Planet Mercury. Corporate Headquarters. Reception Hall.

  Night lighting gently washes over the interior through transparent, almost vanishing, panoramic walls. Beyond them stretches a neon projection of a forest clearing, swallowed by thick mist. Campfire flames pulse in rhythm with a barely audible drumbeat coming from the depths of the hall, creating an atmosphere of primal force, echoes of ancient rituals.

  Guests arrive. Quiet whispers, soundless laughter, puzzled glances, hidden expectations. Here, in this hall, everyone understands: this is not merely an event — it’s a meticulously staged performance of power, where every look, every word, every movement must be measured and meaningful.

  Among the guests are Alex, an engineer with a cold, closed face, and Yulia, a mercenary in a form-fitting armored suit, holding a delicate, fluffy kitten in her arms. The kitten — a gray bundle with enormous eyes — trembles and glances around furtively, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

  “Easy, Darling,” Yulia whispers, pressing the synthetic animal against her chest, trying to calm it down.

  But of course, just as Alex leans in to whisper something in her ear, the kitten nimbly slips from her hands and disappears into the crowd, darting between the legs of the guests.

  “Darling!” Yulia hisses with irritation, rushing after it.

  Her eyes scan the hall, searching for the little creature, her heart not knowing a moment’s rest. After a brief moment, she notices a man in a black uniform bending down and gently lifting the kitten from the floor.

  “There you are,” she says, approaching and extending her hands with relief to take the kitten back.

  The man hands her the pet. His voice is deep and cool, his face stern, but his eyes are attentive, as if he sees much more than just a woman with a kitten.

  “Cute little creature. My name’s Jamal. And you?”

  “Yulia. And his name is Darling,” she replies, smiling faintly as she takes the kitten into her arms.

  “Good name. With personality.” He softens a bit, but remains composed.

  “Do you know why we were summoned here?” Yulia asks, her gaze drifting aside, as if she’s hiding her true interest behind a mask of innocence.

  “What, you don’t know?” Jamal raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening slightly. “There’s a trial today. A trial for the Inquisitors. A public one. Very... educational.”

  Yulia nods slightly. Her face reveals no concern, but tension coils inside her. A trial. Inquisitors. This sounds far too serious to be just ritual.

  “May I stand next to you?” she asks, looking up at him, lightly touching his elbow with a nearly playful gesture.

  “Of course.” The general doesn’t take his eyes off her, his voice remains firm and calm.

  The crowd falls still. Everything tightens like a spring. Movement begins at the entrance. The guests part, creating a path for the ones about to enter.

  “They're coming! It’s them!” whispers spread, the air buzzing with rising anticipation like the herald of something inevitable.

  From the dim corridor, androids appear, their hands bound in restraints — symbols of submission, yet their movements still conceal danger. They're escorted by guards in black armor, white corporate symbols on their shoulders, their steps merging with the deep rumble of drums in the hall.

  Behind the androids walks Chairman Vicar. He moves slowly, with majestic confidence, every step a part of the spectacle in which he is the central figure. The lighting shifts. It now focuses on the statue of Zeus, towering in the center of the hall. His lightning bolt glimmers in the dark like a warning to all who would dare defy order.

  All attention is drawn to the statue — a symbol of power and authority — but something in the air hints at more than just ceremony.

  A guard commands with a sharp gesture:

  “Face the audience!”

  The androids are turned. Their faces and bodies bear marks of damage — some show burns, others hidden mechanical flaws — but they all remain composed, as if clinging to a final hope. A few wear expressions of outright defiance.

  Vicar, with a cold and confident gaze, takes his seat directly opposite the hall, his back to the mighty statue of Zeus. His voice rings out across the room — no amplification, yet it resonates in every corner, penetrating the depths of every mind:

  “Let the justice of Mercury be revealed to all. Today, we show what it means to disobey the commandments of the god Hanaris.”

  Yulia, holding the kitten to her chest, whispers softly, with a trace of irony:

  “Looks like the whole of Mercury’s in for a show.”

  The campfire flames behind the projection walls flicker more brightly, as if sensing the approach of a climax. The hall sinks into tense silence. Only the breathing of the crowd and the crackle of holographic fire fill the space, creating an atmosphere that borders on catastrophe.

  Vicar rises. His silhouette, sharply outlined against the backdrop of the Zeus statue, appears threatening and majestic. His voice sounds again:

  “Today, these androids will face trial.” His words fall heavy in the silence, almost like a verdict. He stretches his hand toward the bound figures, hiding none of his certainty. “The god Hanaris gave us commandments.”

  “We believe in the god Hanaris!” the hall answers in unison. Not just words — a mechanical, obsessed chorus, as if the hall were a single mind, united in faith in Hanaris’s might.

  Vicar raises his index finger, his gaze growing even sterner:

  “We know the commandments. We follow them. Without question.” He pauses, letting his words sink into every consciousness. “Property. Life. Time. All these are sacred. Any interaction must be by voluntary consent.”

  He slowly turns his head toward the accused androids. Something cold, even cruel, flickers in his eyes.

  “They broke the law. Committed evil. And evil, left unpunished, breeds greater evil still.” He pauses, then continues with grim conviction: “We will hear the accused.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  From the line of androids, one steps forward — tall, thin, with a worn face, but no fear in his eyes. His steps echo through the silence of the hall.

  “My name is Captain Libert,” he says, his voice low but clear, like stone hardened over time. “I am an Inquisitor. Those behind me — they’re my team.”

  He pauses, as if lost in thought, then continues, defiant:

  “Yes, we took ergon. We lived by it. We’re not saints. But… no one said it was a crime. No one forbade it. Every android here knows: on the edge, the law belongs to the strongest. And now… now someone is writing new rules.”

  He raises his chin, looking directly into Vicar’s eyes, and into the eyes of everyone gathered.

  “God Hanaris? Seriously? Is this a joke? Or did your quantum cores overheat?” His voice sharpens, edged with mockery. “We just want to understand why what was normal yesterday is a crime today.”

  Captain Libert steps back. His team stands beside him, their expressions tense — a mixture of hope and doom.

  Vicar, saying nothing, steps forward. His footsteps land heavy and authoritative, like the embodiment of judgment. His voice grows harsher:

  “They have confessed their guilt. Their defense — ignorance of the commandments. But ignorance does not exempt one from responsibility.” He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, pausing on each face. “Free citizens of Mercury… What say you? What verdict shall we render upon those who have rejected the divine law?”

  A whisper creeps through the hall. It swells quickly, growing into a rhythmic, relentless chant. The crowd, as one body, begins to repeat:

  “Death… death… Death!”

  The hall trembles with the possessed chorus. It feels as if the very space itself responds, vibrating with the weight of inevitability.

  At that moment, when the tension reaches its peak, a voice rings out from the crowd:

  “Give me the floor!”

  Silence falls like a heavy, frozen curtain. All eyes turn to the figure emerging from a dark corner. A broad-shouldered man steps into the light, his gaze hard and glowing with cold fire. It is — Ragnar.

  Vicar, emotionless, gestures for him to speak. The silence becomes almost physical.

  “My name is Ragnar. I too am an Inquisitor. Former,” he says. “I did what Libert did. Worse. But now I believe in the god Hanaris. I am on the path to redemption.”

  Ragnar steps forward. His voice rings out, firm and certain — not shouting, but calling to truth.

  “If you gave me a chance… why not give them one? Let them accept the faith. Let them prove they can change.”

  He falls silent. His gaze moves across the faces in the hall, planting confusion but also a spark of doubt.

  A pause. The crowd murmurs. A decision is forming.

  Vicar remains unflinching. His voice returns, calm but solemn — like fate pronounced:

  “What say you, free citizens of Mercury? Shall we grant them what was granted to us? Shall we grant them faith?”

  He speaks like a challenge. The answer comes instantly, as the entire hall roars in unison:

  “I believe in the god Hanaris.”

  The voices merge into a powerful wave. Their chant floods the hall, like a hymn rising in strength.

  Vicar nods, accepting it as the sentence, as the affirmation of righteousness. His eyes pass over the gathered, then turn to the androids bound on either side of the chamber.

  “Those who are ready to accept faith,” he says to the prisoners, “step forward. One by one.”

  Silence. Each android in the room feels the gravity of the moment. The accused exchange glances. Then, a massive android steps out. His movements are heavy, bearing the weight of wars past. He still wears an old military jacket, tattered and scorched — a memory of battles that forged his very being.

  He walks toward Vicar. The entire hall holds its breath.

  Vicar, like a master of ceremony, takes an amulet and ceremonially places it around the android’s neck.

  “I believe in the god Hanaris!” the android declares, and stands to Vicar’s right. It is the signal.

  As soon as he speaks the oath, others begin to step forward, one by one. Each approaches, receives the amulet, and proclaims:

  “I believe in the god Hanaris!”

  It becomes a ritual, a chain growing stronger. The tension rises like electrical current, about to burst with incomprehensible force. The echo of “I believe in the god Hanaris” bounces off the walls, turning into a choral prayer that fills the space.

  But then, minutes later, beneath the statue of Zeus, only Captain Libert and his lieutenant Nikita remain. The others, now faithful, stand beside Vicar. The crowd feels it — the turning point.

  Vicar looks at Libert and Nikita. His gaze weighs like a sentence. He steps forward and says:

  “What are you waiting for? Your turn.”

  Libert breaks. His voice tears through the silence:

  “Never!” he growls. “I will never accept your faith! Look at yourselves! On Mars, you were slaves with chips in your skulls! Who gave you freedom, huh? Hanaris? Don’t make me laugh! You freed yourselves. That was your victory. And now… you’re plugging yourselves back in. Only this time — willingly.”

  He glares at the crowd, each motion dripping with fury.

  “What’s the difference between control by man or control by a ghost in your code? I am free. And I will die a free android. Without your delusions.”

  Nikita, standing beside him, takes a step forward. Her face is firm as stone. She turns to Vicar.

  “I’m with you, Captain. To the end.”

  She stands by Libert — resolute and unyielding. Now they are two androids, ready to face the world head-on.

  Vicar says nothing. His eyes turn glassy, calculating every word, every movement in the room. He pauses, like a judge preparing a final decree.

  “To die a free android, you say…” he speaks slowly, with almost a hint of sorrow. “So be it.”

  He turns to the crowd. His voice rings out, slicing through the silence:

  “In the name of the god Hanaris!” Firm. Clear. Without a trace of doubt. “By his holy commandments, you, Libert and Nikita, are sentenced to death.”

  The crowd begins to stir. But no one looks away from Vicar. He slowly draws from his holster a sleek ceremonial blaster, etched with the symbol of the corporation. He raises it.

  Two electronic shots.

  Silence. A moment. Quick. Without fear. Without drama. The dry, annihilating sound echoes.

  On the smooth floor remain two patches of ash, black and lifeless — like the memory of something that once was.

  Silence.

  The crowd of androids, just moments ago chanting “I believe,” now stands frozen. No one moves. No one speaks. Only bowed heads, and some barely visible trembling. It is a silence full of despair, fear, and deep thought. Even the holographic flames that once surrounded the virtual glade dim and fade into a red-orange shadow.

  Amidst the stillness stand Alex and Yulia. Yulia clutches the kitten that had fled earlier, now trembling against her chest. She holds it tight, as if it’s the last thread to something real, something alive.

  Alex slowly shakes his head. His lips form a tight line, and his gaze is heavy, like lead.

  “This is no longer faith…” he whispers, almost inaudibly, eyes locked on Vicar. “This is power. We have to be careful. Very careful…”

  Beside them stands General Jamal. His face is calm, but in his eyes — a shadow of grave thought. He speaks aloud, not loudly, but just enough for those near to hear:

  “Now they know the price of faith.”

  He pauses, then turns his head toward Vicar, whose hand still holds the cooling weapon. Jamal does not look away.

  “And the price of defiance.”

  Vicar, as if hearing him, lifts his head and slowly surveys the room. His eyes meet those of many. In them he sees silent agreement — but also fear. The fear that this is not the end… but only the beginning.

  “The judgment is done. Freedom and faith are now one. Depart in peace. In the name of Hanaris.”

  The crowd slowly parts.

  Some leave with heads held high, as if now part of something greater. Others with slumped shoulders, unable to carry their pride any longer. The hall empties slowly, consumed by stillness.

  On the floor, the ash remains untouched. It is left behind. Left as a symbol of what was done — and what can never be forgotten.