Due to the angle, Liya couldn’t see the expression or changes in the demeanor of the big boy beside her.
But from the slight and suppressed tremor transmitted through his arm, Liya could sense just how much sorrow and anger was buried in Jon’s heart.
In a way, she could understand Jon’s emotions—perhaps more than anyone else in the world.
They were both the most powerful and outstanding individuals of their respective races; both wanted to do something good for their people; and both, in the process, were forced to peel back the gilded wounds, exposing the maggots gnawing on rotten flesh beneath.
The only difference was that the Hero was still young, simple-hearted, kinder, and believed more in the light.
While she was already an old politician, merely wanting to use the demon race as a stepping stone for her grand ambitions.
She didn’t want to think about unnecessary things, nor could she.
——But hasn’t everyone believed in the light at some point?
As her thoughts swirled, Liya suddenly felt a bit of pity for the Hero.
But as soon as the feeling arose, she sneered at herself, thinking she must be crazy to pity this archenemy who would one day chop her into bits.
But… so what!
The past is but a dream, grudges and victories fade when you awaken! Since she’s now a Pupu, she might as well do what a Pupu should do!
Emptying her mind and following her instincts, Liya let her arm melt, sending a strand of pupu-water silently into the iron armguard, slipping into Jon’s trembling, clenched right fist.
Jon was startled by the cold, gentle sensation.
His mind went blank for a moment.
When he came to, he turned to Liya, his eyes dazed, sorrowful, and resolute—complex as the shining galaxy.
“Friend!”
Liya nestled against his cheek, her beautiful eyes half-closed, and comforted him softly:
“Don’t be lonely. Don’t be sad. Lily will be with you, forever and ever…”
——Let’s call it a little lie.
After all, she’d heard countless lies in her life, and had told plenty herself.
Liya’s words flowed into the Hero’s ears like a cool, gentle breeze.
Jon raised an eyebrow and suddenly laughed, saying nothing, just reaching out to stroke Liya’s soft, wet cheek.
Meanwhile, Yuna and Lord Rossi were still arguing.
Jon didn’t speak either, just listened, breaking down every word and digesting it.
Suddenly, Lord Rossi paused.
He sneered, “I almost let you lead me astray, Saintess. What’s the point of arguing with you? Just a waste of time!”
He turned to Jon, waving the ledger in his hand provocatively.
“Hero, if you’re so righteous, why not take this ledger to His Majesty and accuse us? Go and battle the three fattest wolves in the Empire!”
Yuna turned back, trying to dissuade him.
“Jon, don’t listen to him. He has no good intentions. He just wants to incite you against everyone for revenge for his beastly son!”
At the mention of his deceased son being called a beast, Lord Rossi’s face flickered with anger, but he forced it down and merely grinned.
“I’m just telling the Hero that this world isn’t as peaceful as he imagines.”
“But it’s not as rotten as you make it out to be either!”
Yuna interrupted again.
“Enough.”
Jon wearily waved his hand, cutting off their argument.
Good or bad, right or wrong, he’d heard too much today, his head spinning and unable to distinguish truth from falsehood.
Lord Rossi claimed that nobles refused disaster relief to force refugees to sell their children and reap profits.
Yuna said it was simply because the city office had no money, couldn’t allocate funds, and couldn’t help even if they wanted to.
Lord Rossi accused the Church of embezzling funds, deliberately building shoddy dams, resulting in twelve villages being flooded.
Yuna argued the funds were tight, hundreds in the Church needed to be fed, and the leftover money couldn’t buy better materials—they’d done their best.
Lord Rossi accused the Church and Empire of enabling merchants to profit from national disasters, driving down prices, buying land and even slaves with old grain.
Yuna countered that merchants were profit-driven by nature, impossible to control completely, and if you pushed too hard, what if the merchants stopped coming? Every region relied on merchants for trade, taxes, and daily needs.
Who was right?
Who was wrong?
Who was lying?
Who was truly malicious at heart?
The more Jon thought, the more his head ached.
Everything in this world seemed like tangled threads—so complex and hard to unravel.
His armor was cold, but he felt unbearably hot, a wave of helplessness and fear descending upon him.
Suddenly, he wondered—no matter how long his sword was or how sharp its blade, if he couldn’t find his enemy, how could he swing it?
Fortunately, fortunately, Lily was always with him…
He pinched Liya’s soft, damp cheek again—for the third time in minutes—finding only that cold, sobering touch could calm his mind.
After a long silence, Jon looked seriously at Yuna.
“I will investigate every account, clarify every event. I will not wrong any good person, nor let any evil go unpunished. No matter whose crimes are being described today, do not interrupt.”
Yuna hesitated.
Finally, she sighed.
“Jon, you’re too inflexible. Rigid things break easily. The more people love you, the more they’ll fear you in the future.”
Leaving this final piece of advice, Yuna quietly withdrew, no longer interfering.
Lord Rossi began reading out, one by one, every embezzled fund, every scheme, how much was sent up and to whom, listing them all before the townsfolk.
At first, as he listed the Disaster Relief Funds, Urban Construction Funds, and Water Conservancy Project Funds, the townsfolk below grew increasingly indignant.
Some muttered curses.
Some glared angrily.
Some, having lost family in past disasters, couldn’t help but smash bowls onto the stage, shouting,
“You damned official! May you die a dog’s death!”
Lord Rossi’s face remained unflinching—he simply sped up.
Later, as he read accounts from six months ago, involving the Anti-Magus War and powerful figures like the Governor and Lord of Qianhe, the Cardinal Archbishop of Qianhe…
The townsfolk fell silent.
Then, as it involved key officials of the Imperial Capital and royal courtiers…
Some hurriedly covered their ears.
Some turned pale with fear.
Roy, sitting with Jonathan, was already scared stiff, clutching his father.
“Dad, knowing this won’t get us beheaded, right…? Dad, how can I forget what I just heard…?”
Jonathan glared at him.
“Shut up!”
But after speaking, he himself felt a chill—this was too serious.
What if, what if, they all ended up executed?
Roy, hands trembling, grabbed his brother Rocky.
“Brother, brother, comfort me…”
But Rocky was frozen, mumbling,
“Nine million Treasury luns… Nine million Treasury luns… How many brides could that buy… How much meat could I eat…”
On stage.
Lord Rossi closed the ledger, raised an eyebrow, and challenged Jon.
“So, after hearing these names, do you still have the courage to judge me? Or do you want to give up and find a Short Dagger to cut off my head, ending it all in confusion?”
“Why wouldn’t I dare? Behind me stands the holy sword left by the Great Hero Xinmeier, and the Heart of the Saint—that is also my heart.”
Jon replied vigorously, without hesitation.
Liya nestled at his ear, the soft, damp sensation warming and clearing his mind.
He gently stroked Liya, the coolness at his fingertips making his voice unconsciously firmer.
“That sword has long rusted.”
Lord Rossi laughed bitterly, mocking yesterday’s faith—rotted, stinking, and shattered.
“A little rust is nothing. I can always polish it off.”
Jon replied.
“After all, I’m still young.”
“And how many years can you stay young?”
“Forever.”
Lord Rossi laughed again, this time with a hint of relief and pride.
[Hahaha—yes! Only such a person has the right to judge me!]
[Why wasn’t my Edward such a person?]
[Because… of me?]
Tears welled up, blurring his vision.
The Hero’s figure became indistinct, merging with the memory of a once-spirited young man.
At first, he thought it was his Edward.
But in the end, he realized it was himself, twenty-seven years ago, newly enlisted.
As if an old friend had come.
Yet now he was old and weak.
Lord Rossi smiled freely.
He patted the Hero’s shoulder, finally bowing his stubborn head to that rusted sword.
“Good lad.”
“You have the right to kill me.”