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Chapter – 09
Medeia was the most troublesome person for Carlisle.
In her younger days, she had enough strength and talent to compete for succession with the head of the family, Grand Duke Guntram. She was a warrior of exceptional prowess — and her temper was as fierce as her blade.
That was why, in front of Medeia, Carlisle always became unusually docile.
No matter how much of a scoundrel he was, he still couldn’t ignore his aunt’s glare.
The problem was — that only applied to the real Carlisle.
“You’re here,”
Carlisle greeted Medeia casually as she entered.
The atmosphere instantly froze over.
There was no way she hadn’t heard what he’d said just a moment ago.
“You’re here~?”
Medeia’s eyes flashed with killing intent.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, you’re here?”
“Before that.”
“Can’t quite remember. Hold on — Maranello.”
Carlisle turned to his butler.
“What did I say before that?”
“……”
Maranello was speechless.
This rascal — slippery as an eel — had just passed the bomb straight to him.
“The young master said… ahem.”
Maranello cleared his throat twice, closed his eyes, and replied.
“He said that since he is currently preparing for the trial, he regrets that he cannot receive you right now, and asks that you visit another time.”
“That’s what I said,” Carlisle confirmed, turning back to Medeia with a look that said, You heard him, right?
“How dare you!”
Medeia exploded.
“How dare you make a fool of your aunt with such absurd lies!”
“But it’s true.”
“True? Do you think I’ve gone deaf?!”
“Of course not. You’re as sharp as ever. Just like Maranello here.”
“What—what?”
“Maranello, your hearing’s still fine, right?”
“Yes, young master. This old man’s ears still serve me well for my age.”
Grrr—
Medeia gritted her teeth but couldn’t lash out any further.
Why? Because even she had to tread carefully around Maranello.
The old butler’s authority carried weight — even over her.
And since his loyalty lay solely with the house of Grand Duke Guntram, Medeia was not in a position to order him around.
So even though she knew they were bluffing, she could do nothing but swallow her fury.
“Fine. I’ll let that go… for now.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“You sly little snake.”
Medeia growled, glaring daggers at Carlisle.
She had come here to strike first — and instead, had taken the first hit. Her insides were boiling.
“Well then, I suppose it’s fortunate you’re still alive.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course…”
A bitter smile twisted Medeia’s lips.
“Once the trial is over, you’ll regret ever waking up.”
“That’s fine,”
Carlisle said with clear eyes and a faint smile.
“You insolent… no, wait.”
Medeia stopped mid-sentence and suddenly looked pitying.
“My poor nephew. You still haven’t grasped your situation, acting all high and mighty. Not even your father will forgive you this time…”
Carlisle didn’t respond to her mocking tone.
“Do I have to button my cuffs? They feel tight.”
“Are you trying to provoke His Grace even more?” said Maranello.
“Guess so.”
Medeia’s face turned bright red.
“Let’s see how long that arrogance lasts. By this afternoon, you’ll be weeping blood—”
“You’re still here?”
“……”
“Sorry, can’t see you out. I’m a bit busy.”
It took everything Medeia had not to strike him right then and there.
But the timing was bad.
With the trial imminent — and Maranello standing right there — she had no safe way to touch Carlisle.
That afternoon.
Clink, clink.
Cold iron shackles closed around Carlisle’s wrists.
Until now, he had enjoyed relative comfort despite being a criminal — his noble status and recent injuries had bought him leniency.
But from this moment on, there would be no more privileges.
Just before leaving for the trial—
“Why didn’t you run away? Do you want to die?”
Selena’s anger was real.
“Brother, you had the chance! Why…?”
Even Frey couldn’t understand Carlisle’s decision.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
At that, Selena snapped.
“As if I’d worry about you! Don’t flatter yourself. I’m thinking about Father — and Mother, may she rest in peace.”
“Ah.”
“‘Ah’? That’s all you’ve got? When you stand trial, beg for mercy. Don’t drag our whole house down.”
Frey didn’t speak harshly, but his eyes showed he agreed with her.
“Beg Father for forgiveness. It’s the only way you’ll live.”
“Yeah.”
After their farewells—
“Prisoner Carlisle von Sigmund, proceed to the tribunal!”
Led by knights, Lebesque appeared to escort him to the trial.
Carlisle followed quietly.
“These cuffs hurt. My wrists are bruising.”
“That’s what shackles are for,”
Maranello replied with a wry smile.
“Still can’t take things seriously, can you? Let’s see if you’re this calm once the verdict’s read,” Lebesque muttered coldly.
Carlisle ignored him completely.
‘You’re dead.’
‘Serves you right.’
His cousins, Hector and Gunter, made slashing gestures at their throats as he passed.
‘Having fun, huh,’ Carlisle thought blankly, walking past them without reaction.
He knew — the higher their expectations, the harder they’d fall when things didn’t go their way.
The trial grounds weren’t indoors, but outside — set up right before the castle gates.
The reason was simple: this trial would be public, open for all the citizens of Dekaron to witness.
“There he is!”
“Boooooo—!”
As soon as someone spotted Carlisle’s group in the distance, a storm of boos erupted from the gathered crowd.
And not just boos—
“You bastard!”
“Serves you right!”
“Kill the murderer!”
“You filthy scum! Hang him!”
The insults rained down like stones.
It was clear how deeply the people of Dekaron despised Carlisle — how rotten his reputation had become.
Carlisle’s reaction?
“Wow. I’m popular.”
“Does this look like popularity to you?” Maranello asked, incredulous.
“Even hate’s a kind of attention.”
“Good grief.”
“At least they’re not throwing eggs. I’ll take it.”
“Are you not angry, sir?”
“Call it karma.”
“……”
Maranello shut his eyes, weary of his master’s indifference.
Meanwhile, the jeers continued, echoing even after Carlisle stepped into the courtroom — until suddenly—
“Silence! The Lord of Dekaron approaches!”
The moment Grand Duke Guntram appeared, the noise ceased.
Every villager dropped to one knee in reverence.
Their hatred was for Carlisle alone — their loyalty to the Grand Duke was absolute.
Step. Step. Step.
Knights in black armor lined the path as Guntram entered.
His presence was overwhelming — his aura, suffocating.
Every step carried authority.
His expression was grave, his eyes sharp as frost.
The grand mantle over his shoulders magnified his imposing frame — adorned with feathers of a three-legged crow said to foretell death, the pelt of a wolf that devoured gods, and thread spun by the Fates themselves.
It was “The Heart of the North” — the sacred relic and symbol of the Sigmund lineage.
“From this moment,”
Grand Duke Guntram spoke, his voice resonating through the air,
“The trial of Carlisle von Sigmund shall begin.”
And so it began.
To Carlisle, the trial was unbearably tedious at first.
All the formalities — the oaths to speak only truth, the ceremonial introductions — dragged on endlessly.
But the moment Guntram began reciting Carlisle’s crimes, his boredom vanished.
The trial wasn’t just about the Alberto murder case.
“The defendant, Carlisle von Sigmund, did set fire to a field ripe for harvest, bringing ruin upon a poor farmer…”
“He did strike a father before his children, inflicting grievous injuries…”
One by one, the Grand Duke listed every vile deed Carlisle had ever committed.
Arson, theft, assault, fraud, drunken violence — the list went on.
Even without murder, there was enough for a death sentence.
‘He really means to kill me this time,’ Carlisle realized.
Guntram had clearly reached his limit — determined to end his son’s madness once and for all, even if it tore him apart to do so.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dredged up every past sin.
While Carlisle pondered that, the trial’s focus shifted to the core of the case — and Geoffrey took the witness stand.
“State what you witnessed that day,” ordered Guntram.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
A spy placed by Carlisle’s enemies, Geoffrey spoke with calculated composure — every lie sounding perfectly believable.
“I—I am ashamed to admit it, but I was too terrified to act. I can only beg forgiveness from the family of the late Alberto, whom I failed to protect…”
He even managed to shed tears.
“Sniff… sob…”
The victim’s family wept quietly.
“Carlisle von Sigmund,”
Guntram’s voice cut through the air like thunder as Geoffrey stepped down.
His expression — like the face of the god of death himself — bore down on his son.
Carlisle’s lungs seized.
The sheer pressure of that gaze made it hard to breathe.
So this was why he was called the Iron-Blooded Judge.
His presence alone could kill.
Carlisle’s hands trembled uncontrollably — an instinctive reaction.
If one were to measure pure strength, Guntram could kill him with a flick of a finger.
But then—
‘If you’re going to kill me, then kill me. What’s there to fear? You only die once.’
With that thought, his trembling stopped.
He straightened his back and lifted his head.
“Your Grace,”
he said evenly, meeting Guntram’s eyes head-on.
A faint glimmer passed through the Grand Duke’s gaze — an emotion he hadn’t expected to feel.
