Return of Black Lotus system:Taming Cheating Male Leads-Chapter 64 --

The crowd collectively held its breath.

Heena leveled the sword at the Knight Commander’s throat. The tip touched skin — barely, just the faintest kiss of steel — and a single drop of blood welled up, slow and dark, sliding down the column of his neck like a period at the end of a sentence no one wanted to finish.

"Your Majesty—" someone started from the crowd.

"Silence."

The word didn’t need to be loud. It landed like a blade through wood, clean and final, and the voice that had dared speak simply ceased. No shuffling feet. No rustling fabric. Not even the sound of breathing.

The Knight Commander closed his eyes. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping once beneath the skin. His hands were clasped behind his back — proper military form, maintained even now, even here. He had served for twenty-three years. He had earned every medal on that uniform. He knew what this moment meant. He braced for the end of it with the same rigid discipline he had braced for every battlefield he had ever walked onto.

Heena’s grip shifted on the hilt.

She raised the sword high — the blade catching the pale morning light for one suspended, breathless second — and brought it down in a single, brutal arc.

’CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.’

Medals hit the stone courtyard. One after another, small and bright, ringing as they scattered — years of service spinning across the ground. The Commander’s formal uniform split vertically from shoulder to hip, cut so cleanly the fabric barely understood what had happened before it began to fall away in strips. Not a single thread of his skin was broken. The blade had passed that close, that precisely, and touched nothing but cloth and metal.

He stood there in his underclothes, stripped of rank, stripped of honor, stripped of every marker that had defined him for over two decades — and he stood there in front of the entire palace.

Heena tossed the sword aside. It clattered against the stones with a careless, hollow ring.

She didn’t look at it again.

"From this moment," she said, her voice carrying clean and level across the courtyard, not raised, not performing — simply stating, the way one states the color of the sky, "you are no longer Knight Commander."

No one moved.

"For failing in your duty and ’ignoring’ a direct imperial order, you will receive fifteen lashes." Her gaze didn’t waver. "And twenty-five days of confinement."

A pause. She let it sit.

"In the Nether Dungeons."

A collective shudder moved through the crowd like a wave — not loud, not dramatic, just an involuntary shiver that passed through every body standing in that courtyard. Guards who had seen battle, nobles who had attended executions, servants who had watched worse than this. All of them shuddered at those two words.

The ’Nether Dungeons’. The name almost sounded poetic, when you didn’t know. When you did know, it stopped sounding like anything at all. The cells carved deepest beneath the palace, far below the dungeons people knew — below the water table, below the foundations, below the part of the earth that could be called anything but hostile. No light reached them. Not torchlight, not candlelight, not the memory of sunlight. The walls wept moisture day and night, a cold, constant seeping that soaked through clothing and skin within hours and never let you forget it. The air tasted like rot and iron and something older than both. Prisoners came out changed — hollowed out in ways that had nothing to do with physical injury, as though the darkness had scooped out something essential and simply not replaced it. Some of them never stopped flinching at nothing. Some of them stopped speaking altogether.

Some of them didn’t come out at all.

But no one would ever think that the empress would send anyone in there as it is normally only for those prisoners who commit grave crimes.

Unforgiving one.

Twenty-five days. Twenty-five days in that.

The former Commander’s face had gone the color of old ash, a grayness that spread from beneath his skin outward. But he didn’t beg. He didn’t tremble or plead or throw himself at her feet the way some men had before him in moments far less severe. He simply bowed his head — the last formal thing he had left — and held it there.

Whatever else he had been, whatever poor choice had brought him to this stone courtyard in his stripped uniform, he had the dignity not to make it worse.

Heena looked at him for a moment longer. Then she turned to the Captain of the Guard.

"Take him. Execute the sentence immediately."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

Two guards stepped forward and seized the man’s arms. He didn’t resist — didn’t pull back, didn’t stiffen, just let himself be taken — and they dragged him across the courtyard toward the stairwell that led down. His bare feet scraped across the stone. The sound of it carried in the silence. No one looked away, but no one looked directly at him either. That peculiar palace shame of witnessing without witnessing.

Then the sound of his footsteps vanished, and the courtyard was left with nothing but morning light and held breath.

Heena surveyed the crowd. Let her gaze move across them — guards, knights, nobles, servants — slow and thorough, the way a commander surveys a battlefield after it’s already been decided. Looking for weakness. Noting it. Filing it away.

"Let this be a lesson," she said quietly, and the quiet somehow made every ear strain harder to catch it. "I don’t care if a saint, a hero, or the gods themselves appear at my gates." A pause so brief it was almost not a pause at all. "If I have given an order, you ’follow’ it. If you cannot do that—"

She stopped.

She let the silence finish it, because the silence was more effective than anything she could have said.

Then she turned from them. Her cape swirled against the stone, and she walked toward the guest wing with the long, even stride of someone who had already moved past this — not because it didn’t matter, but because it was already settled.

"Now," she said, not breaking her pace, still calm, still carrying that crystalline chill that was somehow worse than heat, "someone bring Lady hina to me. I want to know what was ’so urgent’ she had to break into my palace in the middle of the night."

Her smile returned.

It was the kind of smile that had no warmth in it whatsoever — sweet the way certain flowers are sweet, the ones that grow over things that are dead. A smile that promised absolutely nothing good and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

"Let’s have a little chat, shall we?"

---

System 427 peeked out from behind her shoulder. His ears were flat. His fur was standing on end in that way it did when he couldn’t quite decide whether to be nervous or alarmed and had settled on both simultaneously.

"Um, host—" he whispered, then caught himself. "I mean— Heena." He swallowed. "I don’t think it’s really their fault. You know how the protagonist halo works..."

Heena paused mid-stride.

Just for a moment. A single, measured beat.

Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked at him.