I wasn't myself after what happened.
I investigated his death like a madwoman. Nothing sat right with me. Not a single detail made sense.
I also looked into the cases where he was found guilty. They accused him of murdering five low-rankers and two civilians, of illegally smuggling dungeon resources, of extortion, and more. But the more I dug, the more suspicious everything became.
Witnesses appeared out of nowhere, and so did the so-called evidence.
They emerged conveniently right after his death was announced.
How?
How could they suddenly exist when he could no longer defend himself?
I stopped working. Stopped eating. Stopped caring.
The only thing keeping me alive was the hope that I could uncover the truth.
That something would justify the fire burning in my chest.
That I could still do something for him.
I was supposed to die that day anyway, if it weren't for him.
So I dedicated myself to him.
To not turning my back.
To not letting the world bury him again.
