Ernest didn’t have many supporters.
That was already a very polite way of putting it.
Though he hadn’t been shackled, tortured, or even placed under house arrest, he found himself experiencing something even prisoners rarely endured.
Kjerag was a small place.
With terran settlements concentrated around lakes and forests, information spread quickly.
Especially for something this explosive, word traveled at a terrifying pace, one passing to ten, ten to a hundred, snowballing far beyond reason.
Before long, Ernest found himself living a life where people whispered about him at home, where his office was smeared with curses, and where stepping outside without guards meant being pelted in the face with bird eggs and vegetables.
Eggs and produce were valuable in Kjerag, essential winter provisions.
That people would use them for anything other than food left Ernest… oddly flattered.
Even so, on the day before the sacred stone trial, Ernest still showed up for work as usual.
He hung his winter coat neatly on the rack and glanced around the modest office, which should have been empty.
His gaze soon settled on a figure who definitely shouldn’t have been there.
“Good morning, Sciurus.”
With almond-colored hair like Ratatos’s, yet carrying far more youthful vitality than her somber elder sister, Sciurus Browntail sat stiffly on the sofa.
A key figure of the Browntail family and one of Ernest’s childhood friends, she clenched her hands tightly in her lap.
Her bright eyes locked onto him as he walked toward his desk, and she stomped her foot in frustration.
“You still have the mood to say good morning?
Why didn’t you refuse?!”
“Refuse what?” Ernest sat back in his chair, looking at her with mild exasperation.
“Does Yucatan know you’re here?
Aren’t you worried about causing him trouble?”
“He’s the one who told me to come!” Sciurus snapped, then forcefully dragged the conversation back.
“Of course I mean refusing the sacred stone trial!
My sister, that rotten schemer, how could she treat you like this?
You should’ve flat-out refused her and humiliated her.
No, forget that, you should’ve punched her.
No, punched her stomach!”
Ernest’s lips twitched.
What kind of suggestion is that?
Still, he shook his head.
“It wouldn’t help.
Even if I refused, what would that change?
Does Yucatan have another way to convince them that what I’m doing is right?”
Clearly, Yucatan hadn’t given her any such answer.
But she had always been stubborn.
Even though she had never once won an argument against Ernest, she refused to give up.
“Even so… you still can’t accept it!
Everyone knows what the sacred stone trial is like.
When was the last time Kjeragandr actually appeared?
Whatever the ‘judgment’ is, isn’t it just whatever the Vine-Bead Court says it is?”
“Yes,” Ernest replied calmly.
She knew it.
Yucatan knew it.
And of course, so did he.
Kjeragandr’s last recorded appearance had been centuries ago.
If not for the continued protection the land enjoyed, never once suffering a Catastrophe, people might have already begun to doubt the god’s existence.
But even so, the long silence of the divine had brought its own problems.
As the supposed mouthpiece of the god, the Vine-Bead Court had accumulated issues of its own.
The Grand Elder’s obsession with worldly power was just one example.
There were many more, spanning finance, culture, even the military.
The logic was simple.
Absolute power breeds absolute corruption.
Judicial authority was one of many powers the Institute still held, powers that by all rights should belong to the modern Kjerag government.
The sacred stone trial worked like this: a person accused, suspected of guilt yet difficult to punish, would stand before the relic left by Kjeragandr and recount their actions, awaiting divine judgment.
On the surface, this placed judgment in the hands of a god.
In practice, however, there were countless ways to manipulate it.
For instance, requiring the accused to publicly confess before the sacred stone.
Anyone worthy of standing in that plaza was already someone of status.
Even if the final verdict declared them innocent, their reputation would be shattered beyond repair.
Then there was the so-called divine decree.
A conveniently vague concept.
Kjeragandr was not some ever-present arbiter available at all times.
What if, at the moment of trial, the god simply did not appear?
Then who would deliver the verdict?
Naturally, the Vine-Bead Court, the very authority that claimed the right to interpret divine will and speak in the god’s name.
Even taking a step back, even if the Vine-Bead Court didn’t fabricate a divine decree, the mere absence of a response from Kjeragandr could still be interpreted however they wished.
It could be spun as “the god is angered into silence,” or “such trivial matters are unworthy of divine attention.” In the end, the authority to interpret and deliver judgment would still fall into the Institute’s hands.
After all, the Vine-Bead Court was, at its core, a state authority cloaked in religion.
Everything it did carried an inherent air of sanctity.
When the time came, even the slightest occurrence—a snowland bird landing briefly on the sacred stone before flying off—could be twisted into an omen unfavorable to Ernest.
In the end, everyone believed.
No one could disprove it, and so no one would question it.
“That’s exactly why the first thing I planned to do with the money was invest in education,” Ernest said with a sigh.
“I know the odds are against me this time, but I don’t have any other choice.”
In truth, the worst outcome he had anticipated was being assassinated the very day the mortgage deal came to light.
Compared to that, even a trial like this—one that could hardly be called fair—was already a stroke of luck.
“You… no wonder Yucatan said that liking Ernest, being smart, and supporting the sacred stone trial are three things that can’t exist in the same person!”
Sciurus turned her head away, both angry and helpless.
“…There might still be another way.
Ernest, come to Turicum tonight.
I can arrange for you to leave Kjerag with a merchant caravan and head to Columbia.”
“I’m not going,” Ernest refused without hesitation.
“If I run to Columbia, I’ll never be able to come back.
Don’t you understand?”
“But that’s still better than dying, isn’t it?” Sciurus insisted, only for Ernest to raise a hand and cover her mouth.
“Can’t you say something a little more optimistic?” he said helplessly.
“Like… maybe I could trust that the great Kjeragandr might actually appear.”
“You make it sound so easy!” Sciurus pulled his hand away, exasperated.
“Who do you think you are?
Even the Saintess hasn’t seen Kjeragandr in ages.
Why would the god appear just for you?”
Ernest pursed his lips.
“Not necessarily.”
“Not necessarily what?” Sciurus couldn’t understand where his confidence came from.
But Ernest only shrugged, offering no explanation.
He smiled and gently patted her head.
“Nothing’s certain.”
Whether Enya had truly seen Kjeragandr, whether the god would appear… none of that was certain.
At least, in Ernest’s memory, that god carried quite the… peculiar reputation.
A branch would not snap upon a chameleon’s arm.
It was time for his first move.