Chapter 10. Lucca Accard of The Chimera's Tail
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Back in Mirthwater, El caught sight of Ran's eyes, red-rimmed, burning in rage. The other boy, too, wore the same expression.
It wasn't surprising, though, since both of them, along with the other kids at that time, seemed to have a close-knit relationship with the people of the restaurant, particularly with the woman El had caught reprimanding them during their first encounter.
He could feel the depth of their cherished relationship even from afar.
Yet, it had all been cruelly ripped apart.
From a distance, El recognized her.
The woman bound to the pillar was Rima, a staff member of the restaurant whose name Ran had mentioned.
She died three days ago, but it appeared that her body had been deliberately preserved.
El knew very well what would happen to corpses after three days―the bloated flesh, the darkened veins, the inevitable swarm of flies claiming their feast. But there was none of it. No signs of rot, no restless insects hovering over the corpse either.
Then, his gaze shifted.
Among the twelve kneeling figures in the center, a familiar shape caught his eye. El spotted the old man at the restaurant, who conversed with the man. It was Old Tigo.
He wanted to ask the others about it, but eventually chose to keep his thoughts to himself.
He might not have been the most perceptive when it came to reading the atmosphere; he realized his lack of common sense might have already offended others unintentionally.
Yet, in this particular moment, El understood very well that it was best to keep his mouth shut.
Unlike before, when he attempted to lighten the mood by complimenting Ran after she explained what had happened, he only ended up creating an awkward strain for the remainder of their journey.
This time, though, there was no mistaking it.
Sadness.
It crept into him like a slow tide, seeping from the collective sorrow of those around him, pressing against his chest.
He had seen death before. In the village where he had lived, funerals came every few days, sometimes every week.
If luck ran dry, every single day.
And when starvation clawed too deep, people turned to the unthinkable—cannibalism, a desperate trade for another chance at survival.
So, El assumed he should have felt nothing.
But—
'But why?'
Why did his eyes threaten to brim with tears?
Was it the sheer weight of grief surrounding him, drowning him in collective emotions too vast to ignore? He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, forcing himself to hold back.
He had made a mistake crying in the restaurant that day. Not again. He had promised his late uncle.
And now, as all twenty-five members on the upper floor stood in silence—including El—Sir Giles loomed behind Ran. Arms crossed, veins bulging along his forehead and forearms, throbbing with barely contained emotion.
On the other side, one among them held an odd-looking device—something unfamiliar to El. Its purpose eluded him.
Later, he would come to understand that it was a camera.
Recording everything—the unfolding scene below, the grim spectacle taking place in the yard of the mayor's office.
A shaky yet firm voice broke the silence. It was Ran. "Sir Giles, what do you want to do after this?" Her gaze stayed locked on the platform.
Sir Giles exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Once this is over, you kids head back to the base. I'm sorry, but there is no lenience this time."
Ran didn't respond. Didn't argue either.
Behind her, Sir Giles let out a low, rueful sigh.
The mayor rose from his seat, his heavy footfalls sending ripples of unease through the assembly. The murmurs of Mirthwater's residents in the front rows dwindled into a tense hush.
Lucca Accard—his family name bestowed by the emperor himself—was a figure both revered and feared. Once a Commander in the Vanguards, his triumphs in the war against the Tribals had earned him high merit.
But glory had come at a cost. Crippling wounds forced him from the battlefield, leading the emperor to appoint him as Mirthwater's mayor.
Yet, it was not just his military past, nor his connection to the royal family, that cast a shadow over many.
Persistent rumors whispered through Mirthwater like a specter—faint yet impossible to ignore. It drifted like ghostly echoes, murmuring of a secret oath long sworn.
It was said that Lucca Accard had once held the solemn mantle of a Keeper within the main Church of Origin.
A sanctum infamous for its fierce loyalty to its own.
Those who walked its sacred halls rarely broke ties, and those who left were never truly free.
That lingering association, that shadow of allegiance, lent an unspoken menace to his presence—one that settled over the city like a silent watchman.
Mayor Lucca approached the execution ground step by step, eventually ascending the platform.
He turned to face the twelve kneeling figures. Except for the restaurant owner, all the others began to plead for his mercy.
"Please, Mayor Lucca. Please!?? We didn't do anything…"
"Please… I have a family at home. I can't leave them like this."
"My mother, Mayor. My mother is in the hospital right now. She is sick… Please let me go…"
"We're innocent. We had nothing to do with what happened to that noble. Please… hic, hic, hic… please…"
"I have a fiancé, sir. I will be married three months from now. Have mercy…"
"…"
"…"
The desperate cries shattered against the cold of a partly cloudy day, but Mayor Lucca remained unmoved. A guard stepped forward, his posture rigid.
"Silence!" he barked, cutting off their incessant pleas. His voice cracked like a whip, sending shivers through the kneeling prisoners.
Most flinched, shrinking into themselves—but one did not. A waiter from the restaurant dared to lift his gaze against Mayor Lucca, eyes burning with defiance.
Though his rebellion lasted only a moment.
The butt of the guard's rifle crashed against his skull. He crumpled, blood spilled, soaking into the ground as though the wooden floor itself drank his pain.
The remaining guards stood motionless, weapons at the ready, their expressions still and biting.
They were not men here. They were extensions of power, trained to obey without question—to uphold the majesty of the one held high by the emperor's eyes.
Mayor Lucca turned his gaze upon Old Tigo, the frail man positioned at the heart of the kneeling group. White, unkempt hair framed a face beaten and torn—burned flesh, shattered bones, wounds carved deep by both fire and steel.
He had endured severe torture before the execution, unlike the others who were merely confined behind steel bars; yet their ultimate end would be equally tragic.
From this moment on, any of their families would be thrown to the Underside.
"You see this, Tigo?" Lucca's voice was almost gentle, mocking in its softness. "The innocent, ensnared in your foolishness."
Old Tigo barely clung to the remnants of his strength. His ruined hands—six fingers left between them—twitched as he forced himself to raise his head, his breath rattling like dried leaves. His eyes were clouded by exhaustion, loss, and regret.
Finally, his lips parted, voice a ragged whisper of defeat.
"Yes... My folly was great. But my greatest mistake..." His gaze locked onto Lucca's, hollow yet unwavering. "...was believing you had a shred of humanity left."
A beat of silence stretched between them—bleak and absolute.
Then, with what little strength remained, he exhaled one final truth…
"You chose their iniquity in the end. How deep have you fallen, comrade?"
...
(A/N: In the empire, a surname was more than just a name—it was a mark of status, a sacred privilege reserved for the elite. Commoners were forbidden from bearing a second name unless it was formally bestowed upon them by the emperor or one of the Dukes. As such, last names belonged solely to the nobility or those who had earned their place among them—wealthy merchants, distinguished knights, and other individuals of recognized status. Because of this restriction, commoners often shared the same or similar first names, their identities bound to their given name alone.)
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