The grand council chamber of Ostoria was drowned in silence. Heavy torches burned against the marble walls, their light shivering across the banners of the six cities. A circle of judgment had formed — one that smelled of iron, dust, and fear.
At the center stood Kaito Mugenrei.
Chained hands, bloodstained cloak, and eyes that no longer reflected life.
He did not plead. He did not explain. He simply stared at the floor, as if waiting for the world to finish its sentence.
Around him, the council argued like dogs circling a carcass.
Tamaki Yume, the mayor of Korvath, struck the table with her palm.
"Order must be absolute. If men can kill without sanction, our law means nothing."
Seiko Nakahara, head of Reflynne's Healers Association, spoke next — voice trembling with restraint.
"He exposed a traitor. We cannot ignore the truth he risked his life to reveal."
Mako Shirusekai, wise and weathered, leaned forward.
"In times of peace, we would call him a murderer. But this is not peace. War stains all hands."
Yet despite all their words, the room remained divided.
Justice and necessity — two blades pressed against each other's edge.
And then, the doors opened.
The sound alone was enough to stop every voice mid-sentence.
Guild Master Iroko Ryusei entered the chamber, his black-and-gold cloak dragging a weight heavier than command — the authority of judgment itself.
He walked with unhurried precision, eyes steady, expression unreadable. When he reached the center dais, even the most prideful of the council lowered their gaze.
Iroko said nothing at first. He merely held out his hand.
The guards placed a sealed folder upon his palm — the proof Kaito had presented.
He broke the seal, reading each page in silence. Reports. Transactions. Coded letters. Evidence of Montara's secret dealings with Valeria's agents. Every document was a nail in the coffin of what once was honor among Ostoria's elite.
When he finally closed the file, the air shifted. The torches seemed to dim.
"Kaito Mugenrei," Iroko began, his voice neither kind nor cruel — simply final.
"You stand guilty of unsanctioned execution. The law forbids it. But your proof reveals that the man you killed sold our borders, our people, and our trust."
Kaito lifted his head slightly, eyes dull yet steady.
Iroko looked down at him.
"In ordinary times, such a crime would end in your death. But these are not ordinary times."
He turned to the council.
"In the last year alone, Valeria has crushed six of our sister cities. Bustleburg was first. Then Korvath. Reflynne nearly fell. Orleaf stands last — and barely. Treachery has become more dangerous than any sword."
He let the words sink in before he continued.
"So tell me," he asked the hall, "what value does execution serve, when the frontlines bleed faster than we can bury the dead?"
No one answered.
Even Tamaki's lips pressed shut.
Iroko stepped forward, until the distance between him and Kaito was a single breath.
"You claim to have acted alone. No accomplices. No orders. Only instinct."
Kaito did not deny it.
Iroko studied him — this man who had broken the law to protect it.
The Guild Master's eyes softened, just barely.
"Then you will stand alone still," Iroko said quietly. "But you will do so on our behalf."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Iroko raised his hand, silencing them.
"Your punishment is this: you will serve under the Division of Suicidal Missions. Each task you receive will carry a death rate so high that no sane man accepts it. You will go where others refuse — the poisoned valleys, the cursed ruins, the enemy's trenches. Complete your missions, and each one will buy you a step toward freedom. Fail…"
He paused. The firelight caught the glint in his eyes.
"…and your punishment ends with your death."
The chamber erupted — protests, outrage, disbelief.
Tamaki rose to her feet. "That's madness!"
Iroko's gaze silenced her like a blade drawn across the throat of her argument.
"This is not mercy," he said. "This is consequence. Let him bear the weight of his own choices, on the battlefield where hesitation is death."
He looked at Kaito again.
"No chains. No cells. Only missions. You'll carry the mark of the condemned — visible to all. The people will know what you are, and why you fight."
For a long moment, Kaito said nothing. Then, faintly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
"You can't kill a man who's already dead inside."
His voice was calm, almost peaceful.
"Send me wherever you want. The grave is just another road."
Iroko's expression did not change, but something in his eyes flickered — respect, or perhaps pity.
He turned to the guards. "Release him after three days. Let him rest… then begin."
As they led Kaito away, chains clinking softly, Iroko faced the council one last time.
"You call it punishment," he said. "But for men like him, this is the only kind of redemption left."
The doors closed behind Kaito.
The murmurs resumed, quiet and uneasy.
Iroko remained alone in the center of the hall, the folder still in his hand.
He looked down at it — the proof that had damned one man and saved an entire nation.
Then, with a tired breath, he whispered to no one in particular:
"In times of peace, law keeps the world steady. But in times of war…"
He closed the file and turned away.
"…men like him are the law's shadow — necessary, and cursed."
The torches burned lower, their light trembling across the council's empty seats.
And for the first time that night, Iroko Ryusei allowed himself to feel the weight of his own verdict.