Shen Yan opened his eyes and found himself standing at the center of a vast, haunting courtroom.
The ceiling arched high above, from which twelve obsidian chandeliers hung silently. Along the walls, blurred paintings stared down — half ghost, half judge — as if memories were watching from another world. Every step echoed with a heavy, eerie resonance, like judgment tapping against the bones of his soul.
[System Notice]
> "Current Trial: Court of the Innocents."
"This is a morality-based dungeon — no combat, only judgment.
Rules are as follows:
You face 12 defendants.
All are currently 'innocent'.
However, one of them is predicted to commit a grave crime in the future (probability: 89.4%).
You have only one vote:
[Execute one person] (the rest survive)
OR
[Refuse execution] (the other 11 will be terminated at countdown's end).
You cannot see the future crime.
If you refuse to vote, the system will choose for you.
Your decision is final and irreversible."
Shen Yan drew in a sharp breath. His throat was dry.
This was not a combat scenario. It was something far more terrifying — a decision-based dungeon.
If this had been a tactical mission, he might have analyzed each person's expression, posture, words — deduced the threat. But here, no evidence existed. No action to observe. Only choices. Only risk.
Twelve spotlights fell from above, illuminating a circular stand at the far end of the room. Bound by chains, twelve people sat — some crying silently, some expressionless, others sneering or whispering prayers.
They all looked… innocent.
[Countdown: 3 hours]
"How am I supposed to choose?" Shen Yan murmured, staring at them. "By instinct? Or… by refusing to play the game?"
Then, a voice echoed in his head — not from the system, but from a memory:
> "Never trust what you see.
Humans are the best actors."
His father's voice.
A police officer who'd been framed, imprisoned, and died alone behind bars — still muttering about the lies that people wear like masks.
Shen Yan straightened. He looked at the twelve defendants, not as strangers, but as puzzles the world had thrown at him. This was no longer just about who might commit a crime.
It was a question that asked, in the cruelest way possible:
What does justice mean — if it demands blood before a crime is ever born?