Chapter 361| If You Are Too Cowardly To Even Examine The Past With Science, You Have Absolutely No Right To Lead The Future Of This Continent

Dawn in the capital of the Iron Empire never brought warmth.

The thick, ashen sky constantly pressed down on the land, blurring the line between night and day.

Beyond the ventilation grates of the mid-level cells in The Iron Citadel, there was no streak of orange from the rising sun. There was only the dull, sickly yellow glow of vapor lamps struggling to pierce the thick smog of the factories.

This city knew no dawn. It only knew the changing of shifts.

Inside the steel cell, the Northreach delegation concluded a night of high alert. They had slept in shifts, keeping their guard up so it wouldn’t be dulled by exhaustion.

CLACK! CREAK!

The lock turned earlier than scheduled. The steel door swung open with a harsh screech.

Blinding light from the corridor pierced through. Two elite inquisitor guards in pitch-black uniforms stood rigidly at the threshold.

A dry, monotone baritone echoed.

"Get ready. The second trial is beginning."

Roland Sudrath slowly opened his eyes. The diplomat rose with absolute composure, dusted off his dark blue robes, and straightened his collar.

"Hmm... time to work," Roland murmured softly.

Riven stood tall beside him. His gigantic frame straightened like a mountain, scanning the two guards with a deadly glare—as if calculating exactly how many seconds it would take to snap both of their necks if things went south.

In the corner of the cell, Rumina also stood up, brushing down her gray dress. The Head Treasurer’s face was still pale, but her eyes radiated unwavering resolve.

Her pale fingers gently gripped a sharp splinter of wood—broken from a bench—hidden beneath the folds of her dress.

Meanwhile, Rianor pressed a specific node on his Arcanotech Bracer. A faint hum buzzed before the device locked itself back into total passive mode.

"Don’t draw attention with that thing," Roland warned quietly without looking back.

"Tch, I know," Rianor replied curtly, adjusting his glasses.

Selene smoothed her silver hair, letting her ocean-blue Water Arcanum robes drape gracefully over her figure. She gave Roland a firm look.

"Let me do the talking this time."

"Well, wasn’t that always the plan?" Roland replied with a faint smile. "The stage is yours, Selene."

Captain Thorne took the rear, making sure their formation stayed tight as they were marched out through the steel corridors.

The Hall of Iron Justice welcomed them once again with its oppressive mechanical grandeur.

The domed steel ceiling echoed the heavy thud of their boots. Cylindrical pipes spewed scorching steam into the air, coating the metal floorplates in a thin, clammy mist.

Yet, the atmosphere this morning felt far more suffocating.

It wasn’t just the old-faction nobles filling the tribunes. It wasn’t just Volkov resting his chin on his hand, or General Irina glaring coldly from her seat.

In the highest seat of the military section sat a colossal man. His aura seemed to siphon every last ounce of oxygen from the room.

Drakov. First General of the Iron Empire. Supreme Military Commander.

His massive frame nearly rivaled Riven’s. His right arm was a pitch-black metal prosthetic, engraved with intricate gears that seamlessly connected to his shoulder. His rugged face was scarred from countless battles past.

His eyes pierced like embers buried under ash—dim, yet capable of incinerating anything in their path.

He didn’t speak. He merely leaned back, his metallic hand clenched into a tight fist on the table. His silent presence was a form of absolute intimidation.

On the highest throne, Anastasia Velthorne sat motionless.

Her porcelain face was rigid, but to Roland’s sharp eyes, the princess’s fingers were gripping the armrests white-knuckled—betraying the inner tension she was desperately trying to hide.

Volkov tapped his cane once, signaling the delegation to take the central podium.

Roland gave Selene a slight nod.

The Arcanum Master stepped forward. Her footsteps were incredibly light against the vibrating steel floor.

"I do not stand here as an envoy of the Church, bringing holy scriptures to preach to you," Selene began. Her voice was crystal clear and melodic, cutting through the heavy silence of the Judgment Hall.

"I stand here as the highest representative of Luminara. And I have come to confess to the most ancient sin, written in blood within our history."

The room fell dead silent.

"Our ancestors—the magical overlords revered in our sacred texts—cowardly betrayed the very people who saved this world," Selene continued without hesitation.

"They betrayed Project Legion. The manaless heroes you so arrogantly dismiss as ’soulless old machines’."

Several old-faction nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Young officers bowed their heads, unable to meet the raw honesty in Selene’s eyes.

"And we, their descendants..." Selene held her head high, "...have lived sheltered by the sins of that betrayal for millennia, without ever learning how to drop to our knees and beg for forgiveness."

Roland smiled faintly from the back. Selene wasn’t just giving a speech to the council; she was speaking directly to history itself.

In his seat of honor, First General Drakov twitched his metallic fingers.

CLICK.

That subtle mechanical tick shattered the council’s concentration.

Lord Marcus shot up from his seat. His dark crimson robes flared violently.

"Such beautiful, poetic words, Envoy of Luminara," Lord Marcus scoffed. "But you’ve forgotten one thing: history is a tool to maintain stability!"

The old man swept his fierce gaze across the tribunes.

"If the people find out the ancestors they worship are branded as traitors by the Southerners, what happens tomorrow morning? Huh?! Mass riots! A bloody civil war! Is that your scheming goal? To burn this empire from the inside out?!"

Selene didn’t flinch.

"Riots can indeed be born from a bitter truth, Lord Marcus. But... systematic lies, nurtured for too long in the shadows, will eventually breed a far crueler monster."

A plump noble with a gray beard chimed in with a skeptical tone.

"The light and sound projection of that old man with a mechanical arm is not concrete proof. It could easily be one of your magical illusions."

"In that case..."

Rianor cut him off before Roland could even gesture. The Architect stepped forward, pushing up his glasses.

"In that case, let’s test the data empirically," Rianor challenged. His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion.

"You call it a magical illusion? Fine. Prove it’s fake. Don’t use your faction’s political dogmas. Use pure science! Use your mechanical logic and the highest measuring instruments this empire has to offer!"

Rianor’s cold gray eyes bored into the plump noble, sending shivers down his spine.

"But..." Rianor paused, letting the pressure build, "...if you are too cowardly to even examine the past with science... you have absolutely no right to lead the future of this continent."

An incredibly long silence washed over the Hall of Justice.

Volkov turned his head, looking at Rianor with eyes no longer clouded by disdain, but with a veiled sense of acknowledgment.

First General Drakov shifted his massive legs. He rested his metallic arm on his thigh, staring at Rianor like a predator who had just found a worthy opponent.

Lord Marcus gripped the edge of the table until the veins in his hands bulged. His jaw clenched tightly. He was deadlocked by Rianor’s logic.

Selene capitalized on the momentum without wasting a second.

"Our ancestors’ negligence didn’t just brand us as traitors," Selene continued. "It also concealed a primordial threat far greater than your petty political divisions."

"What threat?" Volkov asked quietly.

"Satan," Selene stated firmly.

The name dropped like a heavy sledgehammer. Several nobles instinctively flinched at the taboo word.

"The dimensional seals in the South have cracked," Selene revealed. "Demonic gates are tearing open our skies. You might feel safe behind the steel walls of the North... but the ancestors of Project Legion knew that this old world would collapse, swallowed by darkness."

Pure dread crept into every corner of the room.

Drakov stood up from his seat. His colossal frame made those around him instinctively hold their breath.

"You," Drakov’s voice echoed like the grinding of rusted machinery. "Prince of the South. Hand over the tangible proof of this threat."

Roland stepped forward, stopping beside Selene. "What we bring is not a threat, General. It is a reality, and its tremors are already being felt at the borders of your waters."

Volkov flipped open a small file on his desk. "I will deploy a special unit to investigate anomalous fluctuations in the southern seas. If this is true... the council’s focus and budget must be redirected immediately."

"Don’t be so hasty, Volkov!" Lord Marcus interrupted, his voice beginning to waver. "Data can be manipulated!"

"Well, then let your own machines and data prove it," Selene countered sharply. "Reopen your archives. Scan the waters. Prove us wrong. We will wait for the results right here."

Outside the thick walls of the Hall of Iron Justice...

Dozens of working-class citizens crowded behind the security barricades. Rumors about the ’Southern Prisoners’ and ’Forbidden History’ had spread as fast as chimney soot.

Yara stood among the crowd in an apron stained with grease. Her hands tightly gripped the strap of her tool bag.

"That man in the blue robes didn’t kill me when he had the upper hand yesterday..." Yara whispered to herself, recalling Roland.

"Why didn’t they fight back when they were detained if they truly are monsters?"

Back inside the Hall of Justice, the debate was reaching a boiling point.

Lord Marcus hissed, opening his mouth to hurl one last insult. Volkov prepared to cut him off.

However, before chaos could erupt...

BAM! SLAM!

The main doors of the courthouse were violently forced open!

Steel hinges shrieked as a line of elite guards in pitch-black uniforms marched in. The pure gold gear emblems on their chests marked them as the Praetorian Guard—the imperial throne’s personal detail.

A commander’s voice boomed, shattering the trial’s proceedings.

"ORDER IN THE COURT! HIS MAJESTY, EMPEROR REGULUS VELTHORNE, SHALL DELIVER HIS VERDICT IN PERSON!"

Upon the throne, Anastasia jolted upright. Her beautiful face suddenly drained of color, turning pale as chalk.

Volkov froze. Lord Marcus was instantly silenced. Even First General Drakov pivoted his massive body toward the doors.

The room’s temperature plummeted drastically. The encroaching chill was far more agonizing than the blizzards at the harbor.

"The Emperor... he’s intervening himself," Captain Thorne whispered, clenching his fists.

Amidst the lung-freezing silence...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rhythmic clanking of metal-soled boots rang out. The footsteps were slow, heavy, and dripping with absolute authority.

The Ruler of the Iron Empire had stepped into the hall.