Yet the fury of the people had not subsided. The head of a single marquis could not satisfy emotions that had been suppressed for so long; the revelry continued, and the rage still poured forth.
The crowd cheered and roared.
"Death! Death!"
The commoners had boiled over completely!
Those exalted figures of yesterday, upon whom ordinary men had once been forbidden even to look, now found their fates resting in the people's hands—at least in form.
"Dawn Sharaf, guilty of premeditated murder, instigating war, robbery..."
"Flori Carson, sentenced to..."
"Giovannio Wald, sentenced to dea—"
Illustrious, well-known noble surnames were called out one after another by the tieflings who had relieved Mezrolash.
Noble after noble was dragged onto the scaffold. The sound of the blade severing flesh and bone rang out time and again, and with every descent of the steel, a wild cheer erupted from the mob.
Even the wooden platform was dyed crimson, a slow river of blood trickling down its edges until it spread to the very feet of the spectators.
Viscount Luton stood trembling from head to foot among the ranks of prisoners, guarded by tiefling soldiers.
*Gods above...*
*How could something like this happen?*
*Do they intend to slaughter every noble in the Northlands?*
Trembling in terror, Viscount Luton stared at the elderly nobleman held down upon the guillotine, his face draining of all color.
He knew that aristocrat—it was Earl Askin Garrett, a renowned general of the Principality of Bosque, who could be considered his uncle.
Earl Askin had once galloped across battlefields, winning the respect of the nobility from the saddle. Luton had even written a rousing hymn of praise for him: *Song of the General's Triumph*.
Yet now, that former general stretched his neck toward the blade like a lamb to the slaughter.
*Thwack!*
With a sharp, crisp thud, the heavy blade fell once more.
Viscount Luton instinctively shrank his neck, as though he were the one being decapitated.
Suddenly, he felt something warm splatter against his neck.
He reached up reflexively to touch it.
It was blood.
Fresh, warm blood.
Yet the ordeal was far from over.
*Thump, roll...*
The bloodstained head tumbled down from the platform, landing right in front of Viscount Luton. Those despairing, unclosed eyes stared fixedly back at him.
"L-Lord Askin..."
Viscount Luton gasped in horror. A violent wave of nausea rose in his throat, and he nearly dry-heaved.
"Blegh..."
Yet as soon as he tried to double over, the tiefling guards behind him hauled him up roughly. His arms were bound fast, forcing his spine straight.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Don't try any tricks!"
Cries of "Death! Death!" echoed again, nearly shattering the sky.
The roars of the crowd, the barked orders of the guards, and the thud of the falling blade intertwined, ringing incessantly in Luton's ears.
Viscount Luton's head spun. A shrill buzzing pierced his ears, followed by an eerie, ringing silence as the world before his eyes seemed to drown in blood red.
Those frenzied, cheering faces looked like demons climbing out of the Abyss.
"Mad... they've all gone mad."
Luton's face was deathly pale, his eyes hollow and vacant. Cold sweat drenched his forehead as his lips quivered faintly.
Vivid scenes flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern—grand banquets, disciplined marching armies, elegant dances, exquisitely bound volumes...
That was the life he was supposed to have.
The Northlands were never meant to be like this. This land was supposed to be a paradise for nobles like him!
What on earth had happened to the world?
How dared they rebel?
Why had those docile, submissive commoners suddenly gone insane?
*This world... is beyond saving...*
That was Viscount Luton's final thought before darkness claimed his senses.
The tiefling guards muttered among themselves.
"He passed out from fright!"
"Typical Northland coward!"
"Heh, I've seen plenty of nobles like him. Last time there was one even more pathetic—scared himself completely senseless."
"Tsk, useless trash, the lot of them."
...
"This feels like a dream!"
"To think we actually get to decide whether those noble lords live or die!"
"Th-they really gave me compensation! I got three gold coins!"
"I finally avenged my wife and daughter..."
After leaving the packed square, the people buzzed with excitement, flushed euphoria lingering on their hollow, gaunt faces.
The public trial lasted from morning until dusk, proceeding downward by rank.
The exalted status that had once been the Northland nobles' pride had now become an inescapable death warrant.
High-ranking aristocrats had all, to varying degrees, oppressed the common populace—or perhaps it had simply become second nature, for they had never truly regarded ordinary folk as fellow human beings.
And when the people's fury was ignited, ruthless retribution was only natural.
By the end of the day, twenty-seven nobles had been beheaded. The highest in rank and the one who drew the most fervent roar was Marquis Horace, while the lowest-ranking among the executed was an earl of the Principality of Bosque.
Vast hoards of treasure, extorted and plundered over the years, were hauled out of the noble estates, and a considerable portion was distributed among the victims.
The kingdom's wedge strategy had succeeded brilliantly.
It was an open conspiracy—a daylight scheme designed to drive an irreversible rift between commoners and nobles.
Through this public trial, everyone who participated and received a share of the spoils was bound inextricably to the war chariot of the Kingdom of Cinders.
After all, their hands were now stained with the blood of Northland nobility. Should the nobles ever reclaim power, the retribution awaiting them would be unimaginably cruel and bloody.
Thus, the people had no choice left but to accept the kingdom's rule.
Moreover, the rule of the evil dragon did not seem nearly as brutal as the rumors claimed—at least not for commoners.
Aside from those who were executed, many lower-ranking nobles were spared immediate death, including Viscount Luton.
They were temporarily confined in the old prison of the Principality of Bosque, awaiting their own trials.
...
"November 3, 1785 of the Third Age... I will never forget that harrowing day."
"On that day, my world seemed to turn blood-red."
"Never had I seen so many exalted figures perish before my eyes. A day earlier, they were my beloved elders and respected mentors, yet after that day, they were reduced to cold, headless corpses."
"This was no so-called 'trial,' but a cruel, tyrannical slaughter waged against the nobility of the Northlands. The evil dragon and his kingdom shamelessly incited our people, whipping up their passions—and turning them into true monsters."
—Notes of Luton Sig
Chapter 346