The noisy arguments and hushed whispers in the crowd continued, yet intimidated by the thousand-year authority of House Bosque, not a single soul dared to step forward.
Mezrolash scanned the fearful, panicked faces below, his pitch-black eyes narrowing slightly.
"Everyone, this is a public trial under the laws of the kingdom. You may exercise your rights freely—harbor no fear."
"Heh... heh heh..."
Laughter suddenly echoed from the raised platform.
Horace, who had remained silent until now, tremblingly raised his head, a brazen sneer spreading across his blood-streaked face.
"Dragon spawn, your schemes will never succeed."
"Stravburg will always belong to House Bosque... and the bloodline of the lion will never submit!"
"I am Horace Bosque, eldest son of Grand Duke Leo! No one has the right to judge me except my father!"
Horace spat flecks of bloody spittle, hurling vitriol at Mezrolash with the reckless abandon of a man who had already given up on life.
"You are begging for death, aren't you?"
Mezrolash wiped away the specks of blood on his cheek. Showing no sign of anger, he asked in an exceptionally calm voice.
"You want it to be like an epic poem—cut down while defying the enemy, dying as a hero to be remembered."
"Unfortunately, I will not grant your wish."
Mezrolash shook his head gently and paced slowly over to Horace's side.
"Let me tell you what will happen: you will be a criminal condemned by the people, nailed to the pillar of historical shame. You will become a laughingstock in your family's chronicle, and the herald of the Northland nobility's total ruin."
The tiefling's voice was deep, whispering in Horace's ear like a devil's murmur.
Horace strained to lift his head, glaring at the tiefling through clenched teeth.
"Y-you are delusional!"
"The indomitable Scanians will never listen to your lies!"
A mocking sneer touched Mezrolash's lips.
"Is that truly so?"
The tiefling turned around, drew the longsword at his waist, and held it high under the sunlight.
"In the name of a Duke of the Kingdom of Cinders, I promise you all: anyone who participates in this public trial whose accusations are verified as true shall bear no responsibility whatsoever afterward!"
"Furthermore..."
His voice rose impassioned, and then he paused abruptly.
"...you will also have the opportunity, under kingdom law, to receive a share of the estate of this Marquis Horace Bosque."
At once, the crowd broke into an uproar once more.
That was the wealth of a Northland marquis, the eldest son of Grand Duke Leo!
Countless estates and mines lay under Horace's name. The gold stored in the marquis's manor alone was beyond anything an ordinary commoner could imagine.
Faced with such immense profit, even the awe of noble authority grew insignificant.
Within the packed crowd, many were already itching to take a gamble.
"Despicable!"
"Y-you are inciting a riot!"
Bound to the wooden post, Horace shrieked hysterically, but Mezrolash did not even deign to look at him.
"M-my lord!"
"I... I have crimes to denounce!"
A trembling male voice rang out suddenly.
All eyes turned toward the speaker—a simply dressed middle-aged man.
His calloused hands were twisted together. Extreme tension slicked his face with sweat and drained the color from his lips, but nothing could disguise the deep hatred in his eyes.
"What is your name?"
"Ru... Rulen. Rulen Pierce, a merchant from the east district."
"Speak."
A flash of satisfaction crossed Mezrolash's face, and he gestured for the man to continue.
"Lord Horace... No! Horace Bosque! Under the name of the 'Grand Requisition,' he led soldiers into my shop and plundered every coin, every scrap of food!"
"And his knights seized my wife and daughter on charges of disrespecting the nobility!"
At first, Rulen's words stumbled, but as he went on, his voice climbed higher, raw with fury.
"I thought they had been thrown into prison. I pursued them desperately, scraping together money everywhere to ransom them..."
"In the end, I found their bodies in the army camp outside the city. They were tortured to death."
By the end, his voice was hoarse.
Tears filled Rulen's eyes.
At last, as if venting feelings long suppressed, he scooped up a handful of filthy snow and slush from the ground and hurled it viciously at Horace on the platform.
*Smack!*
Dirty slush splattered across Horace's face. He stood there humiliated and disheveled, devoid of even a shred of noble dignity.
"Nonsense!"
"This is slander! Blatant slander!"
"This wretched cur took the evil dragon's gold!"
His hair in disarray, Horace screamed abuses at Rulen below, looking ready to tear him apart on the spot.
A marquis of high birth, he had never suffered such humiliation in his life—least of all before tens of thousands of people!
Horace did not realize that the nightmare had only just begun.
The Principality of Bosque had always maintained better order than the other Northland realms, but even so, countless atrocities had taken place during the infamous Grand Requisition.
Soldiers of this era were never known to listen to reason.
Hearing Rulen's tale, the crowd sighed in collective grief; some even wept, while many more felt an incandescent fury ignite in their chests.
More importantly, now that Rulen had stuck his neck out and set an example, the lingering dread vanished, freeing them to speak their minds.
One stone had stirred a thousand ripples.
"I have crimes to accuse him of too!"
"Me as well!"
"His knights smashed my house!"
"They murdered my mother!"
"They stole our winter rations and starved my son to death!"
In this moment, good and evil, dragons and nobles no longer mattered.
The people needed an outlet.
Roused to boiling anger, they competed with one another in this public trial to denounce the crimes of the Northland nobility, pouring out griefs they had long kept silent out of terror.
Trischka and Horace were the two primary officials overseeing the Grand Requisition.
Eager to prove themselves before the Grand Duke, they had frequently taken the lead, personally directing soldiers in seizing grain and war funds.
Now Count Trischka was dead, leaving Marquis Horace Bosque as the sole target for the populace's hatred.
The square descended into a fervent frenzy of rage. Slush, branches, and stones flew continuously toward the stage, pelting Marquis Horace.
"No..."
"You rabble... traitors..."
"Without House Bosque... how could you have survived until now?!"
Yet the roar of the crowd drowned out his feeble retorts; no one cared about his words anymore.
Now Horace Bosque was an utterly wretched sight. Bound to the wooden post, caked in grime and bruises, his bloodied face twisted into a grotesque grimace that showed not an ounce of so-called lion bloodline.
In the eyes of the crowd, he looked no different from any common felon.
Finally, Mezrolash raised his voice to pronounce judgment:
"By the public trial of the people of Stravburg, Horace Bosque is found guilty of intentional homicide, extortion, bribery, robbery, and a multitude of other crimes."
"As a representative of the wicked Northland regime, Horace Bosque has committed heinous atrocities with utter remorselessness. For his accumulated crimes, the court sentences him to..."
Mezrolash paused deliberately, drawing the crowd into the sentencing.
"Death! Death!" the furious mob chanted from below.
Only when the cries swelled into a deafening tide did he utter the final sentence:
"Death."
Tiefling guards stepped forward, ripped away the cloth covering the guillotine, and marched Horace toward it.
Horace thrashed frantically, roaring with a contorted face:
"No! No..."
"You filthy dogs, you have no right to judge me!"
"Traitors! You are all traitors!"
Even so, all his thrashing and resistance was futile. Under the unyielding grip of the tieflings, the marquis was forced onto the guillotine.
Even at the final second, Horace strained to raise his head.
"I am the eldest son of Grand Duke Leo—"
*Thunk!*
Before he could finish, a crisp chop cut him short.
Then came the gleam of the blade slicked with crimson, a burst of spraying blood, and waves of rapturous cheers erupting from below.
Under the kingdom's deliberate orchestration, the people of Stravburg had shattered the untouchable majesty of the Northland nobility with their own hands.
*Drip, drip...*
The angled trapezoidal blade of the guillotine was hoisted back up, bright red blood dripping from its edge droplet by droplet. The gleaming edge shone dazzlingly in the sunlight, sharp enough to hurt the eyes.
Chapter 345