At noon in the imperial capital, a convoy carrying a death row convict crossed the main boulevard.

A low, harsh grinding sound followed every time the iron wheels scraped against the wet stone floor.

On both sides of the street, onlookers gathered, and knights with spears and swords surrounded the iron-barred wagon, walking at a steady pace.

Liam was in the middle of it.

Heavy shackles were fastened to his wrists and ankles, and a black leather collar connected to a thick iron chain was around his neck.

Scars, bruises, and traces of old torture were revealed through his torn black clothes.

A face with almost no color. Disheveled silver-white hair. Blood that had not yet dried was smeared around his mouth.

Even so, Liam did not bow his head.

He showed no particular reaction when insults were heard, when stones hit the bars, or when the knights pulled the chain roughly.

Like a person who had already passed through too much pain.

Only his blurred grayish-blue eyes occasionally moved slowly toward the direction of the light.

He could not see properly ahead.

Neither the faces of the people, the end of the street, nor the crowd pointing fingers at him were clear.

Instead, he guessed his surroundings by the sound of clashing armor, the murmur of the crowd, the sound of horse hooves, and the direction of the wind.

He also knew where he was headed today.

The execution grounds.

He had no special feelings about that fact.

He had never clung to life, nor had he ever thought he was afraid of dying.

He was just waiting until the wagon stopped.

Then, the speed of the procession slowed down for a very brief moment.

A single wheel sound, different from the usual, drew near, and the movements of the surrounding knights became subtly disorganized.

Liam's head slowly turned toward the direction of the sound.