The little boy stood frozen, tears streaming as blood dripped from his head. He tried to stifle his sobs, praying they wouldn't hear him. While Whistle spoke to the girl, Blasphemy pointed toward him, channeling his voice to the judge.
The boy trembled with fear. Every slight sound made him flinch, every gust of wind shook him. His heart sank to his legs when he thought he heard a whistle. At that moment, he was afraid of everything. Even his own shadow made him stumble back, certain someone was about to strike.
Finally, the judge spoke:
"Because this is…"
Even he was startled when his voice echoed through the square. But seeing that no one else appeared surprised, he continued:
"This is a public trial. We will speak with the mouth of the people—no legal terms, nothing to confuse anyone. This trial will be as just as our Lord. It will not depend on me alone. The twenty families seated high to the left and right, as always, will join me in judgment. With that, let us begin."
Whistle stepped forward. "Your honor, the first guilty is seven years old. His name is Jeff."
The judge looked at him. "Jeff, what's your story?"
Whistle whistled sharply, and Jeff froze.
"Jeff!" the judge barked. "Do you think you are guilty or innocent?"
Jeff stammered: "Innocent, y… your… ho… nor."
"Then tell me what happened."
Jeff hesitated, his lips trembling.
The judge's tone softened. "Look, Jeff. Don't be afraid. If you are innocent, we will let you go. We don't want to think you guilty by mistake, just because you refuse to speak… do we?"
Jeff: "No, your honor…"
"Then help me help you. Let me make you go home."
The word home struck Jeff's heart like a bell. He clung to it. Slowly, he spoke:
"I was hungry. My family was struggling… three days without eating is too much. When I smelled the bakery, I couldn't resist. I took something—for me and my family."
The judge leaned forward. "You mean, you stole."
Jeff lowered his head. "I was hungry. I didn't know better."
"Then tell me, Jeff. Was it your family's fault, or yours?"
Jeff shook his head. "It was destiny's fault. Destiny decided we would be poor."
The judge sat back. "Then the sentence is clear."
Jeff breathed again. Hope swelled inside him. The longer it went on, the more he believed—he would go home.
Until…
The judge's voice cut the air: "You know what I realized? The one holding the trumpet is not needed. Blasphemy already channels the voices somehow."
He signaled to the guards who stood beside him and the heads of the five families. One guard stabbed the man holding the trumpet; the other shoved his body off the building.
Everyone in the square witnessed it—the first sentence, handed to someone deemed useless.
And in that moment, anyone who thought this trial was going to be just… no longer knew for sure. Justice was dead, and with it, so were they.
After that, all of the persecuted… knew. But some still hoped.
Whoever transcended to the circle of precaution… felt heavy.
One by one they stepped forward.
The girl, Nira, only nineteen—said she was about to be raped and escaped. She didn't understand why she was here.
Then a man, about in his twenties. He said, "I don't know why I'm here. I was walking home… and they just put me here."
Another came: "Your honor… I killed my sister."
The judge was stunned. He asked about the family.
They brought in his father and mother.
The judge asked: "What do you think of this?"
The parents said: "He didn't mean to. He was hitting her like always… he didn't mean to kill her. We waive the right of our daughter for our son."
The judge: "What?"
The parents argued: "She was mistaken. She was wronged."
The judge was amazed he said :disgusting
The parents tried to speak again: "But..... "
The judge cut them off: "Why did you bring me an innocent?"
Then he lifted his hammer and struck it down.
"You may go home."
Then came the turn of the old man in a wheelchair.
He had to go up the stairs to the circle to be judged.
But the structure—made to hold only one person—couldn't take the wheelchair.
Everyone watched him struggle.
He fell back from his chair.
The space was narrow, enough for only his body.
So he crawled. Crawled from the fall, climbing to the highest end of the circle.
No one helped him.
When he finally reached the top, oh.... I forgot to tell you.....
one of Blasphemy's minions was waiting at the stairs with the trumpet, to channel the voice of the persecuted through it. But for the judge, the one holding it wasn't
........ blasphemy minion.
That person gave the old man two beverage crates to sit on.
The judge asked: "What is your deal?"
The old man: "Injustice."
The judge: "Do you accuse us of such a sin?"
The old man: "No. I am telling you—you are unjust."
The judge: "I will give you one chance to clear yourself."
The old man: "I will give you ten, if you can prove anything against me."
The judge: "Your silence means you are guilty."
The old man: "Then I am innocent. I didn't stop talking."
The people shouted, full of disappointment.
"How dare this dying man talk like this!"
The judge smacked his hammer: "Order! Order! I have heard enough!"
He shouted: "Whistle, you know what to do."
Whistle's henchmen dragged the old man from the stairs and placed him in the empty space between the circle and the judge.
Blasphemy and all his people—except the one he used as an echo to channel his voice—were there, on the left side of the judge's building.
They stood right in front of Blasphemy, facing the judge's way.
Then Whistle turned them to face Blasphemy.
They all looked terrified.
But the old man… he was not.
All of Blasphemy's minions clung to him—grabbing his hands, his shoulders, his arms. Touching his back, his head. Some whispering into his ear.
Miguel cried: "My friend, don't!"
Then came a different whistle this time it was...
........... The Whistle of Death.
Blasphemy tried to stop him, but his minions held him like he was their life.
And then…
........ it came...