"Albert… my boy…"
The nobleman's voice cracked. His shoulders trembled as tears streaked down his dirt-stained cheeks. "Please… forgive me!"
Albert's heart wrenched. He had thought he could endure it—that he could hold his composure until the end—but the sight of his father weeping like a broken man shattered every wall of restraint. His lips quivered, and before he knew it, tears came spilling down his face.
"Father…" His voice broke like glass. "No… no, you can't—don't say things like that! I'll save you—I'll talk to the emperor—please, just hold on!"
Withlo Ziloman shook his head slowly, his hands trembling where the chains bit into his wrists. "No, my son," he said, his voice hoarse but steady now, heavy with the calm of a man who had accepted death. "Don't waste your breath on what can't be changed."
He raised his eyes—those weary, remorseful eyes—to meet Albert's. "Listen to me, Albert. Don't forget to protect your mother… promise me."
Albert's tears blurred his vision. He nodded helplessly, clutching at the iron rail that separated them.
"I want you to grow up and be powerful," his father continued, his tone gaining strength with each word. "Only the powerful can make laws… only the powerful can rule unimpeded… only the powerful matter in this world…"
The words struck deep, echoing in Albert's soul like the toll of a great bell—half a blessing, half a curse.
But before he could respond, a soldier stepped forward, his face a mask of disgust. "Silence!" he barked. "You dare speak treason before the emperor?"
Albert's heart froze. "Wait—no!"
The soldier slammed the butt of his spear into Withlo Ziloman's temple. The sound was sickening—a dull, heavy thud that echoed through the courtyard. The nobleman staggered, blood trickling down the side of his face. Before Albert could even scream, two more guards seized his farher and dragged him toward the execution platform.
"No! Don't touch him!" Albert cried, thrashing wildly as he tried to break free, but the soldiers held him back, forcing him down onto his knees.
The other condemned nobles were pushed forward as well, stumbling under the weight of chains. They were herded up the wooden stairs one by one, their heads forced into the noose's loop. The thick rope scratched against their necks, creaking as it tightened.
The square fell into a dreadful silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The only sound was the shuffling of boots and the faint sobs of families who knew there would be no mercy.
From his high dais, Emperor Josh Aratat stood unmoved. His golden cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, his expression calm—almost serene—as though what was about to happen was not the ending of men, but the cleansing of corruption itself.
"This," the emperor said, his voice cold and commanding, "shall serve as a warning—to all nobles, to all governors, to all who hold power. Use your authority for the good of the people, not for greed."
He paused, glancing at the bound men who trembled at the edge of death. "Execute them."
He exhaled, almost as if weary of repeating himself. "Let justice speak."
The executioners kicked away the stools.
The sound of falling wood and snapping rope echoed like thunder.
The nobles dropped. The crowd gasped as their bodies jerked violently in unison, legs thrashing, boots scraping against the wooden platform as they struggled for air. The ropes groaned under the weight, swaying slightly.
Albert screamed, his voice raw and ragged. "Father!"
Withlo's body twitched once, twice… then went still. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, his final expression somewhere between pain and peace.
A terrible silence followed.
People looked on—some with pity, some with fear. No one dared to speak. The lesson was clear: even the noblest blood could be spilled without hesitation if it stained the empire's honour.
And as the emperor turned and walked away, the sun broke through the clouds, spilling golden light upon the bodies that now hung motionless in the square.
Albert knelt, shaking uncontrollably, his tears falling into the dust. The echoes of his father's words repeated in his mind—
Only the powerful can make laws… only the powerful matter.
In that moment, something inside the boy began to change.
A few hours later, the sun stood high above the Imperial arena, but its light felt strangely dim. The banners of both schools fluttered in the wind, bright and colourful, yet the air carried no joy—only unease.
It was supposed to be the grand day—the Zenith of the Inter-School Martial Tournament, where the best five students of the Imperial Martial Arts Academy would clash with the five prodigies of the Oradonian Order of Mages. Every seat in the grandstands was filled, but the usual noise—the laughter, the cheers, the wagers shouted across the stands—was gone. The crowd watched in silence, as though afraid that a single loud breath might invite doom.
Even the announcers spoke softly, their voices reverberating weakly through the enchanted horns.
It wasn't excitement that filled the air anymore—it was fear.
Everyone still remembered what had happened at dawn. Ten noblemen, ten powerful names, hanged before the eyes of the empire. The memory was still raw; the smell of burnt rope and death seemed to cling to the air.
No one could stop whispering about it.
"Did you see their faces before the drop?"
"They said the emperor didn't even flinch…"
"And that Inspector Granero—by the gods, the man's untouchable now."
The name Granero had become something more than a name. It was a warning—a phantom of authority. Every official, every guard, even the nobles now spoke it with caution. His shadow seemed to stretch across the empire that morning, cold and wide.
At the governor's stand, Governor Raphael MacNelly sat rigid in his seat, his face pale and drawn. He hadn't slept since the execution. Every word from the emperor replayed in his mind like a curse: "Use your positions for the good of your people…"
He was the governor of the region where the crimes had occurred—the one who had allowed corruption to grow beneath his very nose. Though the emperor hadn't named him, Governor Raphael MacNelly knew his reprieve was only temporary.
He sat there, hands trembling under his robes, his eyes darting occasionally toward Inspector Granero, who stood calmly beside the imperial guards at the edge of the platform. Granero's face was as unreadable as stone, his eyes scanning the arena with quiet vigilance. To the governor, his very presence was suffocating.
He didn't know if the emperor would still punish him later—he couldn't tell what the emperor ever truly thought—but guilt gnawed at him like a slow poison. He had failed to govern, failed to foresee the rot that spread through his region.
And now, ten noblemen hung from the judgement gallows because of it.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to look down at the arena, where the competitors stood in two neat rows.
The five students of the Martial Arts Academy—among them Albert Ziloman, his face pale but defiant—stood opposite the five mages of the Oradonian Order, their resplendent robes fluttering faintly in the breeze.
For Albert, the arena that once felt like home now felt like a graveyard. He could still hear the creak of the ropes from dawn, still see his father's lifeless face. His hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
He shouldn't have been there. By all rights, he should have withdrawn. But when his name was called, he stepped forward anyway. Perhaps out of defiance. Perhaps because part of him needed to prove that the name Ziloman wouldn't vanish in shame.
Yet, even as he stood there, he could feel the eyes of the crowd—heavy, judging, whispering. The son of a traitor. The boy whose father was hanged by imperial order.
Across the field, the mages of the Oradonian Order looked at the academy students with quiet superiority, their staffs glowing faintly with restrained magic. They had heard the rumours too, and though they didn't mock, their smirks said enough.
A bell rang through the arena.
The competition would continue.
But the laughter and thunderous cheers that usually filled the air were gone. What echoed instead was a heavy, unspoken truth: that power in the empire could lift one to greatness—or crush them before the world's eyes in a single dawn.
And Albert Ziloman stood at the crossroads of both.