The night wind howled through the air, carrying the eerie stillness of the Blood Moon. Occasionally, waves lapped against the edges of the Broken Lake, accompanied by the splashes of darting Finger Sharks breaking the surface.
Ashur Heath stood by silently, observing everything with cold indifference. His expression betrayed no interest in the raging arguments around him.
"Even so—" Andrei clutched at the only hope he could find, his voice trembling as he asked, "What does this have to do with you selling out the citizens to curry favor with the Blood Moon's chosen races? You see it all so clearly—is that why you want to join them?"
"I used every tactic imaginable, united the races, and bent the knee to the Blood Moon—all to push through the Arena League," replied Fernand Snow.
"But that—"
"You wouldn't understand, Andrei. You're a weak, cowardly human with no vision," snarled the ogre. "Yes, just as you predicted, the Arena League will bring violence, death, and slaughter as its main spectacle. The Blood Saints and Moon Shadows will revel in it. But the next generation will grow up differently. They'll learn brutality, ferocity, and ruthlessness. They'll forge a spirit strong enough to challenge even the divine!"
"All for this?" Andrei's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Not just for that." Fernand Snow's face twisted into a manic grin. "There's something more. As much as I loathe admitting it, even my origins at the Bonehead Orphanage taught me something invaluable—a way to defy the Blood Moon's laws."
His laugh echoed like thunder. "Fight! Nothing bridges the gap between individuals more than battle. Among ogres, there's only one way to make friends—beat them up first!"
"You sold out the people, groveled to the Blood Moon races, and held onto power as mayor—just for this lofty, unattainable dream?" Andrei scoffed. "Do you really care that much?"
"You'll never understand, Andrei. You can't even grasp it!" Fernand's voice grew fervent. "To bring down the Blood Moon's chosen, to even dream of challenging the Blood Moon Lords, isn't the work of one or two individuals—it requires an entire history driven by collective effort. And that history demands sacrifice."
"Sacrifice?"
"Yes, sacrifice! You, me, this entire generation—we're all worthless. The hope lies in the future. Our only purpose is to nourish the soil, so that one day, on this corrupt land, a normal flower might finally bloom."
"And of course," Fernand added with a sardonic smile, "I won't pretend I'm entirely selfless. If everything goes as planned, my name will reach unprecedented heights. If my successors continue my path, a revolution will ignite. My name, Arandol Fernand Snow, will be remembered for all eternity. The ogre race's defiance will become legendary—a testament of courage that shook the heavens themselves."
The ogre's voice rose to a fever pitch. "I demand that you all—every last one of you—acknowledge this! Ogres are the greatest, the smartest, the bravest race in this world!"
Andrei stared at the ogre, whose body was now engulfed in the pulsating, red chains of condemnation. For a moment, he found himself at a loss for words.
When Fernand Snow had unveiled the truth about the Blood Moon's oppressive system, his fate was sealed. The public would never forgive him. It was like waking up in a sealed, toxic room where the air was already poisoned. Instead of gratitude for the warning, people would despise the one who robbed them of ignorance's bliss.
And Fernand Snow wasn't even offering salvation—only a callous promise to sacrifice this generation for the next. It was a bitter pill no one wanted to swallow.
For the young and the ambitious, his words were nothing short of betrayal. "Why should we suffer so others can thrive? What do future generations owe us? Why should we care about them?"
In their eyes, Fernand Snow wasn't a savior. He was a deluded megalomaniac, drunk on his twisted vision of martyrdom.
Suddenly, the pillar beneath Fernand began to rise, carrying him high into the air. The crowd looked on as his figure ascended, silhouetted against the crimson glow of the Blood Moon, as if the moon itself was about to consume him.
"Vote count exceeds 50%. Executioner descends prematurely," announced Ashur Heath in his usual monotone. "Tonight's executioner: the Nine-Headed Hydra."
The waters of the Broken Lake began to churn violently. From the depths emerged eight massive, grotesque serpentine heads. Fernand's pillar began to transform, its base morphing into the open maw of a ninth serpent, poised to swallow him whole.
But the condemned in the Blood Moon Tribunal never received such easy deaths.
Hovering cameras zoomed in on Fernand. He smiled grimly.
"Ashur Heath, you've gotten what you wanted. The Blood Moon's mask has been ripped apart for all to see. Not that I think it'll change anything…" He laughed bitterly. "If only I'd known your potential sooner, I might've allied with the Four Pillars Cult… No wonder the Blood Moon fears them."
With a hiss, the hydra heads struck.
The ogre's blood sprayed across the scene, each drop greedily consumed by the serpents. His body trembled under the onslaught, but his eyes burned brighter than ever. His smile widened, teeth gleaming like daggers.
"You fools raised under the Blood Moon…" His voice carried like a final anthem. "You will never birth a savior. You don't deserve one. At most, you'll create someone like me—a schemer, an opportunist…"
"I always knew you couldn't tolerate a true savior," he spat, blood dripping from his lips. "But to think, you can't even stomach someone as vile as me."
"Doesn't matter," Fernand declared, defiance lighting his face. "I've been scorned by idiots since birth. This shame? I'm used to it."
With a sickening crunch, the hydra devoured him.
Far away, in a grimy ogre studio, a young ogre sat on a filthy, broken chair. Around him, garbage and paint cans littered the floor, filling the air with a putrid stench.
He watched the screen, where Fernand Snow met his end in a bloody spectacle.
He'd seen Fernand's face many times before, on the news and in public addresses, always polished and poised. He'd mocked and cursed the mayor countless times, calling him a sellout, a fraud. "Why won't he help his own kind?" he'd sneer.
When the trial began, he'd been thrilled to see Fernand face judgment. "What makes him so special? Why does he get to live in luxury while we rot here?"
But now, staring at the screen, he felt empty. The triumph he'd imagined wasn't there. Instead, his chest ached, a suffocating void that swallowed his rage and replaced it with an unbearable sorrow.
Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. He tried to shout, to curse Fernand one last time, but no sound came out. Only silent heaving as he gagged on an invisible weight in his throat.
His anguish clawed at his soul, relentless and merciless.
Suddenly, a cheerful message interrupted the broadcast:
"Congratulations! By casting your redemption vote, you successfully delivered justice. As a reward, you've won third place in the 'Champion of Justice' lottery!"
The voice shattered him. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing like a child.
"Mama… Papa… " he choked through the tears, clutching his chest as his cries filled the filthy studio.