The courtroom of the Opera Epiclese shimmered with majesty, alive with hushed tension.
The domed ceiling arched high above in a cascade of polished ivory and gold-leaf trim, refracting sunlight through glass mosaics depicting historic trials. Every detail spoke of the sanctity of justice and Fontaine's obsession with elegance—gilded paneling along the walls, fountains humming in quiet harmony, steam-powered chandeliers hanging like crystalline stars.
Kyle Claudius sat among the crowd in one of the upper observation tiers, legs crossed, elbow propped on the curved railing before him. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the judicial floor and the ornate podium where the presiding judge would soon stand. His black tuxedo clung perfectly to his frame—streamlined, confident, dangerous in the way only well-dressed men could be.
Yet his attention wasn't at the grand surroundings but at the translucent screen following him, which apparently only he could see.
His heart gave a sharp jolt, thudding against his ribs like a drumbeat of fate. For a week, he'd lived in Teyvat as a stranger—adopted by the world yet rootless within it. No Vision. No divine power. Just the clothes on his back and the too-perfect luck of being found and cared for by Charlotte, the bubbly Fontainean reporter who had not only saved his skin, but gotten him this very job at the Steambird.
But now, here it was.
[Sign in at a place of historic significance to activate system functions and unlock one round of simulation.]
Kyle's gaze swept the chamber. Beneath the gilded surface and ceremonial decor, the Opera Epiclese throbbed with gravitas. This wasn't just a courthouse. This was the symbolic heart of Fontaine's justice—the crucible of truth where mortals could challenge the divine itself.
If that wasn't a historic location, nothing was.
Slowly, he inhaled.
Then he tapped the shimmering [Sign In] prompt floating in front of him.
[Beep~ Sign-In Complete.]
[Location: Opera Epiclese.]
[Number of Simulations Available: 1.]
The moment he confirmed, a fresh screen opened before him, cool blue lines forming delicate frames like a storybook unfolding in real time.
[Welcome, Host Kyle Claudius.]
[Life Simulation System Activated.]
[System allows the host to simulate living an alternate life.]
[The host may select up to 4 talents from randomized options at the start of each simulation.]
[Performance is evaluated at the end. Exceptional performance yields real-world rewards.]
Kyle's lips parted slightly as he read the scrolling text. His pulse quickened.
This was it. The isekai dream—finally real.
Something like a laugh escaped him. Quiet. Disbelieving. A little wild.
He glanced at his palm, then clenched it into a fist.
"In a world of gods, where power rules all" he muttered under his breath, "being powerless is the only unforgivable sin."
He looked back at the interface, ready to speak the command that would begin his first simulation, when—
"—And so, we begin the proceedings of the case of Lord Armand du Beauchamp."
The voice thundered across the chamber like a bell toll. Kyle blinked, yanked back into reality.
He looked up sharply.
Standing at the ornate judge's podium was an older man in white judicial robes, his silver hair tied back in a ribbon, his eyes like chiseled marble. The audience fell silent as he continued.
"Lord Armand stands accused of embezzling public funds—funds meant for the reconstruction of Fontaine's western orphanage district following last year's flood. A grievous betrayal of civic trust."
A low murmur rippled through the room. Kyle turned his attention to the accused—Lord Armand, a man in his late forties with perfectly trimmed facial hair, dressed in somber navy blue. His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers drummed anxiously on the bench before him.
At that moment, Kyle's journalistic instincts kicked in. The courtroom, the players, the stakes—this was more than just spectacle. This was the perfect front-page story, the kind Charlotte herself would kill to cover if she weren't tied up editing his first draft later today.
Charlotte.
His thoughts flicked to her in the brief silence between the judge's words. Her sleepy smile that morning, the soft kisses she peppered his face with, her curls pressed against his shoulder, the scent of lilac and ink always clinging to her skin. She was the reason he had a home here. The reason he had a name in the Steambird. The reason, perhaps, this world hadn't crushed him at birth.
He remembered her teasing voice that morning—"Try not to loose your job on your first assignment, kay~?"—as she shoved a packed lunch into his hand, then stole a quick kiss from his lips.
Kyle smirked.
Yeah. He owed her big time.
Back in the courtroom, the trial surged forward. The prosecutor stood now, presenting documents, records, letters sealed in official wax. Armand's defense team scrambled to offer rebuttals, but the weight of the evidence was clearly shifting.
And up above, watching everything from a crystal-inlaid balcony, sat the Hydro Archon herself.
Furina.
She was more striking in person than any newspaper photo had ever conveyed, even the game or any artwork from his original world—slender and glowing like a porcelain doll, her long silver hair cascading in waves behind her, eyes like twin sapphires veiled in rain. She sat with her legs elegantly crossed, teacup in hand, flanked by the fearsome presence of Clorinde.
But her expression was far from composed. She was restless. Distant. Theatric and fidgety.
Kyle narrowed his eyes.
He knew that look. Boredom masking something else—something raw.
Then she said it, of course he couldn't hear her but he could read lips right?
"So boring," Furina sighed, tracing her finger along the rim of her cup. "The money trail alone is enough to convict him, don't you think, Clorinde?"
Clorinde's response was a calm, practiced murmur. "Yes, Miss Furina. The outcome of this trial has been clear from the start."
Furina set her teacup down with a soft clink, her gaze trailing downward toward the court floor. "Is this the only trial today?"
"Yes, Miss Furina."
"Hmph." She exhaled, turning her eyes to the stained-glass dome. "Then take me to the usual place afterward."
There was a hesitation in Clorinde's tone now. "Miss Furina… If I may speak freely…"
Furina's eyes darkened.
"You may not."
That one sentence silenced even the wind in the rafters.
Clorinde bowed. "Forgive me."
But Kyle had seen it. Just for a moment—just a flicker—Furina's mask had cracked. Her fingers trembled as she lifted her cup again. A single tear glistened at the edge of her lashes, quickly wiped away.
Kyle sat back in his chair, silent and unreadable.
Of course he knew what the archon was going through, but could he really do something in his current state? Of course not, but this system left him room to maneuver in the future.
The trial pressed on.
By the time the first recess was called, Kyle's notebook was brimming with scribbles—witness statements, emotional quotes, courtroom atmosphere. He was already thinking of the opening lines for the article. Maybe something like:
"When power steals from the powerless, who will judge the judge?"
He'd polish it later.
The trial didn't last too long, Armand-Lord not anymore, his defence was flimsy at best and ruthlessly struck down, he hadn't invested in a good lawyer or there was no case to be made in the first place anyways.
Kyle wrote the proceedings down elegantly adding his own observations on the case.
The final echo of judgment rang through the Opera Epiclese like a bell toll marking the end of an era.
"The Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale has rendered the final verdict," Neuvillette declared, his voice calm yet weighty, filled with the absolute authority of law. "Kindly escort the convict out. This court is dismissed."
A beat of silence passed — taut, reverent — before movement resumed.
The ornate courtroom stirred back to life as uniformed guards, their navy-and-gold capes swaying with precision, approached Lord Armand. The disgraced nobleman stood frozen for a moment before the subtle tightening of his jaw gave him away. He offered no resistance, only a bitter glance toward the gallery as he was led out.
Around Kyle, the crowd reacted in soft waves — hushed whispers, the rustle of silk gloves, murmured judgments passed in private tones. There was no outrage. No surprise. Only the quiet satisfaction of justice fulfilled.
Kyle closed his notebook with a firm snap. The final sentence had dried. His handwriting, neat and efficient, captured the unfolding of events with a practiced edge. Armand's downfall had been swift, thorough — almost theatrical.
He slipped the parchment into his satchel, stood, and rolled his shoulders. The stiffness in his spine reminded him just how long he'd sat without moving, absorbed not just in the trial, but in something far deeper — something brewing quietly beneath the surface of the day.
As he turned to leave, but something stopped him.