Judgement

"What a mess this has become," Instructor Bale muttered.

"Three knights... dead. And by the hands of a mere mage student."

"I'll have to handle this matter myself,"he added, his voice firm, but his eyes—tired.

Handle it? I thought. What does he mean? Does he intend to fight me?

With a gentle voice and tear-streaked face, a face that regrets the actions he wished to take, Instructor Bale looked at me. Grief colored his every word.

"Johannes, my boy..." he said. "I have fulfilled your requests as your instructor. I didn't call you 'lord' or 'sir' this time, though etiquette demands it. I did so because I considered you my student. My boy."

"Now I ask for something in return—please, hand over the non-godblood to me, so that I may end his soul."

I shook. No... he wouldn't—

Before I could blink, a surge of mana burst forth—Instructor Bale's body engulfed in a blazing purple aura. His Grimoire was already in hand. When? I didn't even see him draw it.

And then—blood.

Blood dripping.

Blood gushing.

In his hand... Peter's head.

My vision blurred. My knees buckled. My breath froze. No... NO!

I saw it—memories flooding in like a storm. Kindergarten. Training days. Festivals. Laughter. Peter... you were my brother...

I tried to scream, but fear strangled my throat. I couldn't even cry—my eyes were dry, drained by shock.

Still trembling, I scanned Bale. His legs glowed faintly—manament footwear.

And then, something insane happened.

Numbers. Glowing green digits flickered across my sight—like a system reading. I was seeing...

[ Mana pool: 350,000. ]

_"Three… hundred… and fifty… thousand…"_

I muttered it aloud without thinking.

"So you can read mana pool without a device..." Instructor Bale said, his voice low and eerie. "That's a divine-class magic. The 'Field Analyzer.' You're truly unique. It's a shame I must end your journey here."

He lifted his voice into a roar:

"Johannes Freiburg! I charge you with treason and heresy!"

Then—he vanished.

Reappeared.

Behind me.

A dagger poised at my neck.

Fear overtook me and I screamed—

—and suddenly, I was gone, standing several meters away.

"Did I just teleport...?" I gasped.

Yes. No doubt about it.

Unlike the others... I didn't use magecraft.

I used true magic—power not reliant on Grimoires or incantations. Power reserved for the gods.

My hand in my chest, I screamed this words.

"Peter... I swear... I'll avenge you!"

With everything I had, I launched a Crimson Blast at Bale.

But he—backhanded it.

Like swatting a fly.

I swallowed hard. He's on a whole different level...

His mana pool alone—350,000 kunts—and yet, he hid it until now. I hadn't even felt it.

In a flash, he was behind me again.

I teleported—

—Too slow.

Pain tore through me.

Blood dripped from my head.

I looked down and saw it on the floor—my ear.

Gone.

"Still resisting?" Bale snarled. "Then die without honor."

He lunged, forming a sword of pure mana in midair.

I countered with another Crimson Blast.

BOOM!

The prison hall shook with a deafening shockwave.

Then again—he was behind me.

Teleport.

Again.

This is hopeless.

I haven't landed a single blow.

Bale raised a single hand. Mana gathered and dropped like a curtain.

Gravity.

It slammed me to the ground—tenfold gravity or more. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Blood poured from my mouth. I was crushed.

Mana—sealed.

I could feel death.

And I accepted it.

But before darkness could claim me...

A new presence entered the hall.

A man in a white robe with golden embroidery. A diadem on his head.

His footsteps were slow, but every knight and mage stopped breathing.

The High Priest of the Cathedral.

"Ease your spell, Instructor Bale," he commanded.

What shocked me even more—he was standing upright under the pressure. While everything else—walls, statues, even the golden effigy of the First Obedient Man—was turning to dust.

"The noble son Johannes Freiburg shall be judged before the High Bishop," he declared.

"The High Bishop...?" I whispered in fear.

"Yes, lad. Your crime is great. As a noble, you aided a non-godblood. Worse still—you killed three mage knights."

"Your punishment... will be decided by the highest religious authority in the kingdom: the High Grand Holiness, the Mouth of God—

High Bishop Zevrial the Silent Grace."

--

"Where's the key?" barked one knight.

"This is where you sleep tonight, lad," said the other.

I was locked up.

My cell was small, cold, and reeked of death. I felt no fear—only rage.

Peter... I couldn't protect you.

Peter... I failed you.

Tears threatened to fall, but I forced them back.

I clenched my teeth. I cursed fate. I cursed myself.

That's when I saw him.

Someone walking toward my cell.

Loud footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

An angel?

No... a bishop.

"Bishop Corvenius!" I gasped.

Our family's religious advisor.

He raised a hand. "Silence, boy."

"I bring both news and comfort. Your father is disappointed in your actions, but he will try to handle the situation. As for me... I shall sing a Psalm to warm your soul and pour honey into your heart."

His voice...

Angelic.

Not just one—like a legion of angels sang through him.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me.

Memories of childhood resurfaced—of holy songs during sacred feasts. Of joy. Of peace.

Sleep overtook me.

And I welcomed it.

---

A day passed.

I remained in chains.

But the real battle was about to begin.

Elsewhere…

Mathias Freiburg, head of the Freiburg family and my father, stood before the most powerful political man in the kingdom.

"Thank you for seeing me, Prime Minister," Mathias said.

Drevail, the Prime Minister—tall, lean, and ruthless—smiled thinly.

"I know why you're here, Mathias. But if it's a pardon you seek—I'm afraid I can't grant it."

"WHY?!" my father roared.

"He's just a child! He doesn't understand—he's just sixteen!"

"True," Drevail said calmly, "but three mage knights are dead. If I pardon him, what message does that send? If it wasn't your son who killed them—would you still plead?"

"What if your son was among the dead?"

Mathias's anger exploded.

He drew his sword.

But Drevail only raised an eyebrow.

"So it comes to this," he said. "Know this—if you kill me here, your son dies. Only I can plead your case before the High Bishop."

Mathias froze.

"Yes," Drevail continued, "High Bishop Zevrial the Silent Grace himself has demanded judgment. If I oppose him, my chance of ever becoming king is gone."

Mathias turned and walked away—grief heavy in his step.

He wandered through the palace garden, eyes distant.

He remembered his wife. His daughter. His son.

He whispered a verse:

>"For the most loving father would swap the head of his son with his own in the face of execution."

And in that moment, Mathias Freiburg made his decision.

He would make the ultimate sacrifice.

And he would not say goodbye.

Because if he did… he knew he'd lose the strength to go through with it.