The moment she said those words, something seemed to click in Soren's head.

Before the start of the trial, he had already assumed that the worst-case scenario was going to be a withdrawal from the academy he never stepped foot in.

After all, regardless of his crime, he had served time in a maximum security prison and effectively qualified for the means of his freedom—which was the acquisition of the one hundred thousand points from the Glass.

Even though it had been a week—a feat that should not be possible by normal standards—he had still done it.

Soren's eyes turned to the paused video of his town's mayor and then back at the prosecutor.

If she could go to such lengths to gather evidence against him, surely she knew of his achievements in the glass.

This woman. No, this family. The Ivory family.

They did not care whether he was in the academy or not. What they wanted was for him to die.

Again, his eyes moved to Devon. The lawyer shook his head.

Soren remained silent.

"Answer, Cadet Soren." The prosecutor called. "You are under oath."

"Objection, your honor. The prosecution is trying to manipulate my client."

"Overruled." The head council member turned to Soren. "You are under oath, Cadet. Answer the question."

The prosecutor passed a quick smile the council head's way.

Soren had seen it.

She leaned in further. "Do you not admit that the law of the land should be upheld and you deserve death for going against it?"

However, whatever pressure this woman thought she was mounting on Soren flew over his head.

Threat of Death? Couldn't they have come up with any other thing?

Soren's gaze landed on Boyed in the back. He noticed Boyed tightening his fist.

Is he angry 'for' me?

Soren felt touched—confidence flooding his mind.

He turned to the prosecutor. "Do you use a spoon?"

The question had taken her back. "What do you mean by that? I asked you a..."

"Do you use a spoon?" He asked again, leaning in, gaze threatening to cross the miles that separated them by a mere projection.

Instinctively, she leaned back. "Of course I use a spoon to eat; I am not some lowlife that eats with their hand."

"Then you must also deserve death." Soren said, unblinking.

"That's absurd." She clapped back.

"Exactly. Since when do we deserve death for using... tools?"

Once again, another murmur. But this one was lower.

Behind, Boyed cracked a slight smirk.

Soren caught it. The approval to continue.

But the prosecutor spoke first. "Cadet Soren, are you comparing a Soul Mecha worth millions of gold coins, a signature of the Empire's might and splendor, to a... spoon?"

Naturally, her words got the crowd fired up. Soul Mechas were like stars in the sky. Worshiped. Adored. But most importantly, they were reverent.

What the prosecutor was implying was that Soren was likening their god to mere cutlery.

Of course, this led to...

"Blasphemy!"

"He has no respect for the god of the neuralink."

Shouts like these were heard from different parts of the courtroom.

Soren looked towards Devon. The man facepalmed.

Also, the jury seemed to be jotting down, some shaking their heads as they looked at him with clear disgust.

Soren could tell he messed up, and that smirk on the prosecutor's face said it all.

But he was not done. Whether accidental or not, if he had climbed this path, then so be it.

After all, this place. This court. It was just another battlefield.

"Then why throw it out¿" Soren asked rhetorically.

"Excuse me?" The prosecutor's smirk froze.

"Madam Prosecutor," Soren spoke, sarcasm clear in his tone, "Do you distinguish your trash by value?

Do you say, 'Oh, I spent 50 gold coins on this trash and ten silver coins on that trash. Or, 'Oh, the god of the neuralink blessed that trash or that trash and so it's more useful.'

No. No, you don't. None of you do." He turned to the court.

"Cadet Soren, that Soul Mecha..."

"Has been trash for TWENTY YEARS." He interrupted her. "That was long before I was born. For twenty years it suffered under the rain, was beaten by the sun, and was slowly claimed by the earth. If it was not trash, then why leave it?"

Soren suddenly stood to his feet, vexed. "... But I took it. When you all discarded the millions of gold coins, a signature of the Empire's greatness and splendor.

I took it, and I made it great again by killing an Eldritch soul and saving over three hundred lives.

Or what? Are you saying that those lives do not matter?" He sat back down. "Even the god of the Neuralink would have thanked me for what I did." He muttered lowly.

~Silence.

Davon looked around and then at Soren. "Oh, he shouldn't have opened his mouth."

The prosecutor froze for a bit, but then, as if realizing something, she replied. "So now, Cadet Soren, you claim you have utterance from the god of the neurallink. You? Are you now one blessed by the voice of the sacred knife?"

This time around, it was the woman in red that replied, eyes staring daggers at Soren. "Blasphemy."

As if on cue, the screams got louder. Many in the audience shouted, "Blasphemy!"

"Order! Order!! Order!!!" The head council member beat the gavel again and again.

"This court will take a five-minute recess." He turned to Soren, "Blaspheming Commoner." He muttered.

The holographic projections went off.

.....

"Why!? Why did you do that?" Devon paced down the corridor. He massaged his brows, trying to calm his nerves.

Soren sat in a meek position. Swallowing any retort he wanted to utter.

"I told you... they don't like you. Nothing you say matters. Do you know why?"

Soren kept silent. He shook his head.

"Because..." Devon gritted his teeth. He grabbed Soren by his shoulders. "Because. You. Have. Nothing.

No strength, no family, no backing, and... NO POWER!"

(Author's note: Golden Tickets, please. Thank you.)

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