The families of the guilty nobles were summoned to the square a few hours later as dawn approached. The imperial banners hung solemnly from high marble poles, their resplendent green fabric stirring faintly in the cold morning breeze. A wooden platform had been erected at the centre—sturdy, ominous, and bare save for the thick ropes hanging from its beam.
The guilty noblemen were led forward in chains, their wrists bound behind their backs, their heads bowed under the weight of humiliation. Their silk robes were torn and stained with dirt from the harsh treatments during their apprehension, and the glimmer of their family crests had been scraped off by order of the emperor himself. Soldiers flanked them on both sides, iron spears glinting in the pale sunlight.
The crowd gathered in silence—servants, citizens, and nobles alike. A barrier of gilded chains marked the line that separated the condemned from their families. The air smelled of sweat, fear, and iron.
Among the gathered was Albert Ziloman, his face pale and his hands trembling. He had refused to believe the rumours that had spread like wildfire through the city—that his father, Nobleman Withlo Ziloman, one of the most respected men in the region, had been arrested for treason and corruption.
But now, as he stood there, seeing his father dragged forward like a criminal, he felt the truth cut through him like a blade.
When one of the soldiers struck his father across the face for daring to speak, Albert snapped.
"Stop that!" he shouted, rushing forward. But before he could take two steps, two guards seized him, shoving him back behind the demarcation line.
"Stay where you are!" one of them barked, holding him firm as Albert struggled.
"Let me go! That's my father!" he cried. But his words drowned in the rising murmur of the crowd.
When order was finally restored, a deep voice resonated through the square.
The emperor had risen.
Emperor Josh Aratat, draped in gold-trimmed robes and bearing the leafy green imperial insignia of the Nazare Blade Empire, stood upon the dais, flanked by imperial guards. His gaze was cold and sharp—like polished obsidian—and when he spoke, even the wind seemed to become eerily quiet.
"A few hours ago," the emperor began, his voice echoing across the courtyard, "our most credible official, Inspector Granero, carried out a thorough investigation into the records, finances, and laws of this region."
The gathered nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
"Upon inspection," the emperor continued, "it was discovered that there were… discrepancies—grave misappropriation of imperial funds. These men who stand before you," he gestured toward the trembling nobles, "are the guilty parties."
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
"But it did not end there." His tone darkened. "They went as far as hiring assassins to silence the inspector himself. What they did not know was that Inspector Granero acted under my direct command, and soldiers—both seen and unseen—guarded him."
The emperor's lips curled faintly, not quite a smile. "Thus, their own treachery betrayed them. They were caught in the act."
A few of the bound nobles fell to their knees, begging, but the soldiers silenced them with the butts of their spears.
"By the law of the empire," the emperor declared, his voice rising like thunder, "any nobleman guilty of embezzlement or corruption shall face imprisonment. But these—" his eyes narrowed, "—these dared to bribe and assault my inspector. They even had the audacity to say I, the emperor, would understand and condone their crimes."
A dark silence followed.
"I, Emperor Josh Aratat of the Nazare Blade Empire, therefore sentence each and every one of you to death by hanging."
The words dropped like a hammer.
The crowd erupted. Shouts, sobs, curses—everything clashed in a wave of noise. Women screamed; men fell to their knees. Some nobles turned pale, clutching their hearts.
Even Governor Raphael MacNelly who was standing at the emperor's right, trembled beneath his robes. He had seen the emperor's wrath before, but never this swift, never this cold.
"You have a few minutes," the emperor said finally, his tone now almost merciful, "to speak to your families. After that, judgment will be carried out."
The soldiers stepped back, allowing the condemned men to face their kin. The air was thick with grief and disbelief. Albert could no longer hold back his tears as his father looked up, bruised and broken, yet still managing a faint, apologetic smile.
The square, moments ago filled with whispers of power and privilege, now stood as the graveyard of the noble name.
"Father, I will rescue you and stop this!" Albert's voice broke as he shouted, struggling against the soldiers restraining him. "The emperor has no right… You didn't steal… did you? Father—did you?"
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Nobleman Withlo Ziloman lifted his face, bruised and weary. His once-regal eyes—those same calm, steady eyes that had guided Albert since childhood—now seemed to carry a sorrow deeper than words. He did not answer. He only looked at his son, lips trembling as though words were forming but could not bear to leave his tongue.
And in that silence, Albert felt his heart begin to cave in.
He tried not to believe the guilt he saw reflected there. Tried to convince himself that it was shame, or fear, or exhaustion—but deep down, his instincts screamed otherwise. Something inside him, something sharp and fragile, began to splinter.
He was only fourteen. Fourteen—and already being hailed as a prodigy, a rising star at the regional Martial Art Academy, where boys twice his age envied his speed and precision. Masters spoke of him with reverence. Other students whispered his name like a promise.
He was supposed to stand proudly in the coming duel against the kids of the Oradonian Order of Mages, a battle that could crown him among the legendary youths of his generation. Victory there would have sealed his name into history books—Albert Ziloman, son of Nobleman Withlo, heir to honour and strength.
But now… now that name felt like poison on his tongue.
The sight of his father in chains had turned that promise of greatness into ash. The murmurs among the crowd were already beginning—the subtle shifting of eyes, the cruel curve of lips that whispered things he could not bear to hear.
"Ziloman's boy…"
"The son of a thief…"
"So much for honour…"
He wanted to scream at them all—to tear the ropes off his father and demand proof of innocence—but the truth had already planted its seed in his heart. Even if his father had meant well, even if the theft had been for some higher reason, the stain would not wash away.
He could already see it—the way his fellow students would look at him differently. The way the academy's whispers would grow into laughter. The way the very thing he had built—his pride, his future—would crumble under the shadow of his father's disgrace.
Albert's knees weakened. His throat burned with words he couldn't speak.
He clenched his fists until his nails bit through skin, until warm blood slicked his palms.
This wasn't just a death sentence for his father. It was a death sentence for him as well. For his dreams. For everything the name— Ziloman once stood for.
And as he looked up again, his father was still watching him—eyes full of guilt, love, and a silent plea for forgiveness.
Albert didn't know if he could ever give it.