The temporary public courtroom erected in the vast city square was a theater of equal humiliation for all nobles brought there, regardless of their rank.
Whether dukes or barons, they were dragged out of transport wagons like dogs, hauled to the defendant’s stand without any explanation of where they were or why they had been summoned.
Before they could even comprehend the situation, the trials began—trials that were anything but fair, where innocence simply didn’t exist.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We now begin the fifth trial of the day!”
Once the guards had restrained the defendants to prevent escape, the prosecutor—an enthusiastic member of Camilla’s faction—rose to command the crowd’s attention.
This particular prosecutor, a highly educated elite with credentials and a flair for courtroom drama, was well-known for his zeal in targeting the powerful.
Carolus personally selected him for his enthusiasm and willingness to participate in this staged spectacle.
True to form, he was energetically orchestrating the trials without so much as a coin of payment, running them with gusto since early morning.
“The defendants for this session include Count Horn, Viscount Grunwald, and Viscount Arschach, among others—a total of five!”
He rattled off their names with theatrical flair, warming up the crowd as he paraded between them, detailing their alleged crimes.
His silver tongue, once used to defend clients in proper courts, was now weaponized for public condemnation.
“First, we have this golden-haired old man—sixty years old! He spends his days using his title as Count to collect young mistresses as a hobby! Not once did he join the war effort.”
“Instead, he lounged in his estate, supported by taxes squeezed from his suffering subjects! And that’s not all—he imposed absurd new levies under the pretext of ‘supporting the war,’ leaving his people groaning under tax rates as high as 80%!”
“Next, this fat-bellied gentleman whose hobby is gourmet dining! He spares no expense in procuring rare delicacies from across the kingdom—prime beef, truffles, lobsters, and more! Naturally, the cost of these luxuries was forced upon his subjects. Even the military funds provided by the central government were squandered to satiate his gluttony!”
“And then we have this skeletal, grim-looking viscount! This man embezzled a staggering amount of public funds! He skimmed a full 30% from projects meant to improve irrigation and roads in the Great Plains!”
There were no defense attorneys or prosecutors to counter these accusations.
From start to finish, it was a one-sided tirade by the prosecutor, filled with embellished facts, exaggerated claims, and outright vilification of the defendants.
Of course, with the average moral character of these nobles being appalling, there wasn’t much need for fabrication—there was plenty of truth to go around.
“Look at those scum!”
“I’ve spent 40 years being robbed by bastards like them!”
“Some of us have forgotten what chicken even tastes like because we’ve been starving so long!”
Using simple language for the general audience, the prosecutor’s accusations quickly whipped the crowd into a frenzy.
The endless stream of shocking revelations about noble misdeeds fueled outrage and hatred, stoking a fire of disgust and vengeance.
The seeds of propaganda Carolus had planted were now sprouting into a roaring blaze.
With each defendant introduced, the crowd hurled insults and expressed primal rage.
The fervor grew more intense with every name until it reached a boiling point with the fifth defendant.
By then, the courtroom resembled a concert hall about to erupt with the final, climactic performance.
The air was thick with heat and anticipation.
After delivering his fiery speech, the prosecutor paused to catch his breath.
Then, with dramatic flair, he announced the main event.
“Now, let’s deliver the verdict! Shout out the punishment you believe fits each criminal’s crimes!”
The essence of the people’s tribunal—the alpha and omega of this spectacle—was decision-making by the masses.
As the baton was passed to them, the audience roared in unison, their voices filled with rage and bloodlust.
“Death! Death! Death! Death!”
“Tear them apart! Rip their limbs and burn them alive!”
“No, that’s not enough! Skin them alive, sprinkle salt on their wounds, and drag them behind a wagon around the city walls!”
“Whoa, whoa! Let’s calm down, folks!”
The prosecutor grinned, gesturing for the crowd to settle.
“If you all shout at once, I can’t make out what you’re saying!”
Feigning a need for clarification, he posed the obvious question once more.
“Am I correct in understanding that everyone here agrees these criminals should be executed?”
“Yes!”
“Keeping them alive is a waste of good grain!”
Historically, communist people’s tribunals often placed plants and party members among the crowd to sway public opinion.
The reason was simple: controlling the narrative required groundwork and pre-coordination to ensure the desired outcome.
But here, no such efforts were necessary.
The crowd organically screamed for death, thanks to generations of noble misdeeds, the prosecutor’s skilled rhetoric, and the weeks of revolutionary propaganda from Carolus.
The foundation for unrestrained hatred and vengeance had already been thoroughly laid.
“Excellent! Now, as a final gesture, let’s grant the criminals the right to choose their end!”
Turning to the condemned nobles, the prosecutor addressed them with mock magnanimity.
“You will have the privilege of selecting your own demise. Stone, blade, or water—which will it be?”
“Stone, blade, or water…?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now, make your choice.”
Confused by the cryptic options but unwilling to resist, the nobles hesitantly complied.
Two chose stone, two chose blade, and Viscount Arschach, hesitating to the last moment, chose water.
“The choices have been made! Now, let the sentences be carried out!”
The prosecutor clapped his hands, and the guards moved in, dragging the condemned nobles from the defendant’s stand to kneel on the cold stone floor.
Their punishments were then announced for all to hear.
“Stone signifies stoning! Count Horn and one other will be pelted with rocks until they breathe their last!”
“What?! No, this is too cruel—mmph!”
Resistance was futile.
The guards, already prepared, silenced their pleas and pinned them down.
With their mouths gagged and limbs restrained, the two were dragged to the execution site, where piles of stones awaited.
“Next, blade! A traditional method from the East! Viscount Grunwald and one other will have their flesh sliced thin, piece by piece, until nothing remains!”
“Just kill me outright, you bastards! Tear me apart instead of this inhuman punishment!”
“What difference does it make? You’re not even human to begin with.”
The prosecutor’s smile vanished as he taunted them with scornful mockery.
“If you were human, you wouldn’t have concealed the cause of the war for ten years while exploiting the people like tyrants.”
No rebuttal came.
Before they could scream further indignities, their mouths were gagged, and they were dragged toward a blood-stained platform, where the remains of previous victims were still visible.
“And finally, water! The most ‘non-violent’ yet cruelest of deaths! Viscount Arschach will be boiled alive until he becomes a tender stew!”
“No! No, please spare me! This isn’t right!”
Panicked, Viscount Arschach frantically scanned his surroundings for salvation.
Then, his eyes landed on a familiar face on a terrace near the square—a face that gave him a fleeting glimmer of hope.
“Camilla! That’s you, isn’t it?! Please, save your father! Are you really going to let your own blood die like this?!”
Viscount Arschach’s desperate cries echoed through the square as he locked eyes with his daughter, standing calmly on a terrace.
Camilla, one of Carolus’s closest confidants, often described as his lover, was flanked by figures like Major General Vaden and Julius, the Treasury Director.
Surely, with just a little effort, she could stop this. It would take no more than a word to spare his life.
Hopeful, he pleaded with her through his eyes, only to see Camilla lift her hand—then extend her middle finger.
“Ah, that wretched man. Finally, I get to see him die.”
Leaning against my shoulder, Camilla murmured with a satisfied smile as the execution began.
She had been eagerly anticipating this moment all morning, and now, it seemed, her long-held frustrations were finally easing.
“Congratulations, my lady—or rather, should I start calling you Viscountess now?” I asked, half-teasing.
“Not just yet. The succession ceremony still has to be completed,” she replied, smiling faintly before turning to address the group behind us.
“You all should sit back and enjoy the show. If you’ve managed to survive this long, why not take a moment to savor your good fortune?”
“Y-yes, of course!”
“Absolutely! Thank you, my lady!”
The ones who answered her were nobles who had narrowly escaped the people’s tribunal.
Each wore a pitiful, groveling expression.
Despite our earlier proclamations about purging all the blue bloods, we hadn’t actually carried out a complete massacre.
Talent, after all, was too valuable to waste.
Nobles made up a significant portion of civil servants—if we wiped them all out, the kingdom’s administrative functions would collapse.
While we could eliminate the useless and incompetent, there were always those whose skills were irreplaceable.
“We’re still in a state of war. If we purge too recklessly, we won’t even be able to supply the army.”
So, we conducted strict evaluations, sparing only those whose crimes were less severe and who possessed undeniable talent.
Naturally, those aligned with our faction were also exempt.
Bringing them here to witness the spectacle wasn’t strictly necessary.
It was, however, an effective way to ensure discipline and compliance.
We spared them, but if they don’t cooperate, they need to see what happens.
That way, they won’t dare entertain foolish thoughts again.
There were others we spared for specific purposes—like those intended to be sent to the Empire or kept alive to deal with later, alongside the king.
So, while a significant portion of the nobles were being obliterated here—around 70-80% of noble families—exceptions weren’t unheard of.
“But, I’ve noticed it’s been men all morning. Are there no women being brought out? Is there a reason for that?” I asked.
“Oh, the female nobles are being tried separately,” a subordinate replied.
“Why?”
“We can’t risk what might happen if they were brought before an agitated crowd.”
Female titleholders were handled discreetly in quieter, more controlled settings to prevent public disturbances and ensure their safety.
Bringing them to the public tribunal risked turning into chaos.
The crowd would likely storm in before the execution could even begin, stripping, assaulting, and torturing them in ways too horrific to describe.
In the end, a clean death by stoning would seem merciful compared to what the mob might do.
I have no desire to recreate Sodom and Gomorrah in the heart of Rahator.
Most women without titles spent their days in salons or social clubs.
Few of them had committed serious crimes.
“If everything goes as planned, the trials should wrap up in four days. Once they’re over, let’s get back to the office and prepare for what’s next,” I said, turning to my advisors.
“What’s next, sir?”
“…Civil war.”
When this grim yet entertaining spectacle is over, it will be time to address internal matters once again.