Translated Chapter
349. Guillotine
The murmurs and heated debates among the crowd continued, but under the millennia-old authority of the Bosk Family, no one dared to step forward. Meizhuolashi scanned the assembly—faces etched with fear, shock, and dread—his pure black eyes narrowing slightly.
"Everyone," he said calmly, "this is a Royal Public Trial. You are free to speak, to accuse, to exercise your rights. Let there be no fear."
A sudden, hollow laugh echoed from the high platform.
Horace Bosk, silent until now, slowly lifted his head. His face, scarred and streaked with blood, twisted into a cruel, triumphant grin.
"Evil Dragon followers," he sneered, "your treachery will never succeed. Stravburg will always belong to the Bosk Family. The Blood of the Lion will never bow!"
"I am Horace Bosk, eldest son of Duke Leo. No one—except my father—has the right to judge me!"
Spitting a glob of blood-stained saliva toward Meizhuolashi, he bellowed curses with reckless abandon, as if he had already accepted his fate.
"You're begging for death, aren't you?" Meizhuolashi wiped the blood from his cheek, his expression utterly calm—no anger, no irritation. Only stillness.
"You want to die like a hero in some old legend, falling in battle against rebellion, remembered forever in song and tale."
"Too bad," he said softly, shaking his head, "I won’t grant you that wish."
He stepped slowly toward Horace, his voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper—like the voice of a demon.
"Let me tell you what will happen instead. You will be judged by the people. You will be nailed to the Pillory of Shame in history. A laughingstock in your own family's annals. And the beginning of the end for the Northern Nobility."
Horace strained to raise his head, his teeth clenched in fury as he glared at the Tiefling.
"You're delusional!" he spat. "The unyielding Scandians will never believe your lies!"
Meizhuolashi’s lips curled into a cold smirk.
"Is that truly how it is?"
Turning sharply, he drew his longsword and raised it high into the sunlight.
"I, Duke of the Ashen Flame Kingdom, swear before you all: anyone who participates in this Public Trial and brings forth a truthful accusation will face no consequences afterward!"
His voice grew passionate, then paused—just for a heartbeat.
"And you have a chance. Under Kingdom Law, you may claim a portion of the estate belonging to this man—Horace Bosk, Marquis of the Northern Regions."
The crowd erupted.
This was the wealth of a Northern Marquis—the eldest son of Duke Leo! Countless estates, mines, and lands. And within the Marquis’s residence alone, the treasure of gold coins was said to be beyond imagining for common folk.
In the face of such temptation, even noble power seemed insignificant.
Among the throng, hands began to rise. Eyes gleamed with greed and vengeance. The moment had come to gamble everything.
"Vile!"
"You’re inciting rebellion!"
"Shameless!"
Bound to the wooden stake, Horace screamed, his voice raw and desperate. But Meizhuolashi didn’t even glance his way.
"Great Lord!"
"I—I have charges to bring!"
A trembling voice broke through the chaos.
All eyes turned. A plain-faced middle-aged man stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands twisted together, sweat glistening on his ashen face. His lips were pale, but his eyes burned with hatred.
"What is your name?" Meizhuolashi asked, his tone suddenly bright with interest.
"Rulun Pierce," the man stammered. "Merchant from the eastern district."
"Speak."
Rulun took a shuddering breath. "Horace Bosk—no, Marquis Horace Bosk—came with soldiers under the name of the 'Great Taxation,' seizing every coin, every grain, every scrap of food from my shop!"
"He took my wife and daughter," he continued, his voice rising, "on the false charge of disrespecting a Noble!"
"At first, I thought they were in prison. I spent everything—begged, borrowed, sold everything I had—just to get them back."
Then, in the outskirts, among the army camp, I found their bodies.
They were dead. They had been tortured to death."
His voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.
In a final, desperate act, he scooped up a handful of filthy snow and mud from the ground and hurled it with all his strength at the high platform.
Thwack!
Horace was drenched in muck—his face a grotesque mess, his dignity shattered. No trace of noble bearing remained.
"Lies!" he shrieked, hair wild, voice trembling with rage. "This is a naked slander! That scum took gold from the Evil Dragon!"
But his fury was drowned out by the storm of voices below.
The nightmare had only just begun.
Though the Bosk Duchy had long been known for its disciplined order—superior even to other Northern States—during the infamous "Great Taxation," countless atrocities had occurred. After all, soldiers in this age rarely cared for justice.
As Rulun’s story unfolded, the crowd fell silent, then sighed, some weeping openly. Others were ignited with fury.
And now, with Rulun as the first to speak—bold, defiant—the rest felt free to follow.
One by one, the voices rose.
"I have charges to bring!"
"I too!"
"His knights destroyed my home!"
"They murdered my mother!"
"They stole our winter grain—and my son starved to death!"
Good and evil, Dragon and Noble—none of it mattered now.
All that mattered was release. Catharsis.
In the heat of the Public Trial, the people screamed their long-suppressed grievances, their past silences finally shattered.
Trelshka and Horace had been the two main architects of the "Great Taxation." To prove their loyalty to Duke Leo, they had led raids themselves—storming villages, seizing food, forcing military contributions.
Now, Trelsh was dead. Horace Bosk stood alone—targeted, exposed.
The crowd was in a frenzy. Mud, branches, stones rained down from the crowd, pelting the high platform, striking the Marquis again and again.
"No!"
"You rabble! Traitors!"
"Without the Bosk Family, how could you have survived until now?!"
But their cries were drowned beneath a tidal wave of rage.
Horace, bound to the stake, was a broken man—wounded, filthy, his face a mask of blood and agony. The lion’s blood he boasted of was nowhere to be seen.
To the people, he was no different than any other criminal.
Finally, Meizhuolashi raised his voice.
"By the People’s Public Trial of Stravburg, Horace Bosk has been found guilty of murder, corruption, robbery, and countless other crimes."
"As a representative of the Evil Northern Regime, his crimes are grave, his attitude abhorrent. Multiple charges, combined."
He paused—deliberately, dramatically—letting the silence build.
"Death Sentence! Death Sentence!"
The crowd roared.
Only when the sea of voices had reached a crescendo did he utter the final two words:
"Death Sentence."
Tiefling guards stepped forward, lifting the cloth from the guillotine. They dragged Horace toward it.
He thrashed and screamed, face twisted in rage.
"No! No!"
"You scum! You have no right to judge me!"
"Traitors! All of you are traitors!"
But his resistance was futile. The Tiefling guards held him firm.
Even as he was forced onto the execution platform, he strained to speak.
"I am the eldest son of—"
Crack!
The blade fell.
A sharp, clean sound.
Then the gleaming, blood-stained blade, the spray of crimson, and the deafening roar of the crowd—cheers, screams, triumph.
Under the kingdom’s careful orchestration, the people of Stravburg had torn down the arrogant supremacy of the Northern Nobility with their own hands.
Tik-tik… tik-tik…
The guillotine’s angled blade was lifted once more. Crimson droplets slid slowly down its edge, each one glinting in the sunlight.
The blade shone—sharp, merciless, like a spine of ice.
(End of Chapter)
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