Ch.104The Judge (1)

The studio lights were still dazzling, but the atmosphere had completely cooled.

The audience had stopped applauding, and even the host was just staring at the camera, lips quivering.

Carmilla slowly rose from her seat.

The sound of her heels broke the silence, clicking sharply against the floor.

“Councilor,” she looked straight ahead. “Did you really mean what you just said?”

Avanka remained seated, tilting her head.

“Which statement are you referring to?”

“About using homunculi, using Zero as a ‘breeding experiment’ subject.”

A murmur rippled through the audience.

Even those who had been cheering moments ago began to read the room.

Carmilla walked to the center of the stage, moving toward Zero.

The silver-haired girl stood motionless under the spotlight.

“That ‘person’ called Zero…” she said, taking a small breath.

“She feels. She sees, hears, and responds. In the recent Hero Exam, she clearly smiled and felt pain.”

As soon as those words ended, the atmosphere in the studio noticeably shifted.

Whispers flowed from the audience.

Even those who had been applauding earlier now crossed their arms or began studying each other’s expressions.

Murmurs spread.

‘…Is that true?’

‘If an S-class hero is saying this…’

The broadcasting staff cautiously looked at the equipment in their hands.

Some were hesitating whether to turn off the cameras or continue filming.

Carmilla stood still in the center of the stage, under the spotlight.

Her gaze was clear, and though she held no microphone, her presence alone fixed all eyes on her.

This was no simple statement.

An S-class hero was directly challenging national policy in a public forum.

Even the air backstage was tense.

And at the center of it all stood the silver-haired girl, devoid of emotion.

Avanka finally stood up.

She had a politician’s composure, but her eyes were unreadable.

“Those are programmed responses, Miss Carmilla. Zero was designed to mimic emotions so humans could feel a connection.”

Carmilla slowly shook her head.

“So because she was designed, it’s acceptable to hurt her?”

“She is not human. She’s an experimental subject.”

Whispers leaked from the previously quiet audience.

“…Isn’t that too harsh?”

“No, but she’s an experiment. Couldn’t she be dangerous?”

More murmurs.

“We created it, and we must be able to control it. That’s the foundation of public safety.”

This time, soft applause came from the other side.

Some nodded, others frowned.

Though no one spoke up, it was clear everyone was beginning to form their own judgments.

Carmilla’s face hardened.

“Then according to you, ‘humanity’ is just a controllable model of emotions?”

A strange silence hung in the studio air.

The tension that a single word could touch someone’s ethical boundaries.

Avanka didn’t smile. She simply asked very quietly:

“While you speak of the importance of emotions, is it right to be ruled by them?”

It was a quiet provocation.

Before Carmilla could answer, Avanka turned her head to look at Zero, as if cutting off the conversation.

“Zero.”

Avanka spoke quietly, as if calling someone.

The expressionless girl blinked slowly.

“Action Protocol 07. Begin emotional disorder identification and analysis.”

Carmilla took a subtle breath.

The words were ordinary. There was no threat, no attack.

But she instinctively knew.

This was… a ‘combat mode’ that could harm life at any moment.

“…What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

But Avanka didn’t look at Carmilla.

She simply added calmly, gazing at Zero’s reddened eyes:

“Just organizing emotional data. Finding unstable emotional sources in this space and preparing to respond if necessary.”

The studio stirred again.

Murmurs spread.

“What does that mean…”

“Is it… dangerous?”

Low anxiety spread among the audience.

Carmilla spoke through gritted teeth.

“That’s… essentially an ‘order to kill.'”

Avanka looked directly at Carmilla for the first time.

Her eyes showed neither sympathy nor guilt.

“Miss Carmilla. You’ve been on the battlefield. Did those emotions and ethics you speak of always function in the field?”

Her voice didn’t grow stronger, but the power of her words intensified.

“These children have no errors. They respond only to commands. They don’t run away, don’t hesitate, don’t collapse from trauma.”

She looked straight ahead.

Facing the audience, the citizens, the cameras directly, she declared:

“I want to ask: in this city where monster threats never end, is ‘forming an army of only humans’ really the best option?”

Silence.

And then, someone applauded.

Some nodded in understanding, while others still shook their heads.

Carmilla was speechless.

Her lips trembled, and her eyes held a fear she had never felt before.

Then, Avanka stepped forward.

Standing at the center of the podium as if delivering a closing speech, she quietly began:

“Everyone. We’ve experienced much conflict over who should fight.”

She slowly scanned the audience.

Her gaze was firm, yet somehow even appeared warm.

“Our children fought those battles. Your husbands, wives, siblings, daughters… they bled.”

Carmilla’s eyes wavered greatly.

Avanka paused her gaze on her briefly, then looked back at the public.

“That era must end now. We no longer need to lose anyone.”

She raised her hand, pointing to the expressionless Zero.

“These children will fight for us. Beings with emotions removed, pain engineered, and even death controlled.”

In that moment, her final words fell upon the hushed audience:

“Human rights, it’s easy to talk about human rights. But while you speak of them, do you want to watch your parents or children being torn apart by monsters?”

For a moment, silence fell over the studio.

And then…

Applause.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!

“She’s right.”

“That’s reality.”

“Someone needs to fight for us now.”

People understood, they cheered, all except one.

Only Carmilla stood silently, watching the stage with collapsing eyes.

The applause continued.

Some wiped away tears, some stood up from their seats.

Someone even said, “Now we can live.”

And that’s when it happened.

No one said anything, but everyone simultaneously felt that something had gone wrong.

Thud.

The studio floor trembled ever so slightly.

At first, they thought it was the sound equipment resonating.

But soon, a deeper, lower sound came once more…

…THUD!

This time the walls shook.

The ceiling lights flickered, and static entered the camera lenses.

“…What’s that?” someone whispered.

The applause stopped. Even breathing and coughing ceased.

Suddenly, the audience simultaneously looked up at the ceiling.

The ceiling was clearly unchanged.

But beyond it, the color of the sky was changing.

Something black was gradually spreading across the clear sky.

Like a giant palm pressing down on the entire city, light, sound, and sensation slowly disappeared.

Janghoon, who had been quietly listening, narrowed his eyes slightly for the first time.

“…Interference waves?”

But no.

It wasn’t waves or equipment malfunction.

This was like “gravity” emanating from existence itself.

…Click.

“Huh?”

“It suddenly stopped?”

At some point, the sound disappeared.

Voices, machine noises, even the audience’s breathing… only the vibration of air pierced the ears.

And then the ‘sky’ split open.

It didn’t break.

It shattered like a thin glass membrane, and beyond it… it descended.

Massive wings.

Snow-white feathers.

But those wing joints were bumpy like animal tendons and shimmered like scales.

The form slowly descended from the sky, as if unaware of the concept of ‘falling,’ floating.

“…An angel?”

Someone whispered.

But it was not ‘divine.’

It had no eyes. Instead, a vertically torn mouth on its forehead.

And that mouth was smiling.

“Commencing judgment.”

No voice was heard.

Yet everyone… all people simultaneously knew, as if it were driven into their brains.

“Selection. Censorship. Elimination.”

The monster repeated those words as it raised its hand.

Its fingertips were delicate like a human’s, but its palm was large and solid like a monster’s.

And that hand began to tilt toward the city.

“Omnidirectional energy reaction detected!”

The remaining alarms on the broadcasting equipment blared, and the host screamed, knocking over his chair.

Janghoon reflexively rose to his feet.

“Carmilla!”

She turned at the same time.

Their eyes met amid the confused audience, and both thought the same thing:

‘That thing… it’s giving off at least a Level 1 malice!’

And right at that moment.

Both their wrists were simultaneously grabbed.

“Just a moment.”

A quiet voice from behind.

It was Avanka.

“Now is not the time to act.”

“What…?”

“What?”

Councilor Avanka was still smiling as if she had anticipated even this situation.

Meanwhile, the white wings fully spread in the sky, and the monster’s mouth opened again.

“First error. Elimination.”

The ‘Judgment Monster’ began to pass judgment over the city.