingly suffocating situation, heightening the tense atmosphere that had already been established.
"Don't be surprised. This is just one of the many spells I possess that will ensure your ears are safe, as long as you follow my commands."
Fitran grinned, his smile laced with a cruel undertone. "Now, answer my question."
"Y-yes..." replied the executioner, his voice trembling, fear evident in his eyes.
"Oh, so you are just like them. I thought you were different."
Fitran's disappointed tone struck sharply, as if tearing at his soul. "If you're afraid to be honest... then you deserve to be punished."
And in an instant, it shattered—the executioner's eardrums exploded in an unbearable burst of pain. He fell, writhing in helplessness, screaming silently, as if imprisoned by the blinding terror.
Fitran stood, gazing at the fallen executioner with a sense of arrogance, feeling the power he had just harnessed. The bindings that had restrained him fell away as if they had never existed, liberating him from the shackles of disgrace. He surveyed the room with a resolute gaze, witnessing the nobles frozen in shock, their eyes wide with disbelief, before they scattered in a panic, rushing towards the exit as if trapped in a nightmare.
"IF ONE PERSON LEAVES THIS ROOM, I WILL DESTROY THEM."
Fitran's voice resounded with authority, shattering the silence like a menacing threat.
Not everyone heard that warning. However, one foolhardy individual dared to open the door and step outside, acting without a second thought.
ROAR!!!
A Smilodon—a giant cat creature with terrifying saber-like fangs—pounced on him with astonishing speed. The piercing scream filled with terror lasted barely half a second before his body vanished in an instant, shredded and consumed alive by the ferocious beast. Calmly, the Smilodon then sat by the door, licking the fresh blood from its gleaming red fangs, grinning cynically as if satisfied after devouring a delectable feast.
Smilodon—known as VerfluchtenTier, the cursed creature—was a feared Class A executioner due to its brutality. They not only devoured fresh flesh but also the soul of each victim, embodying the horror that surrounded them. With insatiable greed, they absorbed the personality, voice, and even the last intentions of their prey. Souls consumed by them would never reach the spirit world, vanishing without a trace. There was no end for the souls lost in darkness—only hopeless erasure and eternal suffering.
Fitran confidently raised his fingers, channeling the magic Blutmanipulation into his own blood, and in an instant, the information flowed into the DNA of another creature. Through the current of blood that flowed like a calm river, he implanted an inevitable command within the body of the Smilodon: to serve as his eyes and fangs, becoming an extension of his dark will.
"Return to your seats," he cried, his voice ringing like a bell in the stillness of midnight. Fitran raised his hand, conjuring a shimmering magical shield, indicating that he had prepared everything. "I have set the defenses. They will not enter... unless you force me to open the way."
Quickly, the nobles sat back down, their faces pale as unused white cloth, a deep sign of fear etched on their features. Just a minute ago they had been laughing freely, but now they appeared to tremble like frightened children in the midst of a raging storm, reflecting a profound change in their mood.
"You cannot punish someone solely based on norms," Fitran explained, stepping steadily into the center of the room, his voice resonating, and his aura enveloping them as if they were ensnared in an invisible magical web. "So let us create a just law."
The old referee shivered, his voice barely audible. "S-s-se...ven..."
Shakily, he struck his gavel against the table, its echo resonating throughout the room. Not a single person dared to contradict or speak up, trapped in the oppressive tension.
And so began the formation of a new legal system. No longer trapped in this flawed and oppressive continental system that had silenced many voices for years, every accusation would now be decided by a vote, backed by undeniable evidence, allowing for justice for all. All classes would have their voices heard, signifying a fundamental change in the dynamics of power. Although the position of the referee remained, its power was now limited to preventing the abuses that had occurred. The task of seeking the truth shifted to a neutral party known as the prosecutor, marking a significant transformation in the legal structure for better justice.
Ten hours passed in a tense silence, creating an atmosphere filled with hope and pressure that enveloped the room. Finally, the legal draft was completed, papers strewn about with a newfound spirit emanating from each sheet, symbolizing hope for a more just and prosperous future.
"That was quick. I thought you could only shout earlier," Fitran remarked, offering a slight jab at the process they had endured before.
Fitran chuckled softly, his eyes scrutinizing each article with careful examination. However, slowly his laughter faded, replaced by a weighty seriousness.
"There's one thing missing."
"What is it?" the old Schiedsrichter asked, uncertainty creeping into his words.
"As long as you— the old guard—are still around, this system won't survive, as it will inevitably be plagued by the oppressive values of the past."
"You promised you wouldn't kill us...!" the old man shouted, his voice echoing with fear in the dark room.
"I know. That's why... you all must sacrifice." Fitran's voice was calm and chilling, as if he had been planning all of this for a long time.
With a pounding heart, Fitran opened the seal of the door. As if emerging from the darkness, the Smilodon, a savage creature with sharp fur and thirsting eyes, stepped into the room, ready to respond to the challenges left behind. The slaughter began; unexpected and brutal attacks ensued in the blink of an eye, intensifying the surrounding tension.
"One by one, the victims were mercilessly torn apart. Their bodies were shredded by sharp claws, dragged into the terrifying shadows, presenting a haunting image of cruelty and helplessness. Some were left alive, trapped in a state of agonizing pain until the end—because Fitran had activated the blood curse: Curse of Blood. They would remain conscious as their bodies crumbled in tormenting despair, creating a profound and painful sense of hopelessness.
"Damn you, Fitran... may you burn in hell...!" shouted the old referee, unleashing his final curse before half of his face was brutally ripped apart.
Fitran stepped out of the room, now filled with horrifying screams and eerie laughter, carrying a stack of papers containing new laws with a sense of satisfaction. The building gradually sank into the ground, disappearing as if it had never existed, leaving a chilling silence in its wake—a testament to justice forged through horrific sacrifice.
"FITRANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!" The scream pierced the silence, reflecting profound suffering and hatred.
"Be grateful to me," Fitran said in a firm voice, resonating like raindrops falling in the midst of the haunting quiet.
Fitran's steps were calm and confident, surrounded by sunlight that illuminated his face untouched by guilt. His eyes were red, but not from anger; something deeper lurked behind that gaze.
Was it... regret? A question hung in the air, unanswered.
Fitran yawned softly, as if the chaos around him was merely a minor distraction in his mind.
"I'm so sleepy," he murmured, his gentle voice seemingly unaffected by the emptiness left behind.