The rumors spread quickly.
A group of seven people who had been living high on the hog, indulging in extravagance and vice, had been arrested all at once.
The citizens of Underdog City always talked about it whenever they got together in groups of three or more.
"Well, they were trying to get in the way of the new Deputy Mayor, and they got caught."
"Oh, aren't they the ones who used to treat the common people like bugs, and now they're in charge?"
"But what do you think will happen to them? The new magistrate's personality doesn't seem normal, so they won't just be released, will they?"
"Aye, they're still the second generation of a native family, I'm sure he'll let them go with a moderate amount of humiliation."
The crowd naturally turned their heads away.
In the northern part of the central square, a banner was still fluttering in the wind.
. . As it was originally labelled. There were no exceptions to the law. There was no special provision for the rich and powerful to be forgiven. The crimes of the seven masters could not have been clearer. They were guilty of illegal sex work, illegal lobbying, illegal human trafficking, consuming and distributing drugs, and making ill-gotten gains in the process. Tax evasion, assault, and sexual assault were obvious options. So the sentence is clear. Death. No excuses, no mitigating circumstances. People chattered. "You're going to execute the sons of those seven indigenous families?" "Fool, don't you know the character of the new deputy? He burned ten billion on a single stake!" "If you kill those seven bastards, the repercussions will be devastating." "Why don't we just give them a few good whacks and humiliate them?" "Yes. I don't think they'll get the death penalty, though." They all spoke in unison. This is a power game between the new politicians and the indigenous tycoons, and if the latter would just bow out and keep their heads down, everything would be smooth sailing. And just as people thought, Mont Blanc, Pierre, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Ferragamo, Hermès, and Prada offered their sincere apologies to the new deputy. The local retainers bowed and entered. The citizens did the same and clicked their tongues when they saw the carriages representing each family, laden with lavish tributes, making their way to City Hall in the dead of night. The seven rascals who had been detained would now be released unharmed and would be given a good shouting match by their landlord father. That was the end of it. The local keepers will either avenge this humiliation in some way, or they will bow down and look the other way, and for a time the seven rascals will do their time and keep quiet. The new, young deputy magistrate has scored a nice victory over the native wealthy. The citizens will be moderately pleased, moderately outraged, and moderately forgetful of this obvious outcome. They will. .... ...No, I knew it would happen. Until this morning, when seven heads were hung in the centre of the main square. Seven heads, salted and disembowelled. Bereft of their bodies, their heads were contorted as if they had been in terrible agony on the brink of death. The notices beneath their heads detail the additional punishments they received before they died, before they were executed. *Executed in accordance with the above law, tattooing the word "colour" on the entire face. *Enforced in accordance with the above law, both wrists were cut off. *This sentence is retroactive to the number of times he violated the law, so after his wrists were cut, he continued to cut them for a certain length of time. This prisoner was sentenced to 72 wrist cuts. *Executed without prejudice, taking into account the pleas of the victims of these prisoners. *Executed according to law. *Banishment outside the city walls, except for the head, as they are already exiles. . . The citizens could only gape. The law itself was always there, so there is no need to think of it as excessive or harsh. The problem is that the prisoners who were subjected to the law were not ordinary prisoners. It's not just a power game. This is a war of attrition that will last until one of them is gone. There was no one who didn't expect a bloodbath. * * * Not long before the sentence was carried out. Vikir stood before the grate in the dungeon. Inside the dungeon, he could see the seven Masters, bloodied and groaning, imprisoned. "...Now, you shanki, wu abujihate, it's all over." "Get out of here, Ba, how can I!" "For the love of God, let them go!" And before him stood Baskerville, the Chihuahua, restless. "Oh, my lord, my lord. What did you do to beat them like this?" He sounded more than a little pleased with himself. Vikir, who had been standing beside him, expressionless, suddenly turned his head. "Do you think what I did to these men was excessive?" "What? Oh, yes, of course I do! A fashionista deserves a good beating, and if you turn people into meat patties like this, how are you going to pay for it later..." Vikir smiled wryly. "Don't worry about it. I haven't even started yet." "...?" Chihuahua asks, confused. Vikir didn't answer, but thought about it. Township offices were originally meant to check and supervise local maladministration, edify local society, and coordinate relations with the city hall. But over time, they had become more and more like a sideshow, and now they had surpassed even the power of the nefarious Baskervilles. "Gamani no dew!" "Two, leave it!" "Huaangfei's corrupted family name!" The way they snarled, it was even more so. But Vikir, absorbing their hatred, seemed unperturbed. "I will execute them all by the end of the day." ...! At those words, the Masters in the cage fell silent. Vikir spoke again. "In the meantime, I'll eradicate them all, from the angels in the club to the demons in the streets." The fearsome words were undeniably true. Everything would be accomplished by his decree, without fail. A war on crime had been declared. The Masters looked puzzled for a moment, but soon they grabbed the grate and began to shake it. "Now, come on, good boy!" "Haberma! Haberma bazusae!" "Going crazy!" "목슘망 사려쥬새..." People who usually see others like bugs grovel on the floor like bugs. Right now, the Chihuahua was feeling complex emotions. He wondered if he could ever see anything like this in his life. On the other hand, he feared the retaliation of the local indigenous leaders. Their retaliation is both sluggish and deadly. From here on, no produce would come to any of Vikir's businesses, and attendance at his events would be very low. The city would be in a bind in trade with other cities, and tax revenues would dwindle. But Vikir was relaxed. Perhaps he covered all his bases. "There's little left to be worried about, sir." "...ha, but." "Their families won't be able to protest." "Yes? Why?" Vikir answered the Chihuahua's question with ease. "They're involved in criminal groups big and small in Longshot City." "What? Zee, how does the Archon even know that…" Vikir remained silent, not wanting to say he'd seen it before the regression. Then the Chihuahua looked concerned. "But, the evidence counts, right? And even if we get evidence, what kind of retaliation will they do next." "Rest assured, there are plenty of them." Vikir laughed. We'll find the evidence. If we don't find it, we make it. And everything that happened next was beyond Vikir's concern. For Vikir was already thinking about moving on. 'I don't know who will replace me, but being steadfast is going. I don't expect Hugo to stay on as deputy for too long. The world was about to change, and there was a good chance that he would be thrust into real combat soon. So it didn't matter much to Vikir's future if he threw a tantrum right now. He would have to leave when he was accepted into the Academy. "So, while you're here as a deputy, you must get some discipline. The answer was to prescribe medications that were highly effective, even if they caused some side effects. This would soon become a reputation that would propel Vikir's career. It didn't matter who came after him. Vikir detested members of his own Baskerville family the most. ... But, a thousand miles a day. That's what to do, I hope to make these seven scoundrels… Nay, masters before me spill all the evidence of their collusion with the criminal element, and, if possible, their locations. Vikir stepped forward to the bars and said. "I will tell you what you are accused of." "...." "Unlawful kidnapping and imprisonment of women, rape, intimidation, forced administration of illegal drugs, human trafficking, and forcing them into the sex trade, as well as bribes, extortion, blackmail, and murder of government officials...." The Masters were stunned. "That's the curse of the devil! We'll punish you when we have evidence!" "We'll punish him when we have the evidence? Are you saying there's a crime but no evidence?" "That's right, Gerson…" The Masters looked at each other, bewildered. Then a determined look crossed their faces. "If I have to die here, I will do so without harming the family name. If we blow it here, we can't expect revenge. The clan would turn on them, and even if they, Vikir, given the nature of that psycho, he could go further and use the act system on the clan, destroying them to the roots. 'Never, I will never tell!' The seven scoundrels closed their mouths, prepared to die for their loved ones. ... But. "Oh, now you're here." Vikir waved towards a door in the dungeon corridor. Clearly, he had been standing in front of the grate this whole time, waiting for someone. "...?" The Seven Masters followed Vikir's gaze with curiosity and anxiety. And there, walking towards them, was a gaunt old man carrying a large basket. "Your customization is complete, my lord." The old man was a torturer who worked in the basement of City Hall. And then. Vikir overturned the basket and spilled its contents onto the rack. Clink-clink. What emerged were hundreds of instruments. Each one odd and gruesome, bent, twisted, mutilated, blunt, and sharp. The old torturer grinned, becoming protective toward. "Wow, I've been torturing people for the past 30 years, and I've never seen anything like this. How did you come up with this multitude of terrifying devices?" "I didn't invent them. They were normal where I was." "Was the place you were before… like hell?" "Well, it was close. Do you want to learn a lesson?" The instruments were horrifying, even for a torturer who had been doing it for decades. Vikir picked them up and walked back to the grate. "...again!" Instinctively sensing something, the Seven Masters recoiled away from the grate. But just as quickly. …Thud! Vikir boldly pushed open the door to the cage and stepped inside. Before he stepped back, he remembered the faces of his old friends. 'I remember, even wicked prisoners spat out military secrets before their torture techniques. The torments of the Era of Destruction made even the demons from hell cry and crap themselves. Vikir, who knows about the future torture techniques that have improved leaps and bounds in the short time he's been dealing with demons, can't help but find the shoes with their determined expressions charming. "You're making faces like you're never going to talk." Vikir says with a weak smile. "… Please don't make me talk." This was genuine. He wanted to keep the memories and nostalgia alive for as long as possible.