Marcel slammed the coffee cup onto the table with a harsh clang, his face contorted with the anger and humiliation of being wronged.
"This is slander! Naked slander!"
"I have conducted business in Fontaine for years, been charitable, and subsidized countless poor families!"
"I have even assisted in the investigation of the Serial Disappearances of Young Women multiple times!"
"On what grounds are you arresting me? Where is the evidence?!"
"This doesn't comply with procedure!"
"I demand to see my lawyer! I demand to appeal to Lord Neuvillette! I..."
His performance was perfect, portraying the image of an innocent, upright merchant suffering humiliation to the fullest.
However, Clorinde's gaze showed no fluctuation; she merely looked at him as if he were already dead.
Just then, a voice full of anger and contempt came from behind the enforcement team:
"Marcel! Stop that disgusting performance of yours!"
The crowd parted, and another prominent representative of the Fontaine Chamber of Commerce, Will Vass, walked out, his face livid.
He was the seasoned merchant who, at last night's banquet, had highly praised King and asserted that "with Lord King present, scoundrels have nowhere to hide."
At this moment, the look he gave Marcel was filled with disbelief, shock, the fury of betrayal, and profound disgust.
"Wheel? What are you doing here!"
The ominous feeling in Marcel's heart grew stronger.
"What am I doing here?"
Will Vass sneered, "Marcel! You demon wearing human skin! You're worse than an animal!"
He took a step forward, pointed at Marcel's nose, and roared, "You ask why we're arresting you?"
"I'll tell you why!"
"Lord King personally identified you!"
"Just now, in the waters outside the city, Lord King not only quelled a disaster-like sea vortex but also personally witnessed the final forms of those poor girls you murdered!"
"They transformed into Oceanids filled with pain, and it was Lord King who listened to their wails and saw through your crimes!"
"Did you think you hid well?"
"In front of Lord King, your filthy deeds are as obvious as a festering sore on a vulture's head!"
"Lord King's eyes are the Eyes of Eternity and Justice that can see through all hypocrisy and darkness!!"
Will Vass's words struck Marcel's heart like a heavy hammer.
It was... that person who identified him!
King?
The fontaines strongest man, who appeared suddenly and was impossibly powerful?!
The color drained completely from Marcel's face.
Smoothness, anger, grievance... all the feigned expressions on his face peeled away like a broken mask, leaving only absurdity.
How could he know? How was it possible for him to know?
The dissolved Damselettes—their consciousness should have been chaotic to the extreme!
Damn it!
They could still coalesce? And file a complaint?!
Fury surged within Marcel's heart!
His disguise, meticulously maintained for years, and the sins he carefully concealed, were exposed in a way that completely defied his understanding?
This is practically cheating!
The dead can still cry out for justice?
How is that possible?!
"Misunderstanding... this is a misunderstanding."
Marcel's voice was dry, attempting a final struggle, but even he could hear the helplessness in it.
"Take him away!"
Clorinde gave him no further chance and gave the cold command.
Two tall Equitable Judgment stepped forward.
They swiftly removed all of Marcel's ornaments that could potentially conceal dangerous items.
Then they handcuffed his hands behind his back using specialized shackles designed to suppress elemental power.
Marcel was roughly dragged away. As he passed Will Vass, the elegant old merchant spat at him:
"Pah! Scum! You've completely disgraced Fontaine's business world!"
"Just wait, Lord King will certainly deliver justice for the deceased Damselettes!"
"The flames of justice will surely burn you to ashes!"
When Marcel was escorted out of the Chamber of Commerce Building, the outside was already swarming with citizens and reporters who had rushed over upon hearing the news.
The news had spread like wildfire—
"Real Culprit in Serial Disappearances of Young Women Apprehended!"
"The True Face of Philanthropist Marcel!"
"Lord King Sees Through the Crime at a Glance!"
The crowd erupted, a mixture of angry shouts, shocked gasps, pity for the victims, and curses hurled at the murderer.
"Demon! Murderer!"
"Give me back my daughter!!"
"Long live Lord King! Lady Furina is wise!"
"Judge him! Send him to hell!"
Rotten tomatoes, foul eggs, and even stones rained down upon Marcel as he was escorted.
The Equitable Judgment escorting Marcel did not prevent the public's angry outburst, only ensuring he wasn't beaten to death en route.
Marcel was huddled over, his expensive suit covered in filth, his face bruised and swollen, and his hair disheveled—long stripped of his former dignity.
His eyes were unfocused, and he mumbled incessantly:
"How could this be... King... why..."
He didn't understand how his perfect plan, his long period of dormancy, could fail so suddenly and so completely.
And all of it was because of that man—King.
The man he hadn't even formally met, yet who had already cast him into the abyss of eternal damnation... Meropide Hold.
Sub-level Eighteen.
Special Interrogation Room.
This was a cage completely isolated from the outside world.
The four walls, ceiling, and floor were all constructed from specialized soundproofing material, uniformly colored a cold, gray white.
A cold Magic Crystal Lamp was embedded in the center of the ceiling, casting a pale, blinding light that banished every shadow in the room.
Marcel was secured to a Specialized Interrogation Chair in the center of the room.
This was a restraint device designed specifically for dangerous criminals.
The chair body was cast from alloy, with multiple locks at the wrists, ankles, and waist.
It ensured the restrained person could not escape and could barely move their body.
Marcel's condition looked terrible.
His expensive fine clothes had been forcibly stripped off, replaced by a coarse, gray-white prison uniform.
His face was a mess of bruises, and dried rotten egg residue clung to the corner of his mouth—the "gift" from the angry public during his escort.
His hair was plastered messily to his forehead, several strands stuck together with congealed blood.
However, in stark contrast to his disheveled appearance were his eyes.
Those eyes held no fear, no remorse, and not even the despair of capture.
There was only a near-maniacal stubbornness and a forcibly suppressed rage that threatened to erupt at any moment.
He lowered his head, his shoulders slightly hunched, his lips silently opening and closing as if murmuring something to himself.
Listening closely, one could barely distinguish a few repeated syllables:
"Vigneire... Vigneire..."
"Just a little more... just the very last bit..."
"Why... why did you stop me..."