"Based on the weight of the evidence and witness testimony, the court found Aren Donovan guilty. This court finds that the prosecution has established the defendant's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The crimes committed by Aren Donovan fall under Section 7, Articles 4 and 5 of the Mohen Laws—, the crimes of bloodline-based treason and mass murder."
Serena paused, the silence of the courtroom amplifying her absolute authority.
"After processing all witness statements, investigative reports, and physical evidence into the court archives, the court sentenced the defendant, Aren Donovan, to IMFA Maximum Security Prison. Under Section 11, Clause 3 of the Constitution, the duration and conditions of this sentence shall be subject to the prison's special disciplinary and surveillance protocols. The judges impose a life imprisonment sentence on the defendant.
Serena's voice echoed through the hall—cold yet melodic—and the sharp strike of her gavel brought the trial to a close.
The gallery erupted. A wave of whispers rose from the spectators like a gathering storm.
"So, his own son was his downfall. How pathetic."
"He should have disposed of that boy from the start; he never even tried to hide his vile nature." "People like him are a stain on our Holy Kingdom."
"They should have exiled him to Bone City years ago."
"Doesn't his sister carry the same blood?"
"What if she turns out just like him?"
"Nonsense. Everyone knows Lady Amy is talented and of noble character."
"They are as different as night and day—don't you dare lump them together!"
"Do you have any last words?"
Serena Winter delivered the prompt, granting Aren the floor. Aren rose to his feet, making no effort to mask the mockery dancing in his eyes.
From the very beginning, fate dealt him a losing hand. He had possessed the body of the most reviled character in a novel, trapped in the worst possible circumstances.
Since the moment he had opened his eyes in this world, he hadn't seen a single ray of sunlight. He had endured agonies that no man should suffer in a lifetime.
Anyone else would have succumbed to madness long ago.
Aren searched for the reason this had happened to him, but the void offered no answer.
Now, he had to choose between two terrible options: shoulder these false accusations and submit to the hell of IMFA... or do something far more drastic.
Or, he could gamble on a desperate alternative—one that offered escape, even if it meant living forever under a shroud of suspicion.
Aren took a deep breath and met Serena Winter's gaze with unnerving steadiness.
"I do, Your Honor," he said.
The spectators leaned forward as one, breathless, waiting for the words to fall from his lips. Some expected a pathetic plea for mercy.
Others hoped for a shameless outburst that would only deepen his humiliation.
What he said, however, was a phrase no one had anticipated.
"I demand a Divine Trial."
A heavy silence broke into an immediate uproar.
"What?"
"A Divine Trial?"
"Has he truly lost his mind?"
The courtroom descended into absolute chaos. Shock, morbid curiosity, and looks of sheer disbelief rippled through the gallery.
The reaction was only natural; requesting a Divine Trial—a rite that had not been invoked for over a century—was synonymous with grasping a double-edged blade.
The Divine Trial was a relic of an older age, reserved for cases where the truth remained hidden behind a veil of doubt.
The procedure was deceptively simple, yet utterly barbaric: the accused must plunge a holy sword directly into their own heart.
If the person were innocent, the blade would pass through flesh and spirit without leaving a mark.
But if they were guilty, the steel would shatter the heart, leaving the condemned to die in screaming agony.
There was, however, a fatal flaw in the ritual's legend. The sword's judgment was no longer viewed as absolute.
Thirty years ago, a Nyx razed an entire city to the ground and sowed the seeds of doubt.
Thousands had witnessed the massacre, yet when brought to justice, Nyx had demanded a Divine Trial.
The public had watched with bated breath, eager to see the killer's heart shredded by holy light. Instead, the sword had remained cold and harmless, sparing the monster.
The verdict had sent shockwaves through the kingdom. Aren remembered the history clearly: that Nyx had not only walked free but had continued their service as if nothing had happened.
This was the source of Aren's hesitation. Even if the sword spared him, the shadow of that ancient scandal would follow him.
People would never truly believe in his innocence; they would only see a man who had somehow tricked the heavens.
But with the evidence stacked against him and the sole survivor, Eli Bryne, pointing a finger at his throat, Aren had run out of paths. To survive, he had to offer up his heart.
Aren's instincts screamed a warning: if he remained trapped within these walls, his life was forfeit. Freedom was his only priority, even if it came at the cost of a reputation forever shrouded in doubt.
"A Divine Trial?"
The staff in Serena Winter's hand trembled—a movement so slight it was nearly imperceptible.
Impossible, she thought. Is this boy choosing suicide, or is he gambling on a secret I don't know?
Though she fought to maintain her frigid composure, the frantic rhythm of her heart betrayed her.
Thirty years ago, she had been a member of the inner council that orchestrated the "Holy Sword" deception.
If Aren somehow knew the mechanics of that fraud—or the rot that lay at the heart of the Kingdom's history—it would not only spell Serena's ruin but trigger the total collapse of the royal justice system.
No, Serena thought, forcing herself to look away from Aren's mocking eyes.
There is no way he could know. These are merely the final thrashings of a cornered rat. He is simply choosing a quick death over a slow one in prison.
"Yes, Your Honor," Aren reaffirmed.