The strategy room of Central Command was never meant to host a tribunal.

  Normally, the vast hall served as the nerve center of humanity’s war effort. Two enormous tables dominated the space. One was filled with carefully shaped sand and miniature markers, forming a living model of the known battlefield—hills, rivers, fortresses, and advancing lines constantly reshaped by aides. The other held a meticulously detailed cartographer’s map, stretching as far as reliable information allowed, its surface layered with notes, pins, and colored threads that marked supply routes and contested zones.

  Today, however, both tables had been cleared.

  In their place stood a rigid, ceremonial arrangement that felt alien to the room’s original purpose. The hall itself was colossal—nearly three hundred meters long and two hundred wide, its high ceiling supported by thick stone pillars reinforced with steel. At the far end rose a raised bench where five figures now sat in silent judgment.

  The five highest-ranking military leaders of the world.

  Representatives of the United States, the European Union, China, India, and Russia.

  Their uniforms differed in color and cut, but all bore the unmistakable weight of authority. Medals gleamed faintly under the lights. Their expressions ranged from impassive to openly displeased.

  Before them stretched an open floor of polished stone. Two simple tables stood there—one for the prosecution, one for the defense. Behind those tables rose a waist-high fence, separating the tribunal from the rest of the room, where rows of benches had been set up for observers: generals, strategists, aides, and officials who had nothing better to do than witness what promised to be either a formality—or a disaster.

  Grand Marshal Herman Merz took his seat on the right side of the bench, his posture straight, his hands resting calmly atop the desk before him. His sharp eyes scanned the room, already reading the mood.

  This would not be a quiet proceeding.

  At the center sat the speaker of the tribunal, Marshal Slobozhanin Mili Nikitovich of Russia. His presence alone commanded silence—a broad-shouldered man with steel-gray hair, eyes sharp with both intelligence and barely restrained amusement.

  “Silence, please,” Slobozhanin said, his voice calm but heavy enough to cut through the murmuring crowd.

  The room stilled.

  He folded his hands and looked down toward the prosecution table. “As the circumstances surrounding this request remain unclear to many present, we ask the messenger of Legion Twenty-Three to present the charges and context before this tribunal.”

  “Yes, Marshal.”

  Silvy rose from her seat.

  She stepped forward, boots clicking against the stone floor, and snapped into a crisp salute. Though young, her posture was precise, her expression composed. Whatever nerves she felt, she did not allow them to show.

  She spoke clearly, methodically laying out the accusations brought forth by Legion 23’s commander. Her report detailed the breach of protocol, the breaking of a sealed military document, and the blatant disregard for established procedures governing messengers of Central Command.

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  As she spoke, murmurs rippled through the audience.

  Some shook their heads in disbelief. Others leaned forward, interest piqued.

  “So, to conclude,” Silvy said, her voice steady, “Ellay of Central Command violated military law willingly and knowingly. Legion Twenty-Three formally requests the application of the permanent death penalty.”

  The words echoed in the vast hall.

  Silvy returned to her seat, exhaling slowly as she sat down.

  “Thank you for your report,” Slobozhanin said. He turned his gaze toward the other table. “Now, the defendant. Ellay—what do you have to say in your defense?”

  Ellay stepped forward.

  To be fair, even he understood—on some level—that something had gone terribly wrong.

  The problem was that his understanding ended there.

  Tall, well-dressed, and carrying himself with the unconscious arrogance of inherited privilege, Ellay straightened his coat and lifted his chin. His noble upbringing showed in every movement, every word that followed.

  “I deny all wrongdoing,” he said confidently. “As a person of noble descent, I should not be subjected to these accusations. These laws exist to maintain order among common soldiers, not to restrain those of proper lineage.”

  Silence.

  Absolute, suffocating silence.

  Silvy’s jaw dropped.

  Around the room, hands flew to foreheads in unison, the collective gesture of people witnessing something truly astonishing in its stupidity. A few officers outright buried their faces in their palms.

  The Indian Marshal visibly struggled to maintain composure, his expression twitching as he stared at the defendant. It was clear that, in his mind, he was weighing several extremely violent solutions—and rejecting them only because of the political inconvenience Ellay’s family would cause.

  If Ellay had shown even a shred of remorse—if he had acknowledged cultural differences, apologized for mishandling the report, or admitted poor judgment—this entire affair might have ended with dismissal from duty.

  Instead, he had chosen to pour oil on a raging fire.

  Marshal Slobozhanin pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders shaking slightly as he fought the urge to laugh.

  To him, the scene unfolding was like watching a young man flee an angry wild boar—only to sprint directly into the open jaws of a tiger, all while smearing himself with sauce and insisting nothing was wrong.

  “Very well,” Slobozhanin said at last, his voice miraculously steady. “The tribunal will now deliberate. The defendant and the messenger will step outside.”

  Guards escorted both Silvy and Ellay from the room.

  The moment the doors closed, the tension shifted.

  “Well,” Herman said dryly, breaking the silence, “I believe the legitimacy of the evidence no longer requires verification. The defendant has confessed through arrogance alone.”

  A few quiet chuckles rippled across the bench.

  Herman turned slightly toward the Indian Marshal. “Arun, do you wish to plead on his behalf? He is your countryman, after all.”

  It was a calculated move—and everyone present knew it. A political courtesy that cost Herman nothing while offering Arun an exit.

  Arun exhaled slowly. “I cannot deny that, based on the evidence, the permanent death penalty is warranted.”

  He paused.

  “However,” he continued, “I propose an alternative. A chance for redemption.”

  Several heads turned.

  “If Ellay kills ten thousand goblins during a formal trial period,” Arun said, “his death sentence will be lifted, and his case reviewed.”

  The room hummed with approval.

  It was a punishment that sounded merciful—but was, in truth, nearly impossible. Without experimental enhancements—something the military refused to use lightly—surviving such a task was unlikely.

  Still, it provided value.

  Free labor. A symbolic chance. Political cleanliness.

  Slobozhanin nodded. “Does anyone have a better proposal?”

  No one spoke.

  He raised his gavel and brought it down with a sharp crack.

  “The sentence is accepted.”

  As the tribunal adjourned, officials began to rise from their seats, conversations already shifting back to supply lines, troop movements, and war.

  Herman cleared his throat once more.

  “Before we disperse,” he said calmly, “I suggest we review the competence of Central Command’s messengers. If this incident is any indication, it is a miracle our messages arrive at all.”

  A murmur of agreement swept the room.

  None of the highest leaders personally selected messengers—they left such tasks to staff. But after today, no one wanted to be responsible for the next farce.

  One by one, they departed.

  And somewhere behind thick stone walls, Ellay’s fate was sealed—not by law alone, but by his own arrogance.