164: Chapter 164 Don't execute people indiscriminately; it will cause problems.

Central Plaza, Old Capital Comorion.

Beneath the grey-blue canopy of the sky, the stone structures of the entire Old Capital exuded a pale, cold, and dull luster.

Legend has it that an evil half-breed had always been committing evil deeds in the Old Capital, and this predatory evildoer seemed no longer satisfied with the mountains where he originally lived, nor the distant mountainous towns with fertile villages and numerous populations.

The villain's name was enough to make small children stop crying.

No one dared to mention it.

His raids became increasingly blatant, and their scope grew larger and larger.

Until one night, he came to a village located in the suburbs of Comorion, and together with his filthy gang of scoundrels, committed unspeakable crimes.

For similarly unspeakable purposes, they brought most of the villagers back to the caves within the pristine Mountains of Ig-lothian, which even the righteous army could not reach.

Finally!

This terrifying half-breed was captured!

For unknown reasons, he was all alone when he was arrested.

Whether by coincidence or premeditation, not a single one of his subordinates was caught.

Nevertheless, Comorion was still filled with excitement and jubilation, with everyone eagerly wanting to catch a glimpse of this terrifying villain.

The trial against him was about to begin!

The Old Capital was boiling with excitement!

The sorcerers wondered what kind of foul-smelling pus would stain the Sword of Justice.

The record of the trial process and the condemnation of the half-breed's heinous crimes were very swift.

The legal work was prompt and accurate, without a single flaw or delay.

The prisoner was locked in a secret dungeon located beneath the main prison, a small room carved into the primeval gneiss bedrock deep underground.

The only entrance was a hole, and the prisoner was lowered into the prison using long ropes and a windlass.

The entrance was locked with a huge lock, guarded day and night by twelve armed soldiers.

Until the day of the execution...

In the center of the plaza stood an altar built from rough obsidian. At the four corners of the altar were inserted stone pillars carved with Voormis characters, their shafts stained a deep, dark brownish-black by dried blood.

Suspended directly above the altar was a huge cage woven from tundra vines and bone fragments, inside which a tall, thin figure was curled up.

His upper body was bare, and his waist was wrapped in the yellowish-brown pelts of some long-haired animals.

The pelts looked like dirty strips of rags, hanging all the way down to his knees.

However, these details were only a small part of the elements of his appearance that disgusted and even shocked the sorcerers.

His limbs, body, and face all resembled those of primitive humans; the blasphemously ironic ancient precepts put forward by the hairless priests might perhaps tolerate his smooth, hairless appearance.

The large python-like patches on his skin might, to a certain extent, be mistaken for extreme pigmentation.

Something else—the fluidity of his every movement, his soft undulations, and his leisurely relaxation—hinted at an internal structure different from that of humans.

(Aside from the author's adapted portions, the remainder comes from The Testament of Athamaus — Clark Ashton Smith)

The plaza was crowded with people.

Residents of the Old Capital, refugees who fled from the Northern Cities, and a few former Mu-Thuran mages wearing worn-out magical robes.

Their faces wore the exact same expression.

Fear, anger, and an excitement about to erupt after being suppressed for too long.

A middle-aged sorcerer wearing a dark red magic robe stood directly in front of the altar, raising both hands high above his head. The cuffs of his robe slipped down to reveal two forearm sections covered in tattoos.

The patterns of the tattoos were ancient Hyperborean runes, each one exuding a dull, dark red fluorescence under the grey-blue sky-light.

His voice was loud and clear, echoing back and forth across the plaza.

"Everyone! Ever since the fall of the Northern Cities, the servants of the White Worm have still been pushing south! Do you know why the gods no longer protect Hyperborea? Why the God of the Ivory Throne has closed its eyes? Why the Elk Goddess no longer responds to prayers? Why even the God of Toads is only willing to doze in underground caves?!"

"Because of the Bloodline!"

"Because the pure Bloodline we once prided ourselves on is being polluted by these half-human, half-beast mongrels! The crossbreeds of the Voormis and humans, the crossbreeds of Noph-Keh and humans, and even the crossbreeds of snake-men and humans—these mongrels that should not exist in this world are the root cause of the Old Gods' wrath!"

The crowd let out a fanatical and excited cheer.

Several assistants standing beside the altar began to slowly lower the cage from above the altar using tundra vines, and the bottom of the cage slammed against the surface of the obsidian altar with a dull, heavy thud.

The half-breed Voormis curled up inside the cage, his grey-white skin covered in old scars from being whipped.

His fingers were longer than those of a normal human by more than a joint, and his fingertips were covered with grey-white nails—the last traces left by the Voormis Bloodline.

He raised those brown eyes that did not belong to a pure-blooded human to look at the hundreds of distorted faces in the plaza, opened his mouth, and let out a sneer.

The middle-aged sorcerer drew a short knife ground from obsidian fragments out of his sleeve.

The assistants lifted the cage lid, dragged the half-breed Voormis out of the cage, and made him kneel in the very center of the altar.

The sorcerer pressed the short knife against the back of his neck, pushing his half-human, half-beast face down onto the surface of the obsidian altar.

The crowd let out fanatical and excited cheers. Someone threw a frozen lump of mud onto the altar, and someone crossed their arms, raised their head, and chanted a mumbled, fanatical prayer.

"He has been convicted and sentenced to death by eight judges and chieftains! Execute the sentence now!"

The half-breed Voormis closed his eyes.

The obsidian short knife fell.

The head rolled to the edge of the altar, spinning several times before coming to a stop.

There was no blood; black primordial protoplasm gushed out from the neck opening and poured into the grooves on the surface of the altar, flowing slowly along those paths.

The crowd erupted into fanatical and prolonged cheers. An assistant picked up the head of the half-breed Voormis and hung it on the tallest stone pillar in front of the altar, nailing it to the surface of the pillar together with the headless body.

That body was still twitching slightly, and its fingers were still unconsciously scratching the rough stone surface.

At the edge of the plaza, a few mages wearing worn-out magic robes silently watched all of this.

They did not cheer, throw mud lumps, or chant prayers.

One of the young mages turned his head and whispered something to the older companion beside him.

The older companion did not answer, merely pulling his hood down a bit further to cover his face.

The crowd gradually dispersed, and the black substance on the altar was still slowly flowing along the grooves.

The headless half-breed Voormis body was nailed to the stone pillar, its legs hanging slightly and swayingly above the base of the pillar, like an abandoned broken bell.

The grey-blue sky-light fell upon the stone walls of the Old Capital Comorion.

The head at the top of the stone pillar was slowly turning in the wind, which, together with the still-twitching headless body on the altar base, formed a picture colder than the ice sheets of Hyperborea.

It was a pity that a single execution did not kill this half-breed.