Judgment [2] — Chained by Thoughts, Freed by Madness

THE CEREMONY RAGED ON, cloaked in an unsettling aura of death and so-called judgement. Jael's demise had already faded from memory, overshadowed by the countless other slaves who had been dragged to their deaths; alongside the grim expectation of the ones to follow.

Each life lost, or rather, each judgement, plunged another soul into darkness. And like Jael, each slave who followed after him bore less than 5% of demonic blood, leading to decapitation. However, as slave after slave came up in a repetitive cycle of results, one was discovered to have 2% of draconic blood flowing within their veins.

Strangely, this not only sealed their fate for decapitation like the others but also led them to a more horrifying fate—they were to be split in half from their torso, before they were awarded the sweet release of death.

Amidst the shocking and agonizing spectacle of endless beheadings, the young man looked on in shock, like all the others who bore witness. While the crowd chanted as if they had witnessed nothing better, nor more amusing, the young man's attention was drawn to the actual treatment each slave received based on their bloodlines.

Each slave differed in some aspect, be it percentage, or actual bloodline, though each received a beheading to finish them off. Everything seemed consistent with their treatment. However, the young man was not focused on the gruesome acts, for his shock wore off after the back-to-back beheadings; what he focused on was the facial expressions of the executioner, and in this case, the one closest to "God", Zerachiel.

The chalice may have given them each the same threat level assessment, but Zerachiel's facial expression contorted with every identification; be it a slight percentage upwards in purity, or as in the young man who was split in half... another type of blood within them.

With that realization, his heart sank, as his awareness of the inevitable coming for him threatened to erode his unwavering resolve; he knew his bloodline was different from the others. Though some might have dismissed it as a misguided impulse or foolish desire, deep in his bones, he felt an unmistakable difference.

With each life lost, the death toll mounted, drawing his own fate near, fueling his intense desire for defiant resistance. As he witnessed one head after another roll across the dais, uncomfortably close at times, he could no longer resign himself as a sacrificial lamb, lost in a facade of righteous slaughter!

Seemingly surrounded by the lingering spirits of the disappeared slaves to his right, he felt a shiver prickle his neck while gazing upon the last and only remaining slave beside him, marking the final obstacle in the face of his impending "judgement."

It was in that defining moment that he vowed to challenge fate and seize control of his own future, even if all he could do was defy death for as long as possible. If he was to die anyway, why let it happen on someone else's terms?!

Despite the young man's internal chaos, his countenance remained impassive, and his lifeless gaze persisted, as it had done for months. However, unlike before, where only despair and regret shone within his eyes, something had changed. With each death, his thoughts transformed, and with that final acceptance, in a desire to reverse his fate... something shifted within him.

As slave after slave died, the young man saw an almost imperceptible line, steadily dwindling, as if tugging him inevitably towards the same fate—death. He knew it was unavoidable, but unlike before when his resignation engulfed his being, now with the flames of defiance roaring, that deep gutted burn shifted into questions that echoed relentlessly within his mind, repeating like an unending chant.

'My death… for what? Why? Why? Why do I deserve this? Do I deserve this agony? Do I deserve to die simply for being born? No! Yes? No! Yes! No! Why? Why? WHY?' His internal screams reverberated with frustration and pain, the weight of injustice surging within; fueled by the irony of the ones he was being condemned by.

Fury and despair mingled within the young man as an overwhelming mix of sorrow and anger consumed him. His frailty and perceived lack of potential had exposed him to enough cruelty in his life; he was thoroughly acquainted with it.

But this... was a different kind, something that far surpassed anything he had known before; this was a different kind of wickedness altogether. These senseless deaths of the slaves, himself included, weighed heavily on his heart; a heart that had been molded from first-hand experiences of cruelty, emphasizing the weight of this truly despicable event.

Did their mixed blood truly warrant such a dire end? He had committed no significant offense and devoted himself entirely to them, just like those who were dead or were soon-to-be.

So, the question remains, why?

Why were they all condemned to such a fate?

Why was HE condemned to such a fate?

Was there any reason at all?

Do the powerful even need a reason to do what they do?

No, of course not...

He understood that these supposed "judgments" had no real merit whatsoever. They served merely as a means to perpetuate a system that favored the privileged and oppressed the vulnerable, or in the system's eyes, "useless"; it was an egregious injustice that prevailed across all realms. Every society had its flaws, but in this specific realm, the basis for judgment hinged upon an uncontrollable aspect—their bloodline—hence, their birth.

How could he rid himself of the blood coursing through his veins? Even if such a means existed, how would he obtain it? Why should he have to obtain it?

The chalice and the screen may have displayed data, but deep down, he knew the archangel himself wielded the power to decide the fates of those judged. Either by hiding behind his righteous facade, his title in the unbreakable hierarchy of celestials, or simply by the fact that he could kill everyone here with a flick of his wrist.

That right there is what angered the young man the most—the veil of lies, but most importantly, his inability to do anything about it. His own weakness. A weakness preyed upon and used by society, yes. But nevertheless, it was his own weakness, regardless of the oppression he faced; he bore the blame!

With those realizations and acceptance, as another lifeless angel's body was peeled off the sticky, blood-soaked area, he felt his anger reach its zenith; tempered by a newfound sense of clarity.

He could no longer tolerate this charade, and abide by the impassive acceptance he once had, for this callous game played with their lives... no, to hell with that, he had lived selflessly his entire life, yet here he was, at the mercy of this cruel game that played with his LIFE!

This callous game toyed with his life like he was a fucking doll, a pawn, and a mere piece on a board he could not even see!

The glorification of this event had long gnawed at the core of his soul. This romanticized spectacle of his impending death had disgusted him before… but now, with his newfound clarity and morphing perspective, it was far beyond mere disgust.

IT FUCKING ANGERED HIM.

How dare they make a mockery out of his death? The crowd of~vermin~… angels laughed mercilessly, just as they did now, hiding behind their masks of purity. 'Is this purity? IS THIS PURITY? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA,' he frantically laughed, his eyes glistening with a madness he was unaware of, as the next and only slave in line before him was dragged forward.

And though the young man felt his mind breaking, not fully acknowledging his spreading madness, but still knowing it existed, what he was ignorant to... was the changes that occurred within, for his blood started to stir.

Time seemed to crawl, or perhaps his mind perceived it that way as it absorbed every moment in excruciating detail while his thoughts churned. Within this altered perception, the acceptance of his fate, once colored by sadness and despair, gradually metamorphosed into hate and anger.

Yet, amid those turbulent emotions, a revelation emerged—the ultimate realization that he had nothing left to lose.

The passions and dreams that had long been smothered by despair, alongside the smoldering anger at his own weakness, melded into a potent and vengeful conviction that threatened to consume him at any moment.

The ones he loved the most, the ones he trusted, betrayed him, leaving his dreams unfulfilled and his passions untouched. He had lived a life of endless exploitation, enslaved to the whims of the self-proclaimed 'divine', which in all probability, or rather, reality, were just the orders of the influential figures within the angelic race.

The hypocrisy was not lost on him—why preach lofty virtues in school and society when he had witnessed those very traits in those, the angelic, who scorned other races? Deeming them lesser, just like they deemed him corrupt!

The blinding truth had always hovered on the edges of his consciousness, an unwelcome presence he refused to acknowledge.

For if he did, he would have to accept the harsh reality, shattering the illusion that he desperately clung to… combating the truth he had always known, that his existence was a lie. Undeniably true, his existence was a lie, leaving him feeling worthless, his life wasted in a harsh reality where the undeniable truth stared back at him—he was truly worthless.

He was nothing... the weight of despair and anguish had clung to him since the day he learned of his lack of parents, love, and support. His entire life was a relentless struggle to survive on the clean yet awfully filthy marble streets.

Always constrained by angelic ideals of purity and justice, he remained like this, suppressed and untruthful to himself.

But what was justice truly?

Wasn't it merely dictated by those who emerged victorious, those who held power? After all, history was crafted by those in power... the victors, and in all simplicity, the survivors.

Angels were hailed as saviors and guardians of the light, or so he was told. But who decided on such titles, who said such things? Wasn't life a matter of perspective; were those titles not self-proclaimed narratives to maintain their control and image?

His heart pounded in his chest, while his thoughts spiraled into darkness, lost in his inner turmoil. However, the reality of the grisly scene before him crashed down like a mighty wave, snapping him back to the present.

A sense of dread washed over him, cold and overwhelming, as he watched the next slave being dragged towards the blood-soaked ground, heading inevitably towards the floating chalice.

The unfolding scene felt like a haunting premonition of his own fate. With each step the sentinel took, dragging the squirming slave closer to judgment, the young man's burst of madness and resolve faltered, replaced by chilling uncertainty.

What irony of the situation he found himself in, and all he could do was bitterly chuckle in sadness within his mind. He watched in morbid fascination and overwhelming regret... as all the things he wished he could've done, and all the things he wished he could do—especially to a certain few individuals—played out within his mind.

Directed towards people he would love not only to see them die, but to see everything and anything ripped away from them.

He wanted them to hurt as he much as did, then multiply that by tenfold, to feel the pain he did… what the young man yearned for now, as the salve was thrown in front Zerachiel, was revenge!

Thus, with revenge coating his thoughts, he watched the oncoming scene unfold before him as the slave was thrust in front of Zerachiel.

The display of power and authority intensified his hatred. Yet, even with that all-consuming feeling of hatred, the young man still meekly watched in fear as the ethereal screen flickered to life, in tandem with the slave who thrashed in place—screaming and hollering for help as his arm was raised.

In the next second, the slave's agonizing screams reached a crescendo as his slashed arm dripped blood into the cradle of judgment, freely falling into the golden Chalice of Purity. The tension in the air was palpable, and the young man felt it acutely, as if suffocating under its weight.

His trepidation clung to him like blow flies to a freshly dead body, refusing to let go.

Desperately, he tried to steady his trembling hands and calm his racing thoughts, but to no avail.

The ethereal screen showcased the slave's identity, marking just another step before the young man's own fate would be revealed... and he knew, death awaited him.

[ BLOODLINE TEST | JUDGMENT OF PURITY ]

Name: Jaskon Rosefell | Age: 321 Cycles

Level: 41

Cultivation Path(s): Illusionary Sword (Common) – Stage 2

Race: Greater Angel

Bloodline/Lineage: Angelic 95.5% | Undead 4.5%

Purity Verdict: Minor impurity detected | Intermediary threat.

Punishment of Purity: Cruel - Death by Sawing

Pain Level: Mid - delayed release.

[ JUDGEMENT DECREED ]

The crowd's murmurs swelled, echoing in the young man's ears as they all absorbed Jaskon's identity. Shocked gasps mixed with knowing glances, revealing the significance of the minor impurity detected in the angel's bloodline. The young man's mind raced, trying to comprehend the implications of such a verdict, but selfishly, his own impending fate consumed him.

The bellowing chatter and the unfolding execution ritual grabbed his attention, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from Jaskon's tragic figure. Held in place by the sentinel, the Greater Angel faced Zerachiel's imposing figure. Raising his hand, the flickering blue flames coated Zerachiel's hand once again, as they writhed alive, seemingly eager to taste spilled blood.

Observing Zerachiel's calculated pause, the young man's gaze remained fixed on Jaskon, who now lay slumped over in despair. The sensation of powerlessness engulfed him, a haunting familiarity he loathed. It gripped his throat like a vise, suffusing him with a burning, raw ache.

His desperation surged, threatening to burst forth in a scream for help. However, he knew it would be in vain, unheard by those around him. That exact thought reinforced itself as the scene unfolded, following the same routine-like ritual as before, intensifying the young man's anger.

The whole spectacle felt pointless and needlessly cruel. Why not end it swiftly, with a single stroke? Did Zerachiel take pleasure in degrading the slaves before their final demise? It certainly seemed that way, judging by the crowd's enthusiastic reaction.

He couldn't help but wonder if the Sepharium was any different, and as he watched on in trepidation, he felt a sense of vindication, as if he had hit the bullseye with his observation.

Zerachiel's eyes narrowed, his piercing gaze locked on the kneeling slave. A chilling smile crept onto his lips, illuminated eerily by his blue-flamed hand. "Jaskon Rosefell," Zerachiel proclaimed, his voice reverberating throughout the area, "you have been judged, and the verdict of purity has been decreed. Now, if you have any final words, speak!"

The crowd fell into an expectant hush, hoping for even the faintest utterance from the condemned angel. However, Jaskon's silence echoed like all those before him. His eyes held no trace of fear, only a sense of brokenness and acceptance of his inevitable fate.

As with all the other "judgments," no last words were spoken, evoking the familiar reaction from Zerachiel as he had witnessed countless times before.

Zerachiel's expression hardened, and his eyes glistened with fervent excitement, as his hand moved with the precision seen in all the other executions.

In one swift movement, the blue-flamed hand descended, cleanly severing Jaskon's body in two; both halves… freakishly slide of each other, landing on separate sides. *Thump, Thump,* the crowd erupted in frenzied cheers, their jubilant cries ringing in the young man's ears like a deafening bell.

For while the other angels might have heard mere yells, all he heard was the start of his turn. The world blurred around him, his inner thoughts in chaos, drowning out the familiar bellowing voice that accompanied the unfolding event.

The young man couldn't tear his eyes away from Jaskon's lifeless body, lying in a pool of his own gore and blood before the crowd.

As Jaskon's desecrated remains were carried away, the weight of what was about to come pressed down upon him like a suffocating grip, causing his breath to become ragged. Funnily enough, as he recoiled, a tangible and relentless grip of the sentinel behind him held him in place, pressing down on his raw and aching shoulders.

Gasping for air through the pain and anxiety, he found no respite, only muffled outrage as his body moved against his will. Struggling to push back, he helplessly watched as he was dragged across polished gold; his knees aflame, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him.

In the blink of an eye, his worries faded into insignificance as he was jerked forward, stumbling down face-first with a graceless *Thud,* sending waves of pain through him.

The encroaching darkness and disoriented dizziness couldn't distract him from the sight of two bulky yet intricate golden boots before him. Following them upward, he was met by Zerachiel's menacing presence. A sneer crossed his face, momentarily replaced by flickering anger and disgust.

The young man had no time to plead or resist as his arm was forcefully raised toward the chalice by the implacable sentinel behind.

With mounting horror, he witnessed his senses struggling to catch up; as soon as Zerachiel's flame appeared, his wrist was cleanly sliced into, and his body responded before he could even process the pain.

"AAAAahhh," the young man's scream of anguish pierced the air, escaping his lips before he could process his actions. The searing pain coursed through his body like a blazing inferno, cooled only by the free-flowing drudges of his own—blacker than normal, dimmed golden—blood, cascading into the hovering chalice.

Although fearful shock threatened to consume him, he clenched his teeth, determined not to let fear taint his voice; as soon as he processed his scream, he felt a deep sense of shame wash over him.

He was determined not to give Zerachiel and the onlookers below the satisfaction of hearing his terror. Yet, in the next second, his desire faltered as he gasped in fear, not of them, but of himself and the reaction the chalice made in contact with his blood. The blood filled the chalice and began to churn and guzzle, sputtering out as if the vessel had rejected it!

His own blackened blood, which he had assumed was normal for a hybrid like himself—only proved otherwise with the displays of the slaves before him—surged forward in a murky display of light, streaming towards the ethereal screen.

Before his eyes, his longed yearning and desire came to fruition, inciting horror, and utter shock… engulfing him in fear as he gulped in extreme trepidation. The results struck him with the force of a thunderclap, shocking him deeply to his core.

He couldn't help but turn to look at Zerachiel, who, for the first time in his life, appeared stricken and pale.

The shock and disbelief etched across Zerachiel's face mirrored the unexpected magnitude his bloodline had unleashed, creating an eerie and heavy atmosphere.

Disbelief hung in the air, while stifled gasps and hushed whispers replaced the earlier cheers.

Pure terror emanated from all the angels who bore witness, except Zerachiel, who stood there in a mindless and dazed stupor.

As the heavy silence lingered, Zerachiel whispered four words, meant for himself, rather than the crowd.

However, the thickened silence gave way to his words, which permeated the entire region and struck a nerve across all—including the young man.

"How is this possible…?"

- - - - -

A/N: As I mentioned earlier, these chapters are somewhat extended. However, I still believe they are enjoyable to read. But hey, maybe I'm a bit biased! LOL...

- Spatial Devil, The Author.