Chapter 847: Lifting a Rock Only to Drop It on One's Own Feet

Chapter 847: Lifting a Rock Only to Drop It on One’s Own Feet

After leaving MacLennan, Gurion strode quickly out the door and caught up with the presiding judge who had earlier adjourned the court.

Seeing his ferocious expression, the other four judges wisely quickened their pace and departed.

They could guess some of the reasons but had no desire to get involved.

Once the four were far away, Gurion fixed his gaze on the presiding judge’s eyes and squeezed out a sentence through gritted teeth.

“What do you mean by that?”

The old man raised his murky pupils.

Perhaps due to his advanced age, there was not much fear in his eyes. He merely stared at Gurion for a moment, then spoke in a slow but firm voice.

“General Gurion, I am merely a colonial judge, not one of your soldiers. I have no reason whatsoever to explain my work to you. If you are dissatisfied with my ruling, you are free to file a complaint with Triumph City and have them send a more professional judge.”

Within the Legion, the judiciary held a degree of independence. It belonged neither to the officer corps nor to the civil bureaucracy, but rather to the “Praetorian Guard” oversight system.

That is, it answered directly to the Marshal.

However, because the Marshal and the Praetorian Guard did not meddle in the Legion’s day-to-day affairs—exercising only supervisory powers and using loyalty as a key metric—the Praetorian Guard never evolved into a factional interest group.

This design had its roots in the formation of the Legion system.

After all, the early Legion consisted solely of soldiers and their families, with no other professions. Once the court rendered a verdict, it was essentially handed over to the Praetorian Guard to make arrests—and those arrested were always soldiers.

It was much like the Alliance’s security forces: in the early days, they were just base gatekeepers; later, as the population grew, they gradually developed into a police institution, with various departments carved out and the Guard Corps split off.

Nevertheless, although the Legion’s Praetorian Guard never evolved into an interest group like the “Southern Legion” or the “Civilian Bureaucracy,” people still had their own interests.

After all, not everyone was as glorious and loyal as the Praetorians.

Moreover, as the Legion expanded and more settlements and colonies were developed, the “scope of business” of the Legion’s judicial system was no longer confined to core settlements like Triumph City. A multitude of posts were created as territory grew.

Some judges, seeking personal advancement, would often “attach themselves” to other interest groups, leaving Triumph City—with its narrow path for promotion—to develop their careers in the colonies.

And the local legions, not monopolizing judicial power in their territories, were more than willing to cooperate with these judges from Triumph City, thereby facilitating exchanges of interests.

In a sense, this was one reason why “the decrees lost their flavor once they left Triumph City.”

The most typical example was the law protecting the rights of slaves.

This law had never been implemented outside Triumph City, and the farther away, the less effective its enforcement.

It was the same now.

Gurion had promised him that if he followed orders, he would help him become the chief justice of all colonies in the Brahmin Province.

To be honest, the offer was tempting, even though the Southern Legion currently controlled only half of West Sailport.

However, every transaction required a fair exchange.

Compared to the title of chief justice, the price he would have to pay was far too steep.

Staring at the presiding judge who had turned his back on him, Gurion’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not what you said before.”

The presiding judge shot back without hesitation.

“And you never said the waters behind this case ran so deep!”

Gurion’s expression froze.

Seeing him at a loss for words, the presiding judge knew he had guessed correctly again, and let out a dry laugh.

“General Gurion, I don’t care about your internal or external grudges, nor do I mind offering you some minor judicial assistance.”

“But you want me to be the scapegoat of history, to make my son mock me, my wife despise me, my neighbors sneer at me, and to sacrifice my career and everything for your scheme… I’m sorry, but you don’t have that much sway.”

Gurion’s face flushed with rage as he glared at the old man.

But the old man merely nodded slightly, then walked away down the corridor.

Just then, an officer approached General Gurion and whispered in his ear.

“General, Crown Prince Akbar of the Xilan Empire has arrived. He’s currently at the camp… Should we bring him here, or let him wait there?”

“Ignore him. Let him cool his heels for a couple of days.”

Gurion shot a venomous glare at the judge’s retreating back, muttered “useless old fool,” and then turned and left.

…

Meanwhile, inside the courtroom, amid cheers and applause, the officers and soldiers of the Southern Legion hastily filed out, unwilling to stay a moment longer.

Though officers like Ross held firm convictions, that didn’t mean they felt no shame.

As for the enthusiastic citizens, after the thunderous applause and cheers, they surged forward to embrace Pangolin, who had stepped down from the defendant’s stand, and clapped him warmly on the shoulder.

“Well done, brother!”

“Thank you for saving my wife and children.”

“I salute you, General! You’re exactly the kind of soldier we need!”

“Those bastards… they’ve been up to so much filth behind the scenes!”

“They won’t be able to keep the lid on this!”

The Battlefield Correspondent responded to the crowd’s enthusiasm while calming their emotions.

“Unfortunately, the evidence we have is too flimsy. Suspicion alone cannot convict a person or a group. But I promise you, I won’t give up the appeal—neither I nor those behind me… Three thousand lives demand an accounting. Whether it’s the arsonists, the instigators, or those who handed over the torches, they will all face justice in the end!”

Even though he knew his words sounded like a fragrant but empty promise, he also believed that as long as they never gave up seeking the truth, it would eventually surface.

And justice would have meaning.

Pushing through the crowd, he saw Penny gazing at him with tear-filled eyes.

They were tears of excitement.

He could even imagine how worried she had been.

He didn’t keep her waiting long.

The Battlefield Correspondent squeezed out of the crowd and stepped forward to give her a big hug.

She had been beaten to the punch.

A flicker of embarrassment crossed Penny’s mind, as if her thoughts had been seen through, and two rosy patches rose unbidden on her cheeks.

Especially with all those eyes focused on them, the blessings in those glances made her too shy to speak.

But.

Her nature was ultimately generous, and she soon lifted her head to meet his eyes.

“You told me before that my battlefield was in Triumph City. I have to correct you on that.”

She raised a soft index finger and gently straightened his collar.

Her clear eyes held a firmness that made the Battlefield Correspondent, watching her, unconsciously hold his breath.

“…This is our war.”

“Whether in Triumph City or West Sailport, I will stand by your side.”

"Don't even think about leaving me behind, and don't even think about shouldering all the troubles alone!"

……

The noisy courtroom finally dispersed, people leaving the jury seats with satisfaction, and after everyone had gone, a few local laborers walked in carrying trash bags and brooms.

They had waited nearby for a long time, finally seeing the end of this tedious trial.

To be fair, the Valyrians had quite a few tricks—courts and post offices alike—which truly opened the eyes of these country folk.

The only flaw was that these big-nosed folks weren't too sharp in their thinking, unable to bend when handling matters.

In their eyes, the judge was rather amateurish and lacked authority, far inferior to the nobles of Xilan, not even matching the decisive boldness of a baron.

That old man not only allowed the defendant to stand during the hearing but also permitted him to whisper with others—what a disgrace!

"...Valyrians can fight, but they're no good at judging cases!"

"Honestly, they might as well let me do it! No matter how well they talk, I'd just say 'I sentence you,' and what could you do about it?"

"That's too extreme; your reasoning won't convince anyone! You need to be more subtle—like whip him twenty times first, pour hot sand down his throat, clamp his eyelids for a few days to keep him awake, torment him until he can't speak, then let him talk. I guarantee that no matter how great his grievance, he won't be able to argue his way out!"

"Extreme? I think you're the extreme one! Kill and be done with it—why bother with reasons? It's just a beheading, no need for all that fuss!"

"Oh well, whatever the case, I reckon this judge's career is over."

"Career, hell! If I were a Valyrian, I wouldn't let him live. If you don't make an example of him, how will you rule in the future?"

They spoke in hushed tones, not daring to let the Valyrians outside hear.

After all, the Valyrians wouldn't let them be judges; instead, they might drag them out and bury them.

An old Serpent-man sweeping nearby seemed somewhat educated, unable to bear it any longer, and finally couldn't help but snort twice.

"...Too bad you're not—you're a Brahmin, you can only imagine a big-nosed Brahmin lord sitting up there issuing decrees, while behind the scenes, he bends over for an even bigger lord, thinking the whole wasteland is like that."

Leaving aside the crudeness of those methods, the bottom lines of different races are indeed different, determined by culture, ethnicity, and many other factors.

Valyrians despise dogs that wag their tails; a groveling man is looked down upon by superiors and cannot command respect from subordinates, ultimately marginalized by the entire system.

The rules of these big-nosed folks have their evils, but finding a judge who is both highly respected and skilled at fawning is no easy task.

What truly pained him was precisely this: the seemingly clever ideas his compatriots came up with were exactly why the Brahmins were treated so casually.

It wasn't just the Valyrians who didn't see them as human.

Those lofty Celestial Kings, those smooth-talking family members, even themselves—who among them was any different?

Perhaps he was too pessimistic.

Having weathered many storms, at his age he always felt that neither Rasi nor Abusek could amount to anything.

This zoo was more like a circus.

The clowns playing animals needed a "lead dancer" skilled in maneuvering.

He didn't need to know much natural science or be an expert in any field.

He only needed one skill: to choreograph a dance for the clowns in the circus.

Only then could they live like humans amidst their self-cleverness and muddling through.

Yet whether that could be called hope was hard to say.

The sun would indeed rise as usual, but here, calling day night was also commonplace.

The loyal would die first, then the brave, and finally the cunning.

When all the idealists had left the stage, what remained was a contest between hypocrites and outright villains.

Whoever won would be a disaster.

Just two different kinds of disaster.

He loved this land more than anyone, and he desperately hoped he was wrong.

Something was missing here after all.

Either a true hero, blessed by heaven and earth, capable of turning the tide alone.

Or civilization itself.

But something was missing.

The man stung by the words flushed red, unable to grasp the point, and after a long pause blurted out a retort that left everyone speechless.

"I'm a Serpent-man! What the hell is a Brahmin?"

The others chimed in.

"What are you showing off for? Think you're a noble?"

"You old bastard, why didn't those 'sky bandits' wipe out your whole family?"

"If I were a Valyrian, I'd bury you!"

Boomerangs flew everywhere.

The old man shook his head, not feeling insulted, only pity, and carried his broom to a corner...

Not far away, a handsome youth of about fifteen or sixteen entered, looking around nervously as if searching for someone.

Behind him followed two old men, their deferential manner suggesting they were his servants.

A passing staff member soon noticed them and walked over, speaking impatiently.

"This is a sacred court; unauthorized persons are not allowed."

Seeing someone about to throw him out, the youth flushed with anger and glared at the staff member.

"My name is Akbar Xilan, I am the Crown Prince of the Xilan Empire... I'm looking for General Gurion; I heard he's here!"

The staff member paused, stared at the youth suspiciously, disbelief clear in his eyes.

Just as he was about to ask for identification, a series of thuds sounded nearby.

A group of low-caste servants holding brooms fell to their knees in astonishment, pressing their foreheads to the ground.

"Crown Prince?!"

"We pay homage to Your Highness!"

"You... aren't you in the north?! Why are you here?!"

Seeing his subjects kneeling, Akbar put on a humble, benevolent expression, raising his hands as if to lift them.

"Please rise, everyone. I am here to discuss important matters with Xilan's friends. Continue with your work; do not neglect our friends."

The kneeling people rose timidly.

With that, the youth named Akbar turned to the staff member, a hint of smugness curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Now can you take me to see General Gurion?"

Meeting that boastful gaze, the staff member stared at him oddly for a moment, then nodded.

"Fine... wait here, I'll go ask for you."

The empire had already become such a wreck; he didn't understand why this guy could still smile, let alone what there was to be smug about.

Perhaps it was just a matter of having a good attitude.

Watching the staff member turn and walk away, Akbar said with a smile.

“Alright, go on then!”

……

On the other side, General Gurion was in the courthouse’s lounge, faithfully reporting the events in the courtroom to the Southern Legion’s Chief of Staff.

Yet after hearing his report, that second-in-command of the Southern Legion made no comment, merely responding with a flat tone.

“I understand the basics. Go attend to your own affairs.”

Seeing that the great man gave no instructions, General Gurion asked anxiously.

“……Nothing I should do on my end?”

He still felt that letting that pangolin return alive was not a good idea, but getting rid of him now was no easy task either.

The Chief of Staff smiled faintly.

“I think that chiliarch named Pangolin actually said something quite interesting.”

Gurion, unable to fathom the Chief of Staff’s meaning for a moment, asked cautiously.

“……Which remark, if I may ask?”

The Chief of Staff spoke in a very soft voice.

“What are you here for?”

The instant he heard those words, Gurion froze for a few seconds, then a bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead as he lowered his head.

“I understand… Forgive me, I acted on my own authority.”

The higher-ups did not want him meddling in this matter.

“Using legal means to eliminate the civil officials’ envoy” was entirely his own clever interpretation.

Just like his subordinate’s unauthorized act of dumping slop into the dungeon—both superfluous and foolish, doing not a whit of good for the situation, and instead risking losing the greater for the lesser.

It was in that very instant that he suddenly came to his senses and fully grasped the profound words General MacLenn had spoken to him…

As if satisfied with his remorse, a voice of approval came through the communication channel.

“You’re a clever man—both I and Commander Tier think highly of you. But being too clever is not a good thing, especially when your cleverness might put us in a passive position.”

“A chiliarch cannot sway the grand scheme, and you need not worry about Triumph City’s affairs. Facing the civil officials’ attacks, we have our own arrangements. As for you, completing the task Commander Tier assigned you is enough. We care more about your performance on the battlefield than in superfluous matters.”

General Gurion’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he bowed his head respectfully.

“Yes…”

The communication ended.

Gurion let out a long breath, tossing the dead phone back onto the table, unaware that his back was already soaked with sweat.

Thinking calmly, the life or death of a chiliarch truly changed nothing.

Even if he returned alive to Triumph City, what then?

The civil officials in Triumph City were neither mute nor deaf; if they truly possessed any solid evidence, they wouldn’t have waited for that pangolin to return before producing it.

Relying on mere words and a few specious doubts was insufficient to form an accusation of the Southern Legion’s conspiracy in the Westport Massacre—even if Abusek himself stepped forward, it would mean nothing.

The Southern Legion had been very careful throughout the entire conspiracy; almost no clues pointed to the higher-ups, and the few doubts could be explained away as accidents. That was precisely why the civil officials had not brought charges against them.

An insufficient accusation would constitute slander, and that was a serious matter in the Legion.

And yet, in a moment of rashness, he had committed this foolish act—initiating this trial in the Southern Legion’s name without sufficient evidence.

Now, the Southern Legion had to supplement the evidence to prove the charges of “threefold betrayal” they themselves had raised.

How had a hero who saved over two hundred Vellant survivors become the traitor they spoke of?

What exactly had he betrayed?

And what was the Southern Legion preparing?

If this blew up, it might even disturb the Marshal…

At this point, even if they wanted to withdraw the lawsuit, it was too late.

Once they withdrew, the civil officials in Triumph City would certainly not let it go; they would immediately file a counter-suit, putting the Southern Legion on the defendant’s stand, demanding explanations as the accused—and that would be even more passive than now.

Gurion finally realized how stupid his action was—even more foolish than assassinating that man in the prison… but it was too late to say anything now.

He should never have tried to relieve the great men of their worries with his own cleverness.

He even couldn’t help cursing MacLenn, that sly old fox who hadn’t warned him sooner.

Just as Gurion was fretting, a soft knock came at the lounge door.

He took a deep breath, composed his anxious expression, and coughed toward the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and in walked his trusted subordinate.

Approaching his desk, the officer reported in a grave voice.

“Sir, the prince of Xilan has come from the barracks to the courthouse. He seems determined to see you.”

Not in the mood to deal with that nuisance, Gurion said impatiently.

“I told you to keep him waiting for two days. Tell him to get lost.”

“Yes…” The officer hesitated for a moment, but still saluted and walked briskly toward the door.

But just as he reached the doorway, Gurion suddenly called him back.

“Wait.”

The officer stopped and turned, asking respectfully.

“Do you have further orders, sir?”

Gurion said nothing, walking to the wall on his own, staring at the map hanging there for a while, then suddenly spoke.

“Let him in to see me.”

Not understanding why his boss had suddenly changed his mind, the officer asked no further questions, merely saluted respectfully.

“Yes.”

Without looking at his trusted subordinate, Gurion kept his eyes fixed on the map.

He had originally planned to execute the strategy he had outlined in the war council step by step, gradually encroaching on the lands of the Brahman Province through vassalization.

But now, it seemed his plans would have to be moved up…

Just as the empire’s crown prince, with a nervous heart, finally met the empire’s “old friend,” on the border of Mammoth Prefecture in the northeastern corner of Brahman Province, a war that would decide the empire’s fate had finally come to an end…