Chapter 729: 729

He paused, staring across the court at the silent godlings. "We demand that you see us. That you understand our pain. That justice means something more than power. That someone answers for what was done."

The humanity slogan was no longer a mere murmur. What had begun as scattered voices now wove together into a low, unified chant, swelling in strength with every heartbeat. It rippled through the crowd like a rising tide, carrying with it outrage, grief, and a desperate hunger for justice. Among the masses, the nobles stood apart, well-dressed, composed, and smiling brightly.

On the godlings’ side, however, silence reigned.

They sat unmoving, unflinching, as though the storm of accusations meant nothing. The chant pressed against them, yet none answered, until one of the lawyers rose from her seat.

She was a female harpy godling.

The moment she stood, attention bent toward her as if compelled by an unseen force. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was not the shallow kind born of symmetry alone. Her wings, folded neatly behind her, shimmered faintly, each feather catching the light in a way that drew the eye without effort. There was charm in her posture, in the effortless confidence with which she regarded the room, and in the sharp intelligence glinting behind her calm expression.

Even the chant faltered.

Voices that had been rising moments before stumbled, then faded, collapsing back into an uneasy murmur. Men found their eyes drifting away from her gaze, some lowering their heads without understanding why, others suddenly aware of their own breathing, their own heartbeat. She had not said a word, yet the room already belonged to her.

She waited.

Only when silence had fully settled did she speak.

Her voice was smooth and clear, carrying effortlessly across the whole place. It did not rise in anger, nor did it plead. It struck with precision, each word chosen to wound.

She turned first toward the human lawyers, then slowly toward the victims, her eyes measuring them with quiet scrutiny.

"How do you know," she asked gently, "that the godlings were the ones who caused this disaster?"

The question landed like a blade.

A wave of frowns spread through the crowd, confusion and irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. Some opened their mouths to protest, but she did not stop there.

"It could," she continued, her tone unchanged, "have been done by any one of the human mages."

Murmurs broke out again, sharper this time, edged with offense. Yet before they could grow, she shifted her attention fully to the victims, her gaze softening just enough to appear sympathetic.

"Did any of you," she asked, "catch even a glimpse of the godlings during these storms and disasters?"

The victims faltered.

Grief had carried them this far, fueled their anger, given them certainty. But the question struck at the fragile foundation beneath it all. One by one, they hesitated, memories scrambling, doubt creeping in where conviction had once stood firm.

Unconsciously, several of them turned their heads.

Their eyes drifted not toward the godlings, but toward the human nobles seated among the crowd.

The movement was small. Instinctive. Yet unmistakable.

The harpy godling saw it.

A faint smile curved her lips. The kind of smile worn by someone who had just shifted the battlefield without lifting a finger, who knew that the seed of doubt had been planted... and that it would grow.

She turned her gaze toward the human lawyers, her wings shifting slightly as she did.

"Where," she asked calmly, "is the proof provided by the victims that accuses these fourteen godlings of the alleged crime?"

The question echoed through the building.

No one answered.

The human lawyers exchanged brief glances, parchment rustling in nervous hands, but none could produce what she demanded. There were no records, no eyewitness accounts, no artifacts imbued with energy residue, nothing that could point directly at the godlings. Only grief, fear, and assumption.

Seeing that the silence had settled firmly in her grasp, the female harpy spoke again.

"This court session," she declared, her voice steady and unyielding, "is a fallacy and a disgrace before the Goddess."

A stir rippled through the hall.

"This gathering was neither properly sanctioned nor lawfully convened. Yet here we stand, attempting not to judge fourteen accused individuals, but to place the entire godling race upon trial for their existence."

Her words cut deeper than outrage ever could.

"Justice is not collective punishment," she continued. "If it were, then no race, human or godlings could ever claim innocence."

A human lawyer could no longer contain himself and rose sharply from his seat.

"How dare you," he snapped, pointing an accusing finger, "call this case a fallacy before the Goddess, before the suffering victims who lost everything!"

The harpy godling did not flinch.

Instead, she turned her attention to the four representative judges seated above, two human, two godling. Her gaze lingered on each of them in turn, measured and deliberate, as though weighing their integrity.

Only then did she look back at the lawyer who had challenged her.

"I would like to believe," she said softly, "that as a fellow servant of the law, one whose profession itself is born of the Goddess’s divine gift, you would recognize the fallacy and the clownish nature of this case from the very beginning."

Her words did not rise in volume.

They did not need to.

The insult lay not in mockery, but in implication: that the lawyer either lacked the wisdom to see the truth... or possessed it and chose to ignore it.

She then turned her attention to the human lawyers and the judges alike, her gaze sweeping the chamber with deliberate slowness.

"Have you," she asked, "forgotten the doctrine and the way of the Goddess?"

The very lawyer who had challenged her moments before bowed his head, shoulders stiff, as though the weight of the words had pressed him downward. Around him, several human lawyers and even one of the judges shook their heads in disappointment.

Before the harpy could continue, one of the human judges leaned forward and spoke, his voice smoth and calm.

"Please, sister," he said, "make your words less cryptic for those who do not yet understand."

The harpy godling took in the room, the furrowed brows, the whispers of confusion among the spectators, the sudden shift from righteous fury to uneasy doubt. Recognizing the moment for clarity, she inclined her head and offered a slight bow to the judge who had spoken.

"Of course," she replied evenly.

"To expose the fallacy of this case, we must begin where I first directed my question, to my fellow lawyers, and to the victims themselves."

She stepped forward, wings unfolding just enough to cast long shadows across the polished floor.

"Under the Goddess’s doctrine," she continued, "justice is not only promised, it is demanded."

A pause.

"But it is not blind justice shaped by the magnitude of loss, nor by the depth of suffering one party has endured."

Her eyes moved toward the victims.

"Pain does not grant certainty. Grief does not create truth. And loss, no matter how devastating, cannot be allowed to replace proof."

The chamber remained silent, every ear fixed upon her.

"The Goddess teaches balance," she said. "That judgment must be rooted in truth, not in outrage. That justice must be precise, not convenient. And above all, that guilt must be proven, never presumed."

Her gaze returned to the judges.

"To abandon these principles," she concluded, "is not to honor the victims... but to betray the very doctrine we claim to uphold."

"Under the Goddess’s doctrine," she continued, her voice unwavering, "this court session should never have taken place."

A stir moved through the chamber.

"The reason is simple. Those who seek justice are not to be brought before judges or crowds. They are guided to the nearest temple of the Goddess, where they meet with her devoted priests and lay bare the injustice they have suffered, while formally pledging their case."

She lifted one hand slightly, as if marking the steps of a sacred ritual.

"During this pledge, it is the victim’s duty to be clear, unambiguously about whom they seek justice against."

Her gaze sharpened.

"The victims before us today possess no such clarity. They have no proof of who their offender is or was."

Unease spread through the hall.

"The fourteen godlings deemed responsible in this case," she went on, "cannot even be recognized by the victims as the ones who brought about their pain."

Murmurs rose, laced with doubt and discomfort. Several eyes turned toward her, suspicious, searching for deception.

Sensing this, she raised her voice.

"If there is doubt in my words," she declared, "then let them be tested before all present. No lie can be spoken in the presence of the Goddess."

The chamber froze.

She turned and gestured toward the fourteen godlings.

"Step forward."

The godlings hesitated.

They looked at her, doubt and uncertainty flickering in their eyes. They had come prepared to be punished for their actions. Hearing the victims recount the deaths, the suffering, the devastation they had caused filled them with shame.