A sudden chill crept through Oswin’s body.
His clothes were drenched in sweat. He struggled to stand; his knees shook violently. The memory of Fulke’s arm being torn from his body replayed over and over in his head. His thoughts fractured — his mind was on the verge of collapse.

How can I get away from this? he thought desperately.
There was no escape. Trying to weasel his way out was impossible. The chance that the elf prosecutor had mountains of evidence against him was all but guaranteed.

“Oswin of House Kerrick.”

He jolted.

“Y-Yes,” he fumbled as the massive black tigerkin called his name.

“The charges against you are as follows,” Tyrone announced, his voice echoing through the crowd.
“Unlawful Detention. Sexual Assault and Torture. And finally — Rape.”

Ash’s calm voice followed.
“What is your plea?”

Oswin fell to his knees.
“I’M SORRY!” he screamed, his voice breaking apart. His mind couldn’t withstand the pressure anymore.
“Please forgive me, Your Honor!” he begged, his words slurred by tears. “I promise I won’t do it again… please — don’t rip my arm off!”

Drool spilled from his mouth. His pants darkened as he lost control. Tears streamed down his face like a waterfall.

“His mind just went bye-bye,” Tyrone whispered to Miki.

“Typical lowlife reaction,” Miki replied dryly.

The crowd watched in disgust — a grown man groveling in the dirt, weeping like a terrified child.

“You don’t deserve forgiveness!” a woman shouted.
“Cut his dick off!” another voice roared.

The crowd grew restless, spitting curses and demands. Oswin kept begging for mercy, but his voice was drowned beneath the chaos.

“Silence!” Tyrone barked, but the mob ignored him.

Agitation flickered across the tigerkin’s face. He inhaled deeply.

“SILENCE!”

A thunderous roar, half-beast, half-man, burst through the air. A violent gust of wind followed, knocking several villagers off their feet. The crowd froze. Tyrone stood tall, his eyes glowing a deep, menacing red.

“ORDER! The court is still in session!” he thundered. His presence alone forced the crowd into submission.

“Oswin Kerrick,” Ash said.

Oswin looked up, shaking uncontrollably.

“I’ll take that as your admission of guilt,” Ash said calmly. “And now… for your punishment.”

“NOOO! NO! PLEASE, NOOOO!” Oswin screamed as the Iron Marshals restrained him, preventing him from crawling toward Ash.

He turned to the villagers, his voice breaking.
“Please forgive me! I’m sorry! Have mercy… please…” His voice weakened to a sob. “Please…”

Reginald watched, his body frozen stiff. His grandson — the heir of his bloodline — now writhed in the dirt like a cornered animal. The noble name of Kerrick crumbled before his eyes. Each cry from Oswin stabbed into his chest. He wanted to shout, to stop it — but fear paralyzed him. 

Ash turned the pages of his book with measured calm, his eyes scanning the written testimonies and evidence — each word sealing Oswin’s fate.

“When you tortured your victims,” he began, “and when you raped them — they asked you to stop.”
He looked up from the pages. “They begged you for mercy.”

Oswin fell silent.

“And what did you do?” Ash’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the air. “You ignored their pleas.”

He turned another page.
“‘Their cries of pain and anguish are music to my ears.’ Recognize that statement?”

Oswin’s jaw quivered. He said nothing.

“Like how you ignored your victims’ pleas,” Ash said coldly, “this court will ignore yours.”

Oswin stopped crying. His eyes turned hollow, empty. He sank to the ground, motionless — a shell of a man stripped of all hope.

“For Unlawful Detention,” Ash continued, “you are sentenced to thirty lashes, to be carried out tomorrow at sunrise.”

A pause.

“For Sexual Assault, Torture, and Rape…”

The crowd leaned forward. Every breath in the square went still.

“Your sentence is castration by fire. Execution to be carried out immediately.”

“AAAAAAAAAARGH! NOOOOOOO!”

Oswin’s scream tore through the silence as the Iron Marshals forced him to the ground. His soiled pants were ripped away. His legs were spread open — his manhood exposed before all.

A Marshal extended a gauntleted hand. A small, flickering fireball appeared above his palm. It hovered, glowing hot, before slowly descending.

Oswin’s breath hitched. His body stiffened. The crowd fell silent again, many unable to look.

The heat reached him. Tiny stings of pain prickled across his skin. Then came the hiss — a sickening sizzle — as the fireball touched him.

“WAAARRRGH!!!”

Oswin’s scream pierced the air.

The fireball crept forward, slow and merciless, devouring his manhood piece by piece.
Oswin convulsed, his body shaking violently under the Marshals’ grip.

Even though the punishment was less grotesque than Fulke’s, the sound — that endless, tearing scream — sank deep into everyone’s bones. 

Reginald’s breath caught in his throat. His heart felt like it would burst. His hands trembled, his nails digging into his palms. His lips quivered as he watched his grandson’s body writhing. His breathing quickened, his mind racing, but he couldn’t look away.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the fireball dimmed and vanished.
Where Oswin’s manhood once was, only a cauterized wound remained.
The stench lingered like the memory of sin.

Oswin had long since passed out, twitching faintly under the Marshals’ hold.

“Marshals, take him away,” Ash ordered.

The Iron Marshals lifted the unconscious man and dragged him aside.

The court turned to the last of the three.
Reginald Kerrick.

“Charges for Reginald of House Kerrick are as follows,” Tyrone declared, his tone steady.
“Extortion. Abuse of Authority. Unlawful Tax Collection. Unlawful Seizure of Property. Threats and Coercion of Villagers. Abduction. Attempted Abduction. Enforcing Involuntary Servitude. Unlawful Detention. Sexual Assault and Torture. Rape and — Murder in the First Degree.”

The presiding continues without any delays

“Your plea, Mr. Kerrick?”

No words came. Reginald’s lips trembled, but his voice was gone.
He knew there was no defense — no mercy. No matter what he said, there would only be one outcome: DEATH.

The only choice left was how that death would come — quick, or unspeakably slow.

Reginald’s eyes drifted to the ring on his right index finger — the Magic Armament Ring, a relic bestowed upon him when he was appointed baron.

Could I escape with this? he thought.

He glanced around. The Iron Marshals stood like statues, their helmets turning toward him in silent watch. Tyrone’s crimson eyes met his. The tigerkin’s stare alone crushed any thought of running.

Escape is impossible.

He swallowed hard. He rifled through memory for any hold he could use; fragments of an old lesson from his childhood surfaced — lessons from his tutor about the Law of the Great Covenant. There was one clause he remembered. One that might yet save him — or at least give him a chance to die on his own terms.

“No answer?” Ash asked, flipping open his book. “Then the sentence—”

“Your Honor,” Reginald interrupted, raising his head. “I wish to invoke my right of trial by combat.”

A wave of gasps surged through the crowd. Even Miki’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“This is unexpected,” Miki murmured.

Tyrone’s ears flicked

Ash paused. He hadn’t anticipated this either.

“Do you understand what you are invoking?” he asked quietly.

“I am fully aware, Your Honor,” Reginald replied firmly.

Ash studied him for a moment, then sighed.
“So you’ve already accepted your fate,” he said, voice cold as ice. “Very well. Whom do you challenge?”

Reginald straightened, his expression steady for the first time since the trial began.

“HER!” he shouted, pointing a trembling finger.

Every head turned in the direction he pointed.

“...Huh!?”

It was Ellie.