...
{3rd Pov}
Priscilla Barielle, accompanied by Emilia, entered the city's central mansion with measured steps. Word of their arrival had already spread among the local nobles and merchants the previous day.
Although the details of what had transpired the night before—particularly the duel between Priscilla and Subaru—remained unknown to the public, that did not mean the influential figures of Rimpleton City were relaxed.
On the contrary, they were extremely cautious.
The moment Priscilla's presence was confirmed, the nobles and merchants wasted no time adjusting their stance.
One after another, they openly declared their loyalty to her, speaking with exaggerated politeness and eager smiles.
Several even inquired whether she would be open to "further discussions," their tone suggesting both political negotiations and personal ambition.
It was almost amusing how quickly they shifted their allegiance.
Of course, not all of their gazes were respectful.
While many kept their eyes at a proper level, a few allowed their attention to wander in ways that were far from appropriate.
Some looked at her with concealed greed, others with poorly hidden desire.
One particular individual did not even bother hiding it, his eyes lingering on her chest with blatant perversion.
The next moment, his head was cleanly severed from his body.
It happened so quickly that most people did not even register the movement.
His body remained standing for a brief second before collapsing to the floor, blood spreading across the polished surface of the mansion hall.
Silence fell instantly.
The message was clear.
"Arghhh!"
Panic erupted instantly throughout the hall.
What had begun as a tense but seemingly formal meeting descended into chaos within seconds.
No one had expected bloodshed at the very start of what they assumed would be negotiations.
Several nobles stumbled backward in horror, while merchants shouted in confusion.
The atmosphere shifted from political calculation to raw survival instinct almost immediately.
Priscilla, however, showed no interest in listening to their frantic excuses or hollow declarations.
She had no patience for their trembling voices or their barely concealed greed.
To her, their words were nothing more than noise from people who would change allegiance again the moment it suited them.
When a few of the nobles shouted for soldiers to intervene, armored men rushed into the hall.
But they did not last long.
Priscilla wielded the newly forged Yang Sword as if it were a natural extension of her own body.
The blade moved fluidly in her hand, golden flames trailing behind each swing.
Every strike was precise and lethal.
Soldiers fell one after another, cut down before they could even coordinate a proper defense.
Meanwhile, anyone foolish enough to target Emilia or the rest of their group met an equally brutal end.
Some had their necks snapped instantly before they even realized what had happened.
Others were frozen in place, their bodies encased from within as frost flowers bloomed inside their flesh.
The ice spread through muscle and bone, causing agonizing pain before their bodies finally collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
The hall quickly became a battlefield littered with corpses.
"Silence!"
A sharp voice cut through the chaos.
Marquis Harris himself came running into the hall, having been alerted by the screams and commotion.
The moment he saw the gruesome scene—the bodies of nobles and soldiers scattered across the floor—his blood ran cold.
His eyes shifted toward the perpetrators.
Lady Priscilla.
Lady Emilia.
And the destruction that surrounded them.
"L-Lady Priscilla! What is the meaning of this?!" Marquis Harris shouted, his voice shaking between outrage and panic.
"Why are you slaughtering all the nobles and merchants?!"
He pointed a trembling finger directly at her, demanding an explanation as if he still believed he held authority in this room.
It was the wrong move.
In the next instant, his extended hand was cleanly sliced off.
There was no dramatic wind-up, no warning.
One subtle movement of the Yang Sword was enough.
The severed limb did not even have time to hit the floor properly before it was incinerated into fine ash by the golden flames surrounding the blade.
For a brief moment, Harris simply stood there, frozen.
So did many of the onlookers.
Their minds struggled to process what had just happened. His arm was gone. Completely gone.
Then the pain arrived.
"Arghhhhh!"
A bone-shuddering scream tore from his throat, so loud and raw that it felt as if it might rupture his vocal cords.
The delayed agony hit him all at once—burning, sizzling, overwhelming.
The heat from the cauterized wound felt as though it was spreading through his entire body.
Tears instantly flooded his eyes as he collapsed to the ground, clutching at the air where his arm had once been.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
The shock mixed with unbearable pain, breaking whatever composure he had left.
Within seconds, the humiliation became visible as well.
A yellow stain spread across his pants, the loss of control obvious.
Priscilla and the others merely squinted in visible disgust at the sight.
To them, this was not tragedy.
It was consequence.
"Looooord Harrisssss."
Roswaal's voice echoed through the hall in his unmistakable drawn-out tone, the exaggerated pronunciation cutting cleanly through the chaos.
It had been months since he had spoken like that so openly, and hearing it again caught even Emilia and Geuse slightly off guard.
However, unlike his usual detached composure, Roswaal was openly grinning.
There was no attempt to hide it.
Watching someone else suffer at the hands of Zero—even if the circumstances were entirely different from his own past—brought him a strange sense of satisfaction.
It was not empathy, nor was it justice in the purest sense.
It was simply the quiet pleasure of seeing another man face consequences for his actions.
"You have committed the criiiiime of illegal slaveryyyyy," Roswaal continued smoothly, his tone theatrical and deliberate.
"Humaaaaan trafficking, demi-humaaan poaching, kidnapping, raaaaape… and many other such offenses."
His amused grin did not fade even as he listed each charge.
The irony was not lost on him.
By any moral standard, Roswaal himself was far from innocent.
He had taken over the lives of his own descendants for generations, manipulating his own bloodline and stealing futures in pursuit of his goals.
By many definitions, that alone made him a deeply twisted individual.
And yet, no matter how questionable his own actions were, he constantly found that there were always people in this world who were even more disgusting, more depraved, and more shameless than he was.
Not just one or two.
But in alarming numbers.
And Lord Harris was clearly one of them.
Priscilla's voice cut through the tense air like a sharp blade, her eyes locked onto Marquiss with unyielding contempt.
"Do you hear that, you worthless vermin?" she demanded, her tone dripping with disdain and authority.
"I've also heard reports that you've been slinking around, rallying the nobles behind my back, whispering lies that it's all in support of my divine self. Support? As if my divine self requires the groveling presence of filthy swine like you. Your so-called loyalty is nothing but a pathetic attempt to worm your way into favor, and it disgusts me."
Marquiss's face drained of all color, turning as pale as a ghost under the weight of her words.
His mind raced with desperate thoughts of denial—he wanted nothing more than to shout out his innocence, to twist the accusations into something less damning, to paint himself as a loyal servant who had only the best intentions.
But the fear gripped him like iron chains, squeezing the breath from his lungs and the lies from his tongue.
He couldn't muster even a single word of protest; his body betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably as the reality of his exposure sank in.
The room seemed to close in around him, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows that mirrored the darkness of his deeds.
"I know! I know I've done wrong!" Marquiss finally burst out, his voice cracking with raw panic as he dropped to his knees before her.
"I apologize! I beg you, from the depths of my wretched soul, please spare me! Have mercy on a fool like me—please, just have me imprisoned! Lock me away where I can't cause more harm!"
He shouted these pleas with frantic desperation, his hands clasped together in supplication, tears streaming down his ashen cheeks as he begged for any shred of mercy.
His entire frame shook with the force of his terror, every muscle tensed in anticipation of the judgment he knew was coming.
In his hysteria, Marquiss's gaze darted wildly around the chamber, landing on the guards who lined the walls.
They stood there in various states of dread—some trembling at their boots, their armor rattling faintly with each involuntary shiver, their faces slick with sweat despite the cool draft seeping through the stone corridors.
Others were frozen in place, too paralyzed by fear to even consider fleeing, their eyes wide and unblinking as they witnessed the noble's downfall.
A few, however, had already seized the moment of chaos to slip away, their footsteps echoing faintly down the halls as they abandoned their posts in a bid for self-preservation.
The air was thick with the scent of fear, a mix of unwashed bodies and the metallic tang of impending violence.
Marquiss could see the uncertainty in their eyes, the way some gripped their weapons tighter while others let theirs hang limp at their sides, unsure whether to intervene or simply wait for the storm to pass.
Driven by his mounting desperation, Marquiss began to crawl forward on his hands and knees, his fine robes dragging through the dust and grime of the floor, tearing slightly at the seams.
He fixed his pleading eyes on one particular standing soldier—a young man who hadn't yet bolted, his posture rigid but his face a mask of conflicted horror.
Marquiss reached out a shaking hand toward the guard's boot, his voice rising to a feverish pitch.
"Arrest me! Do it quickly! Please, arrest me right now! I admit it all—every last crime! I confess without reservation! I've raped sixteen young girls, innocent children whose lives I shattered in my depravity. And three young boys as well, their screams still echoing in my nightmares. That's not even the half of it—I've done a lot of other stuff, unspeakable acts of cruelty and corruption that stain my hands forever. Please, just arrest me and end this charade! Take me away before she decides on something worse!"
His words tumbled out in a torrent, each admission heavier than the last, laying bare the full extent of his monstrosity.
The chamber fell into a stunned silence broken only by his ragged breathing and the distant clatter of fleeing footsteps.
Priscilla watched impassively, her expression unchanging, as if his confessions were merely confirming what she had long expected.
The guards shifted uneasily, some exchanging glances that spoke of shock and revulsion, while the weight of Marquiss's breakdown hung over them all like a shroud.
In that moment, the noble's empire of lies crumbled completely, leaving him exposed and broken on the cold stone floor, awaiting whatever fate his accuser deemed fit.
"Did you see that, Sir Wisemen?" Geuse asked with a faint smirk, turning his head slightly toward Rem.
Rem stood at a distance, holding a metia in both hands.
The artifact glowed faintly as it transmitted everything happening inside the mansion to its paired mirror-like metia elsewhere.
She maintained a steady grip, carefully adjusting the angle so that the broadcast remained clear and uninterrupted.
On the other side of the connection, Ram was the one holding the second metia.
She stood calmly in a formal chamber, presenting the live projection before the Council of Wise Men.
The expressions on their faces varied between horror, anger, and disbelief as they watched the bloodshed and the Marquis's desperate confession unfold in real time.
Behind Ram, the guard captain stood rigidly, clearly tense.
Several royal knights had already drawn their swords, pointing them toward her in suspicion and hostility.
The atmosphere in the chamber was thick with tension, and even the slightest wrong move could escalate the situation further.
"As you can see, Sir Wisemen, he is guilty," Ram stated in a neutral and composed tone.
"He has openly admitted to his crimes."
One of the Wise Men abruptly stood up from his chair, his face flushed with anger as he pointed a trembling finger toward Ram.
"What is this nonsense?!" he demanded loudly.
"First you show us the murder of merchants and nobles, and now you present a so-called confession from a noble who has clearly been terrified into admitting crimes he never committed!"
His voice echoed sharply through the chamber as the other Wise Men exchanged uneasy glances.
The Royal Knights' faces visibly tensed at the Wise Man's outburst, their swords still pointed at Ram.
The tension in the chamber thickened, but Ram herself did not react in the slightest.
She merely looked at them with a bored, neutral expression, as if none of this concerned her personally.
"I am here to simply convey what my Lord wished to show you," Ram stated calmly.
"This claim is backed by Lord Zero, Lady Reina, Lady Emilia, Lady Priscilla, and Lord Roswaal."
The moment those names were spoken, the atmosphere in the room shifted drastically.
Every single one of those individuals held enormous political weight within Lugunica.
In fact, each of them individually carried more influence than Marquis Harris—or even all of the nobles and merchants who had just been executed—combined.
Their reputations, power, and public standing were not something that could be dismissed lightly.
However, the Wise Men's unease was not solely because of the political implications.
It was the brutality.
They had all witnessed how swiftly and mercilessly the nobles and merchants were killed.
There had been no drawn-out trials, no formal sentencing—only immediate judgment and execution.
The decisiveness was frightening.
And that fear was not limited to concern for order.
Some of the Wise Men were painfully aware that they were not much better than the nobles who had just died.
Several of them had long histories filled with questionable decisions, corrupt dealings, and morally gray actions that stretched back further than the lifetimes of many young citizens in this country.
Another thought gnawed at them.
What exactly counted as a crime in Zero's eyes?
In this world, killing enemies was normal.
Political power struggles, territorial disputes, even assassinations were not unheard of.
If Zero decided that certain past actions—actions that had been considered acceptable at the time—were now "unjust killings," would he execute them just as mercilessly as he had executed the nobles they were currently watching?
That uncertainty was what truly terrified them.
It was not just about Marquis Harris anymore.
It was about where Zero's judgment line was drawn—and whether they themselves were standing dangerously close to crossing it.
That was the real source of their fear.
It was not just the executions themselves—it was the complete disregard for legal procedure that unsettled them deeply.
From their perspective, Zero and the others had acted without acknowledging Lugunica's established laws.
There had been no formal trial, no official investigation conducted under royal authority, and no sentencing approved by the Council.
For men who derived their authority from those very laws, that was unacceptable.
If individuals with overwhelming power could simply bypass the legal framework whenever they deemed it necessary, then what role did the Wise Men even serve?
Their influence relied on structure, protocol, and controlled systems of judgment.
Watching someone operate outside of that system threatened the foundation of their control.
"This is manslaughter!" Bordeaux shouted hysterically, rising from his seat as he slammed his hand against the table.
"Even if he committed crimes, there are legal procedures that must be followed!"
His voice grew louder as anger overtook his composure.
"Not to mention, you have killed numerous merchants and nobles! How can we possibly verify which of them were truly guilty? How do we know this was not simply a personal purge disguised as justice? We require evidence—proper evidence!"
He pointed a shaking finger directly at Ram, his face flushed with outrage.
"We need more proof!"
Marcos remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Ram as he recalled the brutal scene he had just witnessed through the metia.
The images of nobles being cut down without hesitation and Marquis Harris losing his arm in an instant replayed in his mind.
He had seen violence before—he was no stranger to bloodshed—but this had been something else.
It had been decisive, absolute, and unrestrained.
Before the chamber could descend further into chaos, Miklotov slowly rose from his seat.
"Silence, everyone," he said firmly, his voice carrying authority without needing to be raised.
The room gradually quieted, though tension still lingered in the air.
"I believe this matter is extremely delicate," Miklotov continued in a measured tone.
"As such, we must not rush into conclusions driven purely by emotion."
He turned his attention directly to Ram.
"Lady Ram, please inform the Royal Candidates to ensure that Marquis Harris does not bleed to death. Have him stabilized and handed over to the Royal Knights for proper questioning."
The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere in the chamber shifted.
Relief—subtle but noticeable—spread among the Wise Men.
Miklotov had presented a compromise.
On one hand, it acknowledged the seriousness of the accusations and the need for due process.
On the other hand, it avoided directly confronting Zero and the others over the killings that had already occurred.
It was an exit route for both sides.
Marquis Harris would live—for now—and the matter would transition into official investigation rather than immediate escalation.
The Council would retain its authority, and Zero's faction would not be openly challenged in a way that could spiral out of control.
For the moment, it was the safest path forward.
Unfortunately for Miklotov, Priscilla had heard everything clearly through the metia Rem was holding.
She did not even bother to look in its direction.
Instead, she sneered openly, her expression filled with contempt.
"Heal this vile pig? My divine self cannot even tolerate his presence any longer," she said coldly.
"For the crimes he has committed, there is only one outcome he deserves… and that is death."
Her voice carried absolute finality.
"N-No! No! Save me!" Harris screamed in pure terror, his earlier arrogance completely gone.
He writhed on the floor like livestock moments away from slaughter, clutching at the bleeding stump of his arm as tears and snot mixed on his face.
On the other side of the broadcast, the Wise Men's eyes widened in alarm.
Marcos reacted immediately.
He leaned toward the mirror metia and shouted urgently, "Lady Priscilla! If you proceed with this, you will be abusing your authority and directly violating the kingdom's laws! Stop this immediately! Otherwise, it will be considered a grave crime and may severely affect your status as a Royal Candidate!"
His voice echoed sharply through the chamber.
Priscilla, however, merely smiled.
"How amusing," she replied with a grin that carried both disdain and amusement. "I, Priscilla Barielle, hereby declare that I withdraw from this Royal Selection farce."
Her words struck like thunder.
The Wise Men froze.
The Royal Knights stiffened.
Even the tension in the chamber shifted into stunned silence.
Before anyone could respond, Priscilla raised her newly forged Yang Sword.
Without hesitation, she brought it down.
Golden flames erupted as the blade descended, not merely cutting flesh but searing far deeper. Harris's body convulsed violently as the fire did not just burn his physical form—it reached into his very soul.
"Arghhhhhhh!"
The scream that tore from Harris's throat was so intense that it felt as though his vocal cords would rupture—and they did.
The sound echoed throughout the mansion hall, raw and inhuman, reverberating against the walls before being carried clearly through the metia's transmission.
On the other side, every Wise Man and Royal Knight heard it in full clarity.
The newly forged Yang Sword was far more powerful than its previous incarnation.
This was not merely a weapon that burned flesh.
It possessed the ability to incinerate the very soul of its target while simultaneously amplifying the sensation of pain to a level that was almost impossible to comprehend.
The agony was not momentary.
It was deliberate.
It reached into the spiritual core of its victim and ignited it from within.
The torment it inflicted was not comparable to ordinary burns or wounds.
It was something far worse—something that attacked existence itself.
Even the most sensitive pain a human body could feel, like a finger struck deeply by splintered wood, would be insignificant compared to this.
The suffering was magnified beyond what normal nerves could transmit.
Harris's screams gradually broke apart as his vocal cords burned away.
The sound distorted, then cut off entirely.
Golden flames consumed him completely.
His body did not simply collapse or leave behind charred remains.
It was reduced, piece by piece, until nothing recognizable remained.
Flesh, bone, and blood were all erased.
Not even ash was left behind.
He was gone.
In the chamber where the Wise Men watched, silence fell heavily.
They stared at the projection in stunned disbelief.
Rem had deliberately angled the mirror metia to ensure that every detail of the execution was visible.
The scene had been broadcast clearly and without obstruction to the paired metia that Ram held before the Council.
There was no ambiguity.
They had all witnessed it in full.
"My Lord has gone to rescue the enslaved demi-humans and children who were being prepared for trafficking through this very city," Ram said calmly, her tone steady as if the brutal execution that had just occurred did not concern her in the slightest.
"He possesses all the necessary proof. If you are willing to wait, he will personally present that evidence to all of you."
Her composure only aggravated some of the Wise Men further.
"Shut up!" one of them snapped angrily, slamming his hand against the armrest of his chair.
"This is madness! Illegal slavery?! Are you attempting to frame Marquis Harris and the other nobles and merchants by parading demi-humans and common slaves as if they were unlawfully enslaved?"
His voice rose as frustration overtook him.
"Lugunica has established laws regarding slavery! If these demi-humans descend from the bloodlines of those who participated in the Demi-Human War, then they are legally recognized as slaves under our statutes!"
Several others nodded subtly, though not all looked entirely convinced.
The argument was rooted in existing law, but the tension in the chamber suggested that the situation was far from simple.
Ram did not interrupt him.
She merely continued holding the metia steadily, her expression unchanged.
The issue was no longer just about Harris.
It was about the legality of slavery itself—and whether Zero intended to challenge that foundation.
"Is that so?" Ram replied sharply, her composure finally shifting as she looked directly at the Wise Man who had spoken.
"It seems you are far more eager to protect criminals than to examine the evidence placed before you and pursue what should actually be called justice. If anything, that eagerness makes you appear guilty yourself."
Her tone was cold and direct, carrying no hesitation.
The disgust in her eyes was unmistakable.
"Preposterous!" Bordeaux barked angrily, rising from his seat.
"Insulting a Wise Man is itself a punishable offense! What your Lord has done—and what you have just shown us—is a blatant violation of this kingdom's laws!"
He glared at the pink-haired oni with open hostility.
"Do not forget," he continued harshly, "if we have the authority to grant him a noble title, we also have the authority to strip it away!"
The threat hung in the air.
Before Ram could respond, another Wise Man interjected, his tone laced with accusation.
"And let us not ignore the obvious. You are a demi-human yourself. You have no standing to present an biased argument before us. What you are attempting is transparent—this entire spectacle is nothing more than a political maneuver to win the favor of the demi-human population by staging executions and calling it justice!"
Several voices began overlapping, the chamber descending into disorder once more.
By this point, even Miklotov had brought a hand to his forehead, massaging his temple in visible frustration.
The situation had clearly spiraled beyond controlled debate.
Emotions were overtaking reason, and accusations were escalating rapidly.
There was no longer a clean way to maintain peace with Zero.
Until now, they had tolerated him—largely because of his association with the Red and the Sword Saint.
His strength and influence had forced a cautious approach.
But after what they had just witnessed, it was becoming clear that the fragile balance between the Council and Zero's faction was breaking apart.
'It seems we will need to order the Six Tongues to handle this matter,' Miklotov thought grimly as he stared at Ram through the metia.
His expression had hardened.
The situation had escalated beyond debate, beyond compromise.
Out loud, he spoke with controlled authority.
"What Lady Priscilla has done and declared has been witnessed by all of us," Miklotov stated firmly.
"From this moment forward, she no longer qualifies as a Royal Candidate due to her voluntary withdrawal from the Royal Selection."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Furthermore, she is to be arrested for the crimes committed here today. The Emilia camp, as accomplices in this brutal and inhumane execution, will also be held accountable. They will answer before this Council for their actions."
The words were clear, final and Official.
The Royal Knights behind Ram tightened their grips on their swords.
Ram, however, did not flinch.
"Are you sure, Sir Wiseeee-men?" she replied, deliberately stretching the title in a neutral yet unmistakably mocking tone.
A few of the Council members visibly stiffened at the disrespect.
Ram's eyes remained steady as she added calmly, "Are you certain that you will not be the ones answering for your own crimes?"
That statement crossed a line.
The fragile restraint that had barely held the chamber together finally snapped.
Voices erupted at once.
Several Wise Men rose from their seats in outrage.
The Royal Knights shifted forward instinctively, blades gleaming under the chamber lights.
What had begun as a political dispute had now transformed into open confrontation.
"Guards! Arrest her!" one of the Wise Men shouted in fury, his composure completely gone.
Even Marcos, who had attempted to maintain some level of restraint earlier, gave a sharp nod to the Royal Knights, signaling them to proceed.
The knights stepped forward in unison, blades raised, their boots striking the chamber floor in heavy rhythm.
Then the air shifted.
A sudden swirl of wind erupted around Ram, circling her like a living current.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop, not from cold—but from pressure.
A single horn slowly manifested from her forehead, emerging with quiet inevitability.
The moment it appeared, every knight in the room felt it.
Their instincts screamed.
It was not a conscious calculation of strength.
It was something far more primitive.
A warning embedded deep within their very beings.
Their bodies stiffened, their breathing hitched, and sweat formed on their brows despite the chill.
This was not an opponent they could defeat.
This was not a threat they could measure.
It was the instinctual fear of an apex predator standing before prey.
It was the fear of death.
Several knights unconsciously took half a step back.
Others tightened their grip on their swords, even though their hands trembled slightly.
"W-What are you?" Marcos asked, his voice no longer steady.
The confidence from earlier had vanished, replaced by genuine unease.
Ram smiled.
She tilted her head slightly, the gesture almost cute in contrast to the overwhelming aura she was emitting.
"I am merely a dedicated maid of Lord Zero," she replied lightly.
Then her expression shifted.
The softness vanished from her eyes, replaced by something far colder.
"But for those who stand against my Lord's will," she continued, her voice losing all playfulness, "you may call me the Oni God."
The green wind intensified, and the chamber fell into suffocating silence.
To be continued...
(A/N: Sometimes I feel like the biggest crime is interacting with readers because they think I am entitled to reply to their wishes as if we are in some sort of court. Sir, I have you reported for offensive language, personal attack and emotional damage. If you really thought you were right, then please do not delete your comment, so the Mods can see it carefully.
Also not feeling like editing this chap or whatever. I will see if I can re-edit next chap from here, for now I will focus on my advance chaps.
Thank you.)