Chapter 358| What Kind Of Technology Can Weave Light Into Human Memory?

Dawn in the capital of the Iron Empire never brought warmth, let alone a glimmer of hope.

The sky coiled in a dense gray. The canopy of factory smoke never stopped breathing. The freezing chill seeped greedily through the cracks in the steel, blanketing The Iron Citadel in a stiff, mechanical silence.

Dong... Dong... Dong...

The bell marking the first light of dawn tolled. Before long, the padlock to the delegation’s cell door was forcefully unlocked.

CLANG! CLANG! SCREEECH!

A rough-faced guard officer strode inside. Without pleasantries, he tossed six thin vests made of iron plates onto the cell floor. They clattered loudly.

"Put those on," he commanded gruffly. "You are being taken to the Hall of Iron Judgment."

Roland glanced at the vest lying near his boots. The corner of his lips pulled upward. He leaned down, picking it up with two fingers.

"Iron vests for guests?" Roland chuckled softly. "Tch, the Iron Empire’s way of welcoming a delegation is truly... unique."

"You are not guests," the officer growled. "You are prisoners."

"Ah, right." Roland nodded casually. He put the iron vest on over his dark blue diplomatic coat. "In that case, just consider us very special prisoners."

Rianor and the others picked up their shares as well.

Riven didn’t respond to the cheap provocation in the slightest. The Grand General put his vest on as if it were merely his daily combat uniform.

Before they were escorted out, a few low-ranking soldiers walked in carrying metal mugs filled with warm water and hard pieces of bread.

"Swallow it down. Don’t go fainting before the trial even starts."

The delegation accepted it in silence. This food was merely a countermeasure so they wouldn’t die a foolish death from the lingering carbon monoxide from last night. Their heads were indeed still floating slightly.

"Rianor," Riven called softly, chewing his hard bread in the corner of the cell.

"Hmm?" Rianor turned, adjusting his glasses.

"Are you sure that device of yours can hold up and activate in their council chamber?"

Rianor’s gray eyes glanced at the Arcanotech Bracer on his left arm, which was glowing a dim blue. "This device doesn’t need to hold up. It only needs to copy the data at the exact right second. The rest... is none of my business."

Riven snorted softly, turning his face away. "You walking machine."

The small party was escorted out, breaking through the gates of The Iron Citadel. The freezing air immediately bit at their faces.

A medium-scale military procession was waiting. Fifteen soldiers with steam rifles flanked the special steel prisoner carriage. Two thick-plated steam trucks kept guard at the front and rear.

Inside the rattling carriage, Rianor sat leaning back. His eyes never stopped scanning through the barred window.

The capital’s streets stretched wide, constructed from black stone blocks shiny with dew. Left and right were flanked by gray, boxy factory buildings. Fire and soot erupted from the smokestacks. Soot-smeared workers hurried past with their heads bowed.

There was no laughter. No color.

"This city’s layout..." Rianor murmured. "...was constructed purely to sustain a war machine."

"Wait, you only just realized that, Mr. Architect?" Roland chimed in beside him.

"No. I was merely confirming my suspicions."

The carriage’s wheels squealed loudly, coming to a complete halt. They had arrived.

The Hall of Iron Judgment.

This building was nothing short of a colossal basin embedded deep into the belly of the earth. Its roof was flat, adorned with rows of smokestacks spewing constant steam. High-voltage spotlights shone permanently on every side, stripping the area bare without mercy.

"Get out! Get inside!"

Stepping into the Hall of Iron Judgment felt exactly like shoving oneself down the throat of a monster.

Its walls were pure, thick steel plated with rivets. Its black plate floor vibrated constantly from the rotation of underground turbines. White steam hissed from cylindrical pipes in the ceiling, making the air feel sticky and nauseating.

The center of the room was the judgment altar.

A circular iron podium was surrounded by spectator benches made of cast iron. Looming above it, ten tiered chairs were arranged for the military elite.

General Volkov sat on the left side. His hand propped up his chin, his eyes as sharp as a hunting hawk’s.

In another chair, General Irina—the Air Commander—sat upright. Her pale face was as cold as marble.

And on the highest throne... Anastasia Velthorne sat with the elegance of a tyrannical ruler. Her wolf fur cloak was draped elegantly over her shoulders. The Third Princess’s icy gray eyes scanned the delegation as if evaluating a pile of meat.

An officer pressed a lever on the wall.

Hsssh... SLAM!

The colossal steel doors behind the delegation sealed shut. Locking them in as if inside a coffin.

"The prisoners from the South," Anastasia’s voice resonated crystal clear through the loudspeakers. "Step forward to the center."

Roland stepped forward first. The clicking of his boots echoed steadily. Riven, Rianor, Rumina, Selene, and Thorne trailed behind.

"You claim to bring the truth of history," Anastasia leaned forward, staring at them one by one. "Before this council... prove it."

Roland raised his face, defying the council. "And if we fail to satisfy you?"

"You will be executed in this very place," Anastasia cut in without blinking.

"Fair." Roland smiled faintly. "We did indeed come to speak openly. Not to hide."

Anastasia gestured with her hand. Two soldiers hurried to push a metal table and chairs to the center of the podium.

Once the delegation was seated, Volkov slowly stood up. The tip of his measuring stick tapped the floor.

Tap. Tap.

"Before we begin," Volkov looked straight at Rianor. "I hope you aren’t preparing any cheap visual tricks, Architect."

Rianor returned the stare without a ripple. "I do not plan on deceiving anyone, General Volkov."

"Good." Volkov sat back down.

Anastasia leaned her back against her seat. "Begin."

Roland took a breath, savoring the sulfur-scented air. He stood up.

"We came bearing no swords, nor a fleet at your border," Roland’s deep baritone flowed clearly, cutting through the room. "We brought something far more dangerous."

Anastasia narrowed her eyes. "And what is that?"

"The truth."

Roland gestured with his hand. Rianor slowly stood up.

The Head of Research rolled up his shirt sleeve, raising his left arm high into the air.

Whirrr... clank!

The hum of the Arcanotech Bracer abruptly intensified. Sequential blue micro-circuits lit up through the Adamantite plating.

"What is he doing?!" a nobleman hissed in a panic.

"Stand ready," Volkov murmured sharply.

Rianor pressed his fingers to the center of the plate.

Click.

FLASH!!

A brilliant blue light exploded, slicing through the dusty air. Soldiers below reflexively cocked their rifles. Anastasia tensed up rigidly. The high officials half-stood from their chairs.

Yet the light twisted calmly, condensing into a colossal holographic projection in mid-air. The figure of an old man built with ancient machinery across his body materialized, staring straight at the council.

A raspy voice laced with heavy static distortion echoed from the projection.

"I am... Orion. Pilot of Legion Prime. This is my final testimony log..."

An absolute silence instantly struck the council chamber. Lethal, like the swing of an executioner’s axe.

Beneath that blue radiance, a history buried for thousands of years played once more.

Orion spoke of the despair in fighting Satan. Of Project Legion. Of mana-less scientists who assembled giant machines to prevent the end of the world. And of... the foulest betrayal ever committed.

The Iron Empire officials stood frozen. General Irina tilted her head, her brow furrowing. Volkov continued tapping his stick, but his eyes never strayed from Orion.

Anastasia maintained her porcelain composure. Yet behind her ribs, the foundation of the indoctrination she had believed her entire life began to crack.

What is this...? her mind churned. Why is none of this in the Palace archives?

The holographic visual continued. White-robed scientists were slaughtered. Women and children ran through blizzards toward the northern continent—the very ground the Iron Empire stood on today.

Suddenly, a nobleman with a chest full of medals jumped to his feet.

"THAT IS MAGIC!!" he roared in fury. Lord Marcus, ruler of the northern district.

"This is a cheap light trick! You deliberately used filthy magic to manipulate this council!!" he accused, pointing roughly at Rianor.

Roland slowly stood up.

"Lord Marcus," Roland greeted coldly, lethally. "You boast of machines and steel as the true heirs to absolute technology..."

Roland locked his gaze onto the nobleman. "...yet when confronted with a high-tier artifact, you effortlessly label it ’magic’? Is that not the greatest insult to the intellect of your own ancestors?"

"I will not be fooled by the snake-tongue of a Southern man!" Marcus barked.

"In that case, use your logic," Roland pointed straight at the projection. "What kind of technology can weave light into human memory? Hah, is this magic in your eyes? Or..."

Roland smirked cynically. "...are you purely refusing to see it, because this truth shatters the blind pride you worship?"

Marcus’s face flushed crimson. "You dare—!"

"Enough."

A single word from Volkov cut off the rage completely. The Strategy General stood up, looking at Marcus with an intimidating calmness.

"Sit down," Volkov ordered.

"But, General!"

"Sit down, Lord Marcus." There was no room for argument.

Lord Marcus swallowed hard. He snorted roughly and slammed his body back into his chair.

Volkov turned respectfully toward the highest throne. "Princess Anastasia. I propose we adjourn this trial. Our intelligence division needs to verify the validity of this data."

Anastasia fell silent. Her eyes stared at Volkov, shifted to Roland, and then dropped to Rianor’s mechanical Bracer. The Princess slowly stood up.

"The trial is adjourned," her decree echoed. "Take them back."

CLANG!

The train wheels ground over the capital’s steel rails. The delegation was escorted back.

However, this time, the atmosphere had shifted. The stares of the escorting soldiers were no longer filled with pure hatred. There were furrows on their brows. There was a silence laden with suspicion.

Inside the dim carriage, Rianor rested his head back.

"The light on your arm is still blinking, Rianor," Roland pointed out.

"Data transfer and compression are not complete yet," he answered, adjusting his glasses.

"You’re copying their data?"

Rianor nodded. "This device is a walking archive. I embedded an encrypted copy inside their memory. If they try to dismantle this arm without my authorization... all Project Legion data will be automatically erased."

Roland raised an eyebrow. "What if they drag you to an operating room?"

"They won’t be able to extract a single thing from this device’s brain."

Roland smirked. "You’re pretty crafty, Brother."

"It’s not craftiness," Rianor snorted. "It’s operational risk mitigation."

The train arrived at the courtyard. They retraced their steps down the cold corridor until the cell door locked them in once more.

SLAM! CRACK!

Inside the cell, Riven stood tall, rolling his neck until it popped. He stared at the steel door.

"The seeds of doubt have been planted in their field," he murmured in satisfaction.

Rumina hugged her knees in the corner of the cell. "According to calculations, we just sit and wait for them to panic."

However, Selene, who was leaning near the vent, stared blankly into space. A cold aura emanated from her body.

"Or..." the Arcanum Master whispered, "...on the contrary. We must prepare for the bloodiest possibility."