One day later, Radiant City.

A space as vast as an arena. If not for the scales of the god of justice hanging high, no one would call it a courtroom.

It’s natural. No other court holds the power this one does, nor is any court shaped like this coliseum of law.

If a court must be built this way, a question rises like mist: what is it truly meant to judge?

In truth, it was raised under the first Pope, in the First Era.

Back then, the continent was a patchwork of warlords; banners clashed, steel sang, smoke rolled like monsoon clouds.

With the land a wildfire of war, who could demand minds bound by law?

People lived like beasts—teeth bared, eyes red. Were we born just to kill?

That was the question he threw at the world before his coronation.

Life isn’t for slaughter. Every person holds the right and meaning to live.

Unbound by law, we’re no different from beasts—walking corpses with empty eyes.

That was the truth he heard in the Father’s teaching, and he carved that answer into this court of stone.

It scarred the ages that followed. But that’s another tale.

Today, the court opens not for the Pope’s dream of fairness. It opens for a one-sided conviction.

Saints and believers pack the tiers like a tide; zeal for the Father burns in their eyes, hatred for the sinner froths like winter surf.

They ache to see the sinner brought out, to tear her into shreds the moment she appears.

Above them sits Jericho, head of the College of Cardinals, cold as a blade under frost.

Nine other cardinals ring him like a blood-red halo.

On both sides, two knights stand as emblems of fairness, lances gleaming—magitech shafts tuned to kill.

The irony bites: such solemn array, set up to condemn someone who’s done no wrong.

“Time. I declare the trial of the sinner—Aphelia—open. Bring the sinner to the stand.”

Jericho taps his gavel. Arcane Power hums through wood and echoes like thunder over water.

At his word, the lower doors swing out. Two guards escort Aphelia into the light.

She still wears a nun’s habit, torn at the hems; beauty shows through like moonlight behind thin cloud.

No one stirs. They watch the sinner like stone, breath held and silent.

Faith reins in their frenzy, muzzling the pack. Even facing a sworn enemy, they don’t break ranks.

Is faith alone such a terrifying leash?

Aphelia can’t run her mind at full speed now, but the wrongness is a mountain; even slow, she can see it.

A heavy gavel-slam booms again. She stops thinking and lifts her gaze to Jericho on the bench.

“Long time no see.”

She murmurs it, a cold smile cutting her lip like a knife.

Jericho doesn’t flinch from her eyes. He looks through her, and—in the court’s name—recites statutes and church canons like rain over stone.

Then he begins the conviction.

“Sinner—Aphelia, do you admit your guilt?”

The pomp makes her laugh. “What guilt? In the eastern tongue, we’d say—”

An Arcane arrow spears her ankle mid-sentence. Pain shocks through her like ice, and the words choke back into her throat.

“Watch your tongue, sinner!”

One of the cardinals around Jericho lashes out. The voice rings young, almost a girl’s, brittle as glass.

“Take the lesson, sinner. We continue. Your first sin is the original stain—the Sin of Race.”

“Witches are one root of the world’s turmoil—your very existence is an error.”

“All present will vote. Thumb up, no guilt. Thumb down, guilty.”

Jericho doesn’t hurry. He raises the gavel, waiting.

The outcome’s plain as day. Any other result would be the real scandal. Thumbs go down like falling leaves. No dissent.

Jericho strikes. The first verdict passes.

“Second verdict. Sinner—Aphelia, your second charge is War Crimes.”

“As the Demon King’s daughter, you led demon armies into the human realm—burning, killing, looting. Unforgivable.”

She laughs outright now, bright and reckless, not caring what they do to her body.

Two more Arcane arrows bloom from the air and punch through her shoulders. Blood fans out like a red flower.

She doesn’t cry. Her laughter turns scornful, sharp as frost.

“Jericho, ridiculous. The cardinal flinging arrows must be newly seated; she doesn’t even know your usual tricks.”

She pauses—not to spare them—but because frost crawls over the bench, a white warning.

Push on, and ice spikes will burst up and skewer her clean.

“Sinner, mock this court again and we’ll skip judgment and kill you on the spot.”

Jericho’s tone stays level, no tremor of threat, yet it weighs like iron on the chest.

Aphelia laughs again. The frost around her may as well be morning dew.

“Your biggest crutch is my lost Arcane Power, right? What if I tell you it’s back?”

Her shackles crack open under the surge. Arcane Power pours out like a breaking dam.

The arrows lodged in her shatter to dust; the frost around her melts into nothing.

“Well? Surprised?”

Her fingers brush the chain at her throat. She draws a Holy Sword, silver-white, from the necklace like dawn pulled from the night.

Her Arcane Power swells, grander and wilder, a roaring beast standing at the heart of this court.

“So what? You think you can cut your way out of Radiant City?”

Jericho’s voice is steady, as if he expected the break.

His cardinals rise together. Magic circles flare in the air, sighting Aphelia like crosshairs.

“Then come.”

Before the words finish, she’s already there—a streak of light in their faces.

The silver cross-blade, driven by Arcane Power and muscle, falls like a war-hammer straight at Jericho.

They’re a heartbeat late, but they’re strong. Formed spells crash down to suppress her; snares knit in their hands, ready to bind.

At that same instant, explosions rip through the tiers among saints and believers. Panic blooms like fire.

Anyone watching with care would catch the figures who lit the fuse on the stands.

But the cardinals are tied to Aphelia’s strike, and they can’t shake free.

When the spell-blast’s smoke thins, only Jericho remains in place, his shield turned to crystal shards by the impact.

Aphelia’s gone without a trace.

“How is that possible?!”

A cardinal smashes the desk in front of him, rage ringing like iron. The woman under trial was powerful, near a Titleholder’s peak—

—and yet, under ten transcendent foes, she vanished without stirring a ripple.

“No soul-wave at all.”

The cardinal at the far end shakes his head. His voice grates, sharp enough to set teeth on edge.

Jericho turns to another.

The young cardinal who had conjured the Arcane arrows speaks, voice trembling, but gets it out in one breath. “No magic-wave either. I—I don’t sense the sinner’s Arcane Power.”

Jericho himself can test the rest, and his answer matches theirs.

Aphelia slipped away right under their eyelids.

“We must have a traitor among us…”

The young one screams, losing all decorum, more a furious girl than a church’s judge.

“Enough. Besides finding Aphelia, we have one more task.”

Jericho narrows his eyes. Venom glints there as he looks over the writhing crowd of saints and believers.

His voice finally drops the calm. It scrapes like a hungry ghoul from the Abyss.

He moves, and he’s gone from the bench—no questions, only waiting.

Minutes later, Jericho returns, one hand holding a gray-robed man whose spine has been snapped like dry reed.

“Purge the worthless trash. Drag out the ones who still have some use.”