The city square was filled to the brim. People pressed together, whispering with eager eyes as though they were waiting for a festival, not an execution.
But this was no ordinary punishment.
It was a prince being flogged before his people.
Gabriel walked to the centre of the platform with steady steps, his thin frame wrapped in simple robes that only highlighted his bruises. The guards bound his hands to the wooden pillar, forcing him to his knees. The heavy chains clinked as they tightened, but Gabriel did not resist. His back was bare to the scorching sun, pale skin exposed like a canvas waiting for agony.
His heart thudded in his chest. His palms sweated inside the shackles. His lips trembled for a moment, but he clenched his teeth until they cut into his tongue. He would not beg. He would not cry.
The square grew silent when Jude, the king's right-hand man, lifted the fire copper whip. The weapon glowed faintly, red-hot like molten iron, the copper threads sizzling as if eager for flesh. Even cultivators of the second and third stage dreaded its bite — yet here it was, about to fall on someone who had never cultivated a day in his life.
The first strike came.
CRACK!
The whip carved across Gabriel's back, searing his flesh open instantly. His body jerked violently, blood spraying onto the stone floor. His throat released a guttural sound, half groan, half scream — but he bit it back, refusing to let the crowd hear his weakness.
The second strike came harder.
The copper tore into his shoulders, peeling skin like paper. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. A few women in the crowd gasped, some turned their faces away, but most stared wide-eyed, unable to look away.
The third.
The fourth.
The fifth.
By the tenth lash, Gabriel's body was trembling uncontrollably, his vision blurring. His knees buckled, but the chains held him upright. Blood trickled down his spine, pooling at his feet.
"Fall already," someone in the crowd muttered.
"He won't last twenty."
Delaney was smiling. Daisy was sobbing uncontrollably in their mother's arms. King Orion sat cold-faced, his eyes showing neither pity nor mercy.
At the twentieth lash, Gabriel's consciousness flickered. Each strike felt like fire eating into his bones. He wanted to faint, to escape the pain, but fate was cruel — his mind clung stubbornly to wakefulness.
I will not fall here.
Not before them.
He lifted his head, forcing his bloodshot eyes to sweep across the crowd. His lips cracked into a bitter smile. Even bound, even broken, he still had his pride.
The fortieth lash split his back so deep that bone glimmered beneath torn flesh. The crowd gasped. Surely this was enough. Surely the prince would die.
But Gabriel did not fall.
Each lash after that was beyond pain. His nerves went numb, his body became nothing but raw agony. His throat was hoarse from swallowed screams. But his will… his will was iron.
By the eightieth lash, his blood had drenched the pillar, dripping steadily like rain. His vision was almost gone, his breath shallow, but his spirit still stood tall within him.
Ninety.
Ninety-one.
Ninety-two.
The guards looked at one another in disbelief. This was no longer punishment — it was survival against the impossible.
When the hundredth lash finally struck, Gabriel's body convulsed violently. His head slumped forward, strands of dark-blue hair clinging to his blood-soaked face. For a terrifying moment, everyone thought he was dead.
But then… he laughed.
A broken, weak laugh that sent chills across the square. His lips curled in defiance, blood dripping from his teeth.
Then, with a strength that no one thought he still possessed, Gabriel lifted his head. His long dark-blue hair, drenched in blood, clung to his chiselled face. Even bruised and battered, his handsomeness shone through — sharp jawline glistening with sweat and blood, lips torn but still curved into a mocking smile. His eyes, though bloodshot, gleamed like twin blades under the dying sun.
Slowly, he turned his head.
First, his gaze fell on Delaney. His eyes were pure venom, a death glare that made her step back unconsciously. For the first time, she felt fear from the brother she mocked as trash. His handsome face twisted with pain, but the hatred in his stare was like a curse — cold, suffocating, promising vengeance. Delaney's throat went dry. She could not laugh anymore.
Then, he looked at King Orion. For his father, there was no begging, no fear. Only a look of icy contempt. That silent glare was more insulting than any word, as though Gabriel was saying, You are not my king. You are not my father. The crowd felt their hearts pound — how could a beaten, blood-soaked youth look so majestic, as if he sat on a throne above them all?
Next, his eyes softened when they met Daisy's. The bloody smile that tugged at his lips was full of reassurance. Though he could barely stand, though his back was torn apart, he forced a pained but gentle smile for her. It was a promise: I will not fall, little sister. Daisy's tears doubled, her fists trembling — his handsomeness in that broken state carved itself into her heart like fire.
When his gaze lingered on his mother, the expression changed again. His face was pale, his body barely alive, but the smile he gave her was full of filial love and apology. His bloodied beauty made her chest ache as if her heart was being cut open. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob, because his smile was saying what his lips could not: Don't cry, Mother. Your son will endure.
Finally, his eyes swept across his other siblings. To Samuel, a faint nod of brotherhood, to Susan and David, a silent warning, and to Leonel, a look of challenge. Each expression was brief, but every one of them felt as if Gabriel's eyes had pierced their very souls.
The crowd was silent.
It was no longer the image of a cowardly prince. It was a blood-soaked statue of defiance, handsome beyond reason even in agony, radiating an aura that no one could explain. His silence was louder than any scream.
Many in the square shivered under his gaze. Some swore they would never forget the sight of that battered youth smiling through blood, standing proud where even cultivators would have broken.
And though he said nothing, everyone who met his eyes felt the same unspoken words:
I am not finished.