I Died and Received an SSS-Rank Unique Ability-Chapter 97: Courtroom

The gavel struck a third time, echoing through the grand chamber like a war drum. The head judge leaned forward, his mask catching the firelight. "Let the record reflect that the trial of the accused, Vale, The Butcher of the South Outpost, shall now commence."

A man in crimson robes stood from the prosecutor’s bench. He was rotund, balding, and spoke with the pride of someone who believed his voice alone could convict a man.

"The Government brings forth charges of the gravest nature," he began, unrolling a scroll that unfurled to the floor. "Let it be known that Vale, formerly of the Royal Army, stands accused of the murder of twenty-three individuals at the Southern Outpost—among them a high-ranking General, who was a decorated war hero and beloved public servant."

A murmur spread through the crowd like a breeze through dry leaves. Vale remained still in the iron pen, shoulders slack but spine unyielding.

"The accused is also charged with unlawful incursion into the private estate of the Tyne Family. During the night of the attack, ten Awakened guards were slain in brutal combat. Three unarmed servants—one of them a child—were also found dead within the wreckage. The manor suffered extensive damage, its eastern wing reduced to ash. The damage to the property has been deemed irreparable."

Gasps and whispers grew louder.

"The list continues," the prosecutor droned on. "Destruction of government property. Theft of classified information. Resisting arrest. Assault on government agents. Evasion of justice. Unauthorised use of forbidden magic. Multiple instances of trespassing on sacred grounds. And perhaps most damning of all—treason against the Kingdom."

He lowered the scroll with theatrical grace. "The Government seeks full punitive action—death by hanging."

Vale’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. He understood very well what was going on. Half of those accusations weren’t even real, but combined with the real crimes he committed, the lies would only harden the decision. This wasn’t a trial—it was a ritual. A stage dressed in formality to execute a foregone conclusion.

His gaze lingered on the floor, unmoved by the cacophony of the courtroom. He looked tired. Not broken—he’d never let them break him—but hollow, like someone who had already faced his worst and lived through it.

There was a pause.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice rose from the defence bench.

"If it pleases the court," the young woman said, standing carefully.

All heads turned. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, her robes too big for her slender frame, her voice steady but not loud. She wore no family crest, no official title beyond the court-appointed seal pinned at her collar.

The lead judge tilted his head. "Advocate Myrin?"

"I understand the severity of the accusations," she continued, her heels clicking across the floor as she stepped forward. "But I ask the court to consider the possibility that not all of these acts were of the accused’s choosing."

The crowd exploded with noise—shouting, hissing, even laughter.

"Order!" barked a judge, slamming the gavel. "Order in the court!"

The advocate waited calmly, her hands folded in front of her. When the noise died down, she continued.

"There are patterns in the reports—patterns that suggest external influence. Testimonies from those who survived the Outpost speak of Vale acting with precision and ruthlessness unfamiliar to those who served alongside him. Some even claimed he looked as though he were being controlled. And consider the manor incident. The damage was too vast, it could not have been done by a single person."

She paused for a moment, then turned to the crowd, "How do we know the accused wasn’t simply defending himself?"

The prosecutor scoffed, shaking his head. "Speculation and hearsay."

"Perhaps," Myrin said, her voice level. "But how many criminals resist advanced interrogation for weeks without slipping once? How many survive torture yet give no justification, no defence—not even an outrage?"

She turned to look at Vale directly.

"Unless, perhaps, they believe they’re guilty... for crimes they didn’t even commit."

Vale’s eyes met hers. Something in her expression stirred a faint echo in his memory—a familiarity he couldn’t place. A strange sense that she knew more than she had reason to. Too calm. Too precise. Her eyes seemed like they could pierce right through him, knowing all there was with a single glance.

The room had descended into hushed confusion, half the spectators staring at Myrin in disbelief, the other half at Vale with doubt creeping into their eyes.

The gavel thundered again. "Enough."

The center judge leaned forward. "Bring the accused to the stand."

Two guards moved to the iron pen, unlocking the gate with slow deliberation. Vale stepped out, heavy chains dragging behind him. The mana-suppressing cuffs around his wrists hummed softly, eating away at what little mana remained. Still, he walked with quiet dignity, straight-backed and unflinching.

He approached the small podium at the center of the chamber, now ringed in enchanted wards. The judges loomed overhead, masked and silent.

"You stand accused of crimes most foul," the head judge intoned. "Before this court passes judgment, do you have anything to say in your defence?"

The courtroom held its breath.

Vale looked at the judges. Then, he glanced at the crowd, then down at the cracked wood of the stand.

"Defence?" Vale’s gaze lifted, "I only slaughtered those who betrayed my family. Royal family."

The words, like flint to dry kindling, ignited the room.

Sir Tyne, who was sitting as one of the witnesses, visibly shrank. His hand tightened around the edge of the bench. The judges, too, seemed to twitch at the words, their poise shaken behind the anonymity of their masks.

The sound that followed was not one of noise, but of disbelief.

Gasps. Whispers. Stifled laughter. One noble even stood, red-faced and furious. "Mockery!" someone shouted. "He spits in the face of justice!"

"Liar," another hissed. "Traitor’s spawn!"

The gavel slammed down once, twice. "Order!"

The judges looked unnerved. Silence tried to settle over the room but failed to land.

And then, Vale heard it. Barely audible—a blade being unsheathed. His eyes snapped toward the sound, instincts flaring like sparks on dry tinder.