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墨書 Inktalez
The Executioner pulled the lever of the Guillotine without hesitation, and with a heavy clank, the iron blade suddenly dropped. In that instant, the blade of the Guillotine swept mercilessly across William's neck like the scythe of death. The sound of the blade sliding along its track was sharp and piercing, shattering the eerie silence as if announcing the arrival of death.
William barely had time to react; the last thing he saw was the cold edge flashing before him, and then he felt a chill at his throat. The world around him blurred. It was as if a chopstick had suddenly snapped, with a crack, his head and body separating without warning, losing their connection and all control. In that moment, all his senses were severed, leaving no time to even feel pain.
His head rolled off the edge of the Guillotine and fell helplessly to the ground, like a discarded doll. It spun on the ground, blood pooling from the severed neck, leaving a winding trail that gradually slowed. Those hollow eyes stared wide open, pupils dilating as they reflected the excited faces of the surrounding crowd. Everyone was cheering and shouting as if this execution were a grand celebration, while he was merely a sacrifice in this revelry.
As his vision blurred and began to lose focus, in his final moments of consciousness, he lifted his gaze to the sky. The sky was no longer the usual blue with white clouds but a gloomy and eerie blood-red, like flames from hell engulfing the entire heavens. The crimson clouds rolled slowly, as if chewing on the world's pain and despair; that deep red hue filled him with an overwhelming sense of suffocation.
William's consciousness was fading, life’s flame extinguishing rapidly. Yet in that fleeting moment, he saw that blood-red sky, echoing James's triumphant laughter that overshadowed everything. He suddenly felt how absurd it all was; it felt like a cruel joke—no truth, no justice, only endless brutality and absurdity. This world—the very world he had tried to save—betrayed him so swiftly.
A twitch involuntarily crossed William's lips as he opened his mouth as if wanting to say something but found himself too weak to voice it. His gaze grew increasingly frantic; in those final moments, his pupils trembled violently with disbelief and pain. He had gone mad. His spirit shattered completely at that moment; the blood-red sky became the last straw that crushed him entirely.
In that crimson world, his soul felt as if it were torn into countless fragments, plummeting into an endless darkness. He could do nothing; he could change nothing. All his struggles, anger, and resentment ultimately turned into wisps of smoke, dissipating into the wind.
The courtroom was brightly lit, filled with an oppressive tension in the air. The judge's voice echoed within the chamber as he coldly recounted the details of the case and gradually read out William's crimes along with the impending punishment. However, at that moment, William's gaze suddenly turned vacant; his face went pale in an instant, and his body began to tremble violently as he muttered something under his breath, seemingly lost in some invisible terror. Then he lurched forward and collapsed heavily onto the ground.
In that instant, chaos erupted in the room. The sound of camera shutters clicked furiously as reporters rushed forward to capture this scene. Under the cameras' gaze, William wore an expression of helplessness and confusion; his eyes were hollow, lips twitching slightly as if struck down by some unseen force. His body lay limp on the ground like a soulless shell; there was no trace left of his earlier stubborn fervor or resentment.
The Bailiff and medical personnel rushed forward to lift him from the floor, trying to revive him. But no matter how they shook him or called out to him, William remained unresponsive—as if completely lost in some unfathomable darkness. His eyelids drooped heavily; breathing faint yet regular—it was clear he had fainted. Medical personnel examined him closely and confirmed there was no danger to his life; he had simply lost consciousness temporarily.
The judge paused for a moment to observe the Bailiffs' actions before displaying a hint of impatience on his face; then he resumed his stern demeanor. Clearing his throat once more, he picked up his gavel and struck it down heavily. The noise in the courtroom gradually subsided as everyone held their breath in anticipation of what would come next.
"Based on existing evidence and investigation results," the judge announced coldly, "the defendant William Conrad is found guilty of premeditated murder with extremely heinous behavior endangering society. After court deliberation, it has been decided to sentence him to life imprisonment."
The gavel struck again, its sound resonating like a heavy blow within the courtroom. As the verdict was announced, reporters frantically pressed their shutters, flashes erupting in a chaotic symphony of light that flickered over William's slumped figure. Each photograph sought to capture the most disheveled and helpless visage of this former Department Chair, now reduced to a criminal.
"This is what you deserve," someone murmured softly, their tone laced with schadenfreude and relief. Many others stood in shock, staring at William as if he were a man driven mad, unable to comprehend how this once-prominent professor had fallen so low.
Bailiffs worked together to lift William onto a stretcher; his head hung low, his face as pale as death. The crowd around him whispered among themselves—some laughed, some sighed in pity, but most simply observed with indifference. In the face of such a ruthless society, all of William's struggles, anger, and despair seemed utterly insignificant, unable to stir any ripples. They saw only a deranged criminal; no one could perceive the soul plunged into the abyss of hopelessness.
And so, William was carried out of the courtroom, burdened with unfinished words and an unquenchable resentment, gradually fading from the public eye. The life sentence handed down felt like a cold and merciless period at the end of this absurd fate.
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