Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 46: Brush with death

Chapter 46: Brush with death

"It’s so heartwarming to see how you’ve gone out of your way to celebrate my reputation. I’m truly touched by this extravagant display of righteousness and justice." The cold, biting mockery in his tone sends a shiver through the assembly.

Even though the spectators sit higher up in the coliseum-like chamber, it feels as if he is the one towering over them. The weight of his presence bears down on the room, suffocating and inescapable. His gaze, sharp as a blade, sweeps over the nobles and lands on the judge, whose once authoritative posture crumbles. The judge’s hands begin to tremble, his face paling as the infamous figure locks eyes with him. Everyone knows who this man is—the Crimson General, the strongest warrior in the empire, feared and revered in equal measure. And now, standing before them, his aura is nothing short of overwhelming.

In an instant, the swords of the guards, once poised to strike, wrench free from their masters’ hands and float in the air. They align themselves in a mesmerizing formation, creating makeshift stairs leading up to the podium where the judge sits. With deliberate, unhurried steps, the general ascends, each clang of metal echoing like a death knell through the silent hall.

The judge, now visibly trembling, clutches the arms of his chair as though it could save him. His knuckles turn white, his breath shallow. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he casts desperate, furtive glances toward the nobles, but no one dares to intervene. Many have shrunk back into the shadows, some hiding their faces, not wishing to draw the general’s attention. The atmosphere is thick with fear, suffocating and tense, as if a single wrong move could invite ruin.

Once at the top, the Crimson General reaches for the stack of papers in front of the judge. The judge, now shaking like a leaf in the wind, makes no move to stop him. His breath comes out in ragged gasps as the general, without a word, flips through the charges against his comrade.

The general pauses, looking up with a cold, predatory smile, and places a hand on the judge’s trembling shoulder. The touch is deceptively gentle, but the weight of it feels like the press of an iron chain. "Relax," the Crimson General says, his voice low and laced with a cruel amusement.

But the judge does anything but relax. His entire body shakes violently, the terror in his eyes unmistakable as he realizes the situation has spiraled out of control. The silence is oppressive, thick with unspoken dread, as the general casually reads over the accusations.

The Crimson General hums thoughtfully as he flips through the last of the documents, then tosses the stack back onto the desk with a soft thud. "Hmm... most of these charges seem to concern me," he says casually, as if discussing the weather rather than a matter of life and death.

He leans in slightly, his icy blue eyes narrowing as they bore into the judge’s. "And since I’m standing here, alive and well," he continues with a mocking tilt of his head, "I’d say most of these accusations are... obsolete, wouldn’t you?" His voice drips with a dark amusement, each word twisting the tension in the room tighter.

The judge, now visibly sweating, stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. "Uhm... y-yes," he mutters, nodding hastily, his gaze fixed on the floor as if meeting the general’s eyes would break him entirely.

The general lets the silence stretch uncomfortably, watching the judge squirm under the weight of his stare. "Good," he finally says, his voice soft but lethal. He straightens up, as if losing interest, though the room remains frozen in his presence, every noble and guard too terrified to breathe too loudly.

His lips curl into a half-smile. "Glad we’re in agreement."

"Well, sorry for the waste of time, everyone," the Crimson General says with a sharp clap of his hands, his tone dripping with mock politeness. Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel, descending the floating swords that had formed a makeshift staircase, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing through the silent, stunned courtroom.

At the bottom, with a casual flick of his wrist, the iron shackles binding Victor clatter to the ground as if they had never been secured in the first place. Victor stands slowly, rubbing his wrists but keeping his head low, the defiance in his eyes never wavering.

The general doesn’t look back as he heads for the massive iron doors, his stride steady and unhurried, exuding a terrifying calm. As he reaches the threshold, the swords—still floating eerily in the air—suddenly shoot back toward their owners at a terrifying speed. Panic spreads through the room, guards and nobles alike flinching, some preparing to dodge, believing their end has come.

But just as the blades are about to strike, they freeze, hovering a breath away from their targets’ faces. The nobles who had worn expressions of joy moments ago now tremble, their confidence shattered as thin strands of hair drift to the floor, sliced cleanly by the blades’ precision. The selected few are marked, their faces drained of color, their earlier arrogance obliterated.

As the Crimson General strides toward the doors, Victor follows behind him, his steps still heavy from exhaustion but laced with newfound defiance. When they reach the massive iron doors, Victor, feeling the weight of the moment, glances back at the nobles in the stands. Their faces, pale and filled with a mix of fear and disbelief, amuse him.

With a smirk playing on his lips, Victor sticks out his tongue at them—a final act of rebellion, mocking their earlier arrogance. The gesture is met with silent shock, no one daring to respond, their fear palpable in the air.

The heavy doors slam shut behind the Crimson General with a deafening boom. In that instant, the swords fall to the ground with a clatter, the tension snapping like a cord pulled too tight. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the weight of what just occurred sinking in as they realize just how close they had come to their demise.

As the heavy doors slam shut, the oppressive silence lingers in the room. A collective shudder runs through the crowd, and though no one dares to speak, the same thought races through the minds of nobles and spectators alike:

They had just brushed with death.

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