chapter 10.7

In the main courtyard of the central headquarter, Oldman stood tall, surrounded by hundreds of prisoners—the remnants of those Jovalian had cast away over the past month. They were victims of the kingdom's political chaos, discarded in a power struggle that did not care for their survival.

Above them, the gloomy night sky stretched endlessly, the moon barely visible behind layers of darkened clouds. The only source of light came from the large bonfire at the center of the yard, its flickering glow casting grim shadows across the weary, defeated faces standing beneath it.

Their hands and feet remained bound in heavy chains. Their bodies frail, their expressions hollow—the weight of starvation and exhaustion visible in their every breath. They had not been given bloody potion since their arrival.

This was deliberate.

Oldman had left them in this state on purpose. To him, most of them were unworthy of becoming outcasts. And he intended to ensure that only those strong enough to endure would survive.

A tense silence gripped the air as Oldman finally spoke. His voice was firm, cold, cutting through the courtyard with undeniable authority.

"You think this place is a punishment?" His words shattered the stillness. "No. This is judgment."

His gaze swept over the prisoners, drinking in the fear and confusion in their sunken eyes. Whatever hope they had clung to was already beginning to wither under his piercing stare.

"The Wall is not a place for the weak." His voice was unrelenting. "There is no mercy here. No complaints will be heard. Here, every breath must be earned. Your lives no longer belong to you. In this place, you have only two choices: survive or die."

Some prisoners swallowed nervously, others struggled to stand upright, their legs trembling beneath them.

Oldman continued, his tone even harsher than before.

"No one cares about you. Not your king. Not your families. Even we, the outcasts, do not care. The only one who can save you now— is you."

He lifted his hand, pointing toward the endless abyss of the southern forest.

"Beyond that darkness, you will find your fate—life or death. From this moment, you are no longer prisoners. You are candidates to become outcasts."

From within his worn cloak, Oldman pulled out a crumpled map, then threw it onto the ground before them.

"Your task is simple," he declared, his voice even colder than before. "Go south, find Folwestian Bloom, and return with ten full sacks. Some of us will be watching from afar—but do not expect help."

A murmur of panic stirred through the prisoners. Some exchanged glances, hoping to find reassurance in the equally terrified faces beside them.

But Oldman gave them no time to hesitate.

"If you try to escape," his voice turned sharp, "believe me, that is a fate worse than facing the horrors of that forest. In the south, there are only monsters—beasts far crueler than your worst nightmares. If you run, you will die alone, forgotten, and nameless."

He began walking among them, his slow, deliberate steps amplifying the weight of his judgment.

Each prisoner he passed could feel the air tighten, suffocating them under his presence.

"But I will give you one chance," he said, stopping in the heart of the crowd. "One opportunity to prove that your life still has value."

His gaze met each of theirs, measuring, calculating.

"If you return with ten full sacks of Folwestian Bloom, I will grant you freedom. You may go wherever you wish. No one will stop you."

Confusion flickered in their eyes, hope mixed with doubt. Some began calculating their chances, weighing their odds of survival.

"However," Oldman's voice hardened, "if you choose to return to The Wall, you will be accepted as one of us. But if you wish to become an outcast, you must prove that you are worthy."

The courtyard fell into an eerie silence.

The prisoners finally understood—there was no easy way out.

But among them, a few showed the faintest glimmers of resolve—a courage born from desperation.

"Tomorrow morning," Oldman announced, "you will depart. When you reach the designated location, your chains will be removed. But remember this—if you return empty-handed, or if you attempt to flee… your life will end in the south."

He let his words hang, allowing the weight of his decree to sink into their bones. Then, with a final cold declaration, he sealed their fate.

"The Wall does not need cowards. The world has already discarded you— in their eyes, you are already dead. Here, you have one last chance to prove you are still worthy of breathing."

Turning away, he addressed the guards standing watch.

"Leave them here tonight. Let them think. At dawn, they depart."

The guards nodded, their expressions impassive, indifferent.

Meanwhile, the prisoners remained rooted in place, drowning in their own thoughts, their minds weighed down by the merciless ultimatum set before them.

At the edge of the courtyard, Alcard stood in silence, watching from a distance.

He had listened to every word, his face unreadable.

But deep inside, he knew this trial wasn't just for the prisoners—it was also a reminder to every outcast who still remained at The Wall.

That here, in this forsaken place, only one law reigned—

Survive, or die.

As the night deepened, the air grew colder, adding yet another layer of suffering for those forced to stand under the open sky.

Above them, the moon remained hidden, shrouded behind thick, unmoving clouds. The bonfire at the courtyard's center slowly burned lower, its flickering flames casting long, ominous shadows.

And once more, The Wall stood as a silent witness—to another night of judgment, to another test of survival, and to yet another chapter in the struggle of those whom the world had chosen to forget.

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