Chapter 359| The Second Trial Is Canceled. Those Fanatics Have No Intention Of Waiting For The Sun To Rise.

​Night inside the bowels of The Iron Citadel was never truly quiet.

​The hum of underground turbines continued to spin behind two-span-thick steel walls.

​Its subtle vibrations traveled upward, sending a constant tension directly into the soles of their feet.

​Hot steam hissed softly from the cylindrical pipes embedded in the ceiling.

​Click.

​Occasionally, a mechanical valve clicked in the distance. Its rhythm felt almost synchronized with the heartbeats of the prisoners who refused to sleep.

​Inside that six-by-six meter cell, Roland Sudrath sat leaning against the cold corner wall.

​His eyes were wide open. Completely unclosed.

​The diplomat’s back was perfectly straight, both hands resting casually on his knees.

​Yet beneath that relaxed posture, his ears caught everything.

​The footsteps of the guards’ heavy boots outside the cell door—which were usually slow and rhythmic—now sounded vastly different.

​Tight. Numerous. Hurried.

​Tap... tap... clack, clack, clack.

​"Hmm... not the usual patrol pattern," Roland murmured softly.

​Riven, who stood with arms crossed in the opposite corner of the cell, tightened his hearing as well.

​The Grand General didn’t need to open his eyes to realize an anomaly was unfolding out there.

​"They’re increasing the guards," Riven whispered low.

​His voice was nearly drowned out by the hum of the turbines.

​Roland turned his head slowly, looking at his brother.

​"I counted three shift changes in the last hour alone, Riven. Tch, that violates standard security protocols."

​Riven opened his gray eyes. They flashed with a steel-cold glare.

​"They’re terrified," Riven stated flatly. "Anticipating an attack from the outside... or from within."

​"Or..." Roland tilted his head, directing his gaze toward the small ventilation slit near the ceiling. "...they’re building a cordon to keep someone from getting out."

​The two fell silent.

​The atmosphere of the cell, illuminated by a single dim steam bulb, was pressed into a suffocating quiet once more.

​There were no extra movements. They merely continued to listen to the vibrations around them.

​Far on the upper floors of The Iron Citadel, Anastasia Velthorne had yet to leave her office.

​The Third Princess’s private quarters resembled a tactical bunker far more than a noble’s chamber.

​The walls were lined with gloomy, dark steel plates. No decorative mirrors. No paintings. No porcelain vases.

​There was only a sturdy metal desk, intelligence filing cabinets, and a colossal tactical map stretched across the wall.

​A steam lamp hung above the desk, reflecting a yellow glow onto Anastasia’s porcelain-pale face.

​She sat bolt upright. Her delicate fingers traced page after page of written reports from high council officials regarding the afternoon trial.

​The contents of those files contained no verdicts or indictments. Purely technical observational notes recorded during Orion’s projection.

​Most generals wrote in rigid, defensive militaristic terms:

​"No signs of magical manipulation.""Visual projection waves left zero mana residue in the air.""Audio frequency stable, no auditory hypnosis detected."

​However, the movement of Anastasia’s fingers abruptly halted as she read a single sentence from General Irina’s report.

​"The device on the prisoner’s arm emits no foreign energy. It reads memory."

​Anastasia’s icy gray eyes froze on that final word.

​Memory.

​That single word was vastly more threatening to the foundation of her empire than any destructive magic.

​The princess pushed her metal chair back. She stood tall, letting her black wolf fur cloak rest draped over her shoulder.

​"Guard!" Anastasia called out sharply, piercing the silence.

​The door opened instantly.

​An elite guard clad in pitch-black stepped in hurriedly, bowing his head deeply.

​"Bring the tier-one archives from the Restricted Wing sector to my desk," Anastasia commanded without pause. "Right now."

​The soldier looked up briefly. A look of clear hesitation flashed in his eyes.

​"B-But, Lady Anastasia... all documents in the Restricted Wing carry a red status. Those archives require a seal pressed directly by His Majesty the Emperor—"

​"I am the Emperor’s daughter," Anastasia cut in coldly. Her eyes glared as sharp as a surgical scalpel. "Hah, or would you prefer I call the interrogation executioner to clear the path while forcibly opening your mouth at the same time?"

​The guard turned deathly pale. He swallowed hard before bowing a full ninety degrees.

​"A-At once, My Lady!"

​SLAM! The door was shut tight.

​Anastasia looked back down, staring at the stack of files atop her metal desk.

​That night, deep within her heart that had been saturated with the absolute doctrine of the Iron Empire, a pillar of faith slowly began to crack.

​In the underground cell, the Northreach delegation’s silence was abruptly shattered by a loud mechanical sound.

​CLACK! CRACK! CRACK!

​Three layers of mechanical locks were turned sequentially from the outside.

​The thick iron door swung open, blinding the prisoners with the yellow glow of the corridor lamps.

​It was no ordinary patrol unit standing there.

​A group of elite guards in black uniforms stood closely packed, forming an intimidating living fence.

​From between the gaps of the formation, General Volkov stepped inside.

​The tall, gaunt man was not wearing his long gray coat. He wore only a neat dark uniform with black leather gloves.

​His favorite metal measuring stick still hung at his waist belt.

​Volkov’s old gray eyes swept over them briefly, then locked onto Rianor Sudrath, who sat beneath the vent.

​"Architect," Volkov called flatly. His voice echoed off the steel walls.

​Rianor looked up slowly, adjusting his glasses. "General."

​"You will speak with me. Now." Volkov glanced at the line of guards outside. "Close the door. Leave us."

​The black-clad guards exchanged hesitant looks, yet not a single one dared to disobey the Strategy General. They pulled the steel door shut.

​In the corner of the cell, Riven’s muscles immediately tensed. The Grand General glared at Volkov with absolute vigilance.

​However, Rianor raised his right hand slightly. Offering a brief gesture. Relax.

​SLAM!

​The door was locked from the outside. Now Volkov was trapped inside the cell alongside the delegation.

​The old general pulled up a hard wooden bench and sat down exactly two meters in front of Rianor.

​Beneath the dim steam lighting, the expressions of both analytical men remained unreadable.

​"I did not come for a violent interrogation," Volkov opened calmly. "I came because my brain hasn’t stopped throwing questions since this afternoon’s trial."

​Rianor stared intently at his conversational partner.

​Whirrr...

​The Arcanotech Bracer on his left arm glowed a dim blue, serving as the sole source of foreign color in the room.

​"What kind of questions?" Rianor asked.

​"The holographic projection you demonstrated in the Hall of Iron Judgment..." Volkov propped his chin on his leather-gloved hand. "...its visual and audio quality were far too precise to be called a cheap magic illusion. Yet, not a single one of our Grand Technicians recognized its foundational technology."

​"Of course not. Because that technology does not belong to you," Rianor answered without blinking. "That was a blueprint from an era before this iron empire was born. An era before you labeled things you didn’t understand as ’magic’."

​Volkov narrowed his eyes sharply. "Hmm, you speak as though we are a nation of amnesiacs who forgot our own identity."

​"Well, because that is the reality, General Volkov," Rianor replied straight to the point.

​Silence squeezed between the two of them.

​Yet Volkov did not explode in anger. On the contrary, the strategy general let out a soft chuckle—a raspy laugh that sounded like a bitter realization forced down his throat.

​"Then what are you seeking by bringing those worn fragments of memory here?" Volkov countered quickly.

​"An opportunity," Rianor answered efficiently. "To forcibly open your eyes before the demons in the southern continent awaken and pound these steel gates until they shatter into pieces."

​Volkov gave a slow nod.

​"You realize, don’t you... tomorrow morning, the nobles of the old faction might demand your execution without a follow-up trial?"

​"I am well aware."

​"They don’t fear your evidence, Architect. They aren’t afraid of the proof you bring. They are only afraid of losing control over the history they have already manipulated."

​Rianor carved a thin smile at the corner of his lips. "Then what about you, the field Generals? What are you afraid of?"

​Volkov fell silent. He didn’t answer that loaded question.

​He stood up, patted imaginary dust off his trousers, and adjusted his leather gloves.

​"Thank you for your honesty, Architect," Volkov said formally.

​He stepped toward the steel door. Before tapping from the inside, he shot a brief glance back.

​"I will find out... what the Palace has truly been hiding from our eyes all this time."

​The steel door swung open. Volkov stepped out, accompanied by the fading footsteps of his guards.

​Rianor rested his head back against the iron wall once more.

​"The seed... has begun to sprout," he whispered softly into the darkness.

​However, the tension inside the cell had by no means dissipated.

​The moment Volkov left, Riven immediately stood up and pressed his ear to the cold steel wall.

​The General’s battle instincts scanned the vibrations from the corridor outside.

​"Thorne," Riven called low.

​The Captain hurried over. "Yes, General?"

​"Listen. There’s a massive movement in the upper corridor of our prisoner block." Riven pointed toward the iron ceiling.

​Thorne pressed his ear as well. The veteran officer’s brow immediately knitted sharply.

​"Their footsteps are far too numerous for a night patrol unit," Thorne analyzed. "They aren’t moving along a route. They are taking hold positions at every blind intersection."

​"How many?"

​"Over thirty armed men," Thorne read the situation meticulously. "Moving in two tactical groups. This is a blockade encirclement maneuver, General."

​Riven snorted roughly, clenching his right fist until his muscles tensed.

​"They are encircling this area to ensure there are no witnesses when they execute us tonight."

​"Not merely killing unarmed prisoners." Rumina, who had been hugging her knees all this time, finally spoke up.

​Her gray eyes behind her glasses stared straight at the wall with cold calculation.

​"They deployed that many troops to prevent interference from other factions," Rumina added. "The proof we brought is a fatal threat to the old faction. They want to eliminate us without a paper trail of bureaucracy."

​Roland rested his head back, smirking. "So the blockade unit up there belongs to Lord Marcus’s mercenary dogs?"

​"Or..."

​A melodic, ice-cold voice interjected from the corner of the room.

​Selene stepped slowly from near the ventilation bars, gazing at them with her deep, pale blue eyes.

​"...they’re ensuring our assassination tonight looks purely like a tragic ’accident’ inside the cell," the Arcanum Master added.

​The air in the cell froze. Outside, the stomping of heavy boots continued to encircle them.

​Selene approached Roland, staring at the diplomat with a look of utmost gravity.

​"Roland," Selene called softly. "If we survive and make it back to the trial tomorrow... let me take over the talking."

​Roland returned her gaze. "Are you sure, Selene? Speaking in a room that rejects magic without the presence of mana puts you in an extremely vulnerable position."

​"If you keep talking, those council members will only view this as a political game," Selene answered firmly. "But if the supreme envoy of Luminara speaks up... it sends a message that we voluntarily acknowledge the past mistakes of the mage ancestors. With our heads held high."

​Roland looked at the woman for a moment, then gave a slow, deeply respectful nod. "Agreed."

​The commotion in the upper corridor abruptly spiked. The stomping of military boots sounded increasingly aggressive and close.

​Roland moved quickly. He strode toward the wall, stood on his tiptoes, and peeked through the narrow ventilation slit toward the upper hallway.

​Beneath the yellow glow of the steam lamps, his eyes caught the movement.

​Not the signature dark gray uniforms of the Iron Empire patrol. Nor the pitch-black uniforms belonging to Anastasia’s guards.

​The uniforms of those troops were black and blood-red. The crest of the old faction was clearly pinned to their chests.

​The long-barreled steam rifles in their hands were already cocked and ready.

​Roland released his grip from the bars, turning back with a darkened expression.

​"That’s the old faction’s private troops," Roland reported, keeping his voice down. "Lord Marcus’s mercenary dogs. The second trial is canceled. Those fanatics have no intention of waiting for the sun to rise."

​Hearing that fatal confirmation, the entire cell took up readiness positions.

​Crack.

​Riven’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, ready to fight to the death.

​Captain Thorne straightened his collar, standing tall to block the door. Rianor sharpened his gaze. Rumina paced her breathing to soothe her heartbeat.

​And Selene remained standing calmly like an ice statue, staring straight at the steel door.

​Behind the steel plates trapping them, the wheels of slaughter had just begun to turn.