Chapter 350 – Luton Journal
Yet the people’s fury had not yet faded. A single Marquis’s head was not enough to satisfy their long-suppressed oppression. The frenzied celebration raged on, flames of rage still blazing. The crowd roared, shouting in wild, unrelenting cheers.
“Death Sentence! Death Sentence!”
The civilians were utterly incensed. Once, those haughty, untouchable figures of power—those who had once looked down upon the common folk with disdain—now had their fates in the people’s hands. At least, in form.
“Dawn Sharaf—guilty of premeditated murder, inciting war, and seizing power!”
“Flore Carson—sentenced!”
“Giovannio Wald—death sentence!”
One by one, the familiar, noble surnames—once symbols of privilege and authority—were proclaimed aloud by the Tiefling guards, echoing through the square. Each Noble dragged before the guillotine, the sharp thwack of the blade severing flesh ringing out again and again. With every fall of steel, the crowd erupted in even more fervent cheers.
The wooden high platform, once pristine, had been stained crimson. A slow, creeping river of blood trickled from its edge, winding its way down toward the feet of the onlookers.
Viscount Luton was chained to the prisoner column, trembling violently with fear.
“Gods above…”
“How could this happen?”
“Are they trying to slaughter every Noble in the Northern Regions?”
Staring at the elderly Noble strapped to the guillotine atop the platform, Viscount Luton’s face drained of color. He knew that man. That was Baron Askin Garret—renowned general of the Bosk Duchy, his own uncle by blood.
Once, the past Baron had ridden across battlefields like a storm, earning the respect of nobles through courage on horseback. Luton himself had once written a passionate poem in his honor—The Song of the General’s Triumph.
Now, that same warrior stood like a lamb awaiting slaughter, neck outstretched.
Clack!
The blade fell again, sharp and clean.
Viscount Luton instinctively flinched, shrinking back as if the axe had struck him.
Suddenly, he felt a warm splash against his neck.
He touched it—his fingers came away slick with blood. Fresh. Still warm.
But the horror was far from over.
Gurgle… gurgle…
The bloodied head rolled from the platform, landing just in front of him. The lifeless, wide-eyed stare of the dead man locked onto his own.
“B- Baron Askin…!”
Luton screamed, his throat tightening with nausea. He nearly vomited.
Gag!
But before he could bend forward, the Tiefling Guard behind him seized him roughly, pinning his arms and forcing him upright.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t even think about it!”
The cry of “Death Sentence!” thundered once more—so loud it seemed to shake the very sky.
The roar of the crowd, the guards’ shouts, the rhythmic thud of the blade—layered together, a cacophony that pounded in Luton’s ears.
The world spun. His head throbbed. A piercing whine filled his skull, then silence. The world before him turned blood-red.
The frenzied faces around him—shouting, cheering—seemed like demons summoned from the Abyss.
“Mad… they’re all mad.”
“Everyone’s gone insane.”
Luton’s face was ashen. His eyes hollow. Cold sweat dripped from his brow. His lips trembled.
Memories flashed before his mind—grand banquets, orderly ranks of soldiers, elegant dances, finely bound books.
That had been his life.
This—this was not the world he was meant to live in. The Northern Regions should have been a paradise for nobles like him.
What had happened to this world?
How could commoners dare to rebel?
Why had the once-submissive civilians gone mad?
“This world… is beyond saving.”
That was his final thought before blackness swallowed him whole.
The Tiefling Guards chuckled.
“He fainted!”
“No surprise—soft meat from the Northern Regions!”
“Hah, I’ve seen plenty like him. Last time, one actually screamed himself into a coma.”
“Tch. Useless trash.”
“This is like a dream.”
“Never thought we’d decide the fate of Nobles like this.”
“He actually paid me! I got three gold coins!”
“I finally got revenge for my wife and daughter.”
As the crowd spilled out from the packed square, their voices buzzed with excitement. Their gaunt faces still flushed with euphoria.
The public trial had lasted from morning until dusk, progressing from the highest-ranking to the lowest. The very arrogance that once defined the Northern Nobles—their supremacy, their sense of invincibility—had now become their death warrant.
These nobles, in their positions of power, had all, in one way or another, oppressed commoners. Or perhaps it was simply their habit—something so ingrained they’d never truly seen common folk as equals.
Now, when the people’s rage was lit, their reckoning was inevitable.
One day.
Twenty-seven Nobles had their heads severed. The most prominent among them? Marquis Horalen. The lowest? Baron of the Bosk Duchy.
The vast treasures they had stolen—gold, jewels, relics—were seized from their manors. A portion was distributed to the victims, fueling the people’s sense of justice.
The Kingdom’s divide-and-conquer strategy had succeeded.
It was an open, deliberate plan—designed to drive a wedge between civilians and nobility.
After this public trial, those who had participated in the judgment, who had tasted blood and reaped rewards, were now irrevocably bound to the chariot of the Kingdom of Ashen.
For their hands were now stained with the blood of Northern Nobles. If the old nobility ever regained power, their punishment would be swift, brutal, and merciless.
There was no turning back. They had no choice but to accept the Kingdom’s rule.
And strangely—though the rumors spoke of a tyrannical Evil Dragon—his rule, at least for the common folk, was not as merciless as feared.
Many lower-ranking Nobles escaped execution. Among them—Viscount Luton.
They were temporarily imprisoned in the old Bosk Duchy prison, awaiting their own judgment.
> “Third Era, Year 1785, November 3. I will never forget this day. It is branded into my soul.
> That one day—the world turned crimson.
> I have never seen so many noble lords die before my eyes. A day ago, they were my beloved elders, my revered mentors. Now, they are headless corpses.
> This was not justice. It was a merciless massacre—orchestrated against the Northern Nobles. The Evil Dragon and his kingdom shamelessly incited our people, inflamed their emotions—turned them into true monsters.
> —From the Journal of Luton Sieg”
(End of Chapter)
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