Vol 1 Chapter 5: The Uproar of the Burgh Town Residents

That morning, Burgh Town woke with a formless dread.
The sky hung dark grey like the walls of an old church holding unanswered prayers. The sun was reluctant to rise, as if knowing it didn't need light today. The wind was gentle, hugging people's necks with a dampness like a whisper from the grave.

Normally, Burgh Market was filled with sounds: the laughter of children stealing fruit, the curses of vendors overcharging, and the old song of the woman selling spices in the east corner. But this morning... the market seemed to have lost its tune. There was no singing. No bargaining.
Only one rhythm echoed: whispers.

A whisper sharper than a dagger.
All eyes were fixed on the noticeboard in the centre of town.
There, a single letter was pinned.
Rough paper. Dark yellow. Torn at the edges.
And in the centre...
A drop of undried blood.
Human blood.
And blood never lies.

—

Lancelot and the Old Voice of a Weary Generation

A young man slipped through the crowd.
His hair was black, dishevelled like a sleepless night.
He wore commoner's clothing—not flashy, not despicable. But the look in his eyes… the look of someone who knows the world is never truly honest.

Lancelot.
He approached, pushing past the bodies tensed with fear. His breathing was heavy but unhurried, like someone who knows that reality will hit harder if pursued.

Beneath the flagpole sat an old man. His face was wrinkled like an old tree that has stood for too long amid war. His trembling fingers gripped a wooden staff, as if holding the earth from collapsing today.

“Sir… what is this?” Lancelot asked hoarsely. “What happened?”

The old man stared at him for a long moment. As if trying to gauge whether this young man was strong enough to hear the truth, or would break along the way like the generations before him.

“A blood letter,” he said finally. “The Iron Lady came last night. Baron Porco and all his followers… were slaughtered.”

Lancelot fell silent.
His blood seemed to stop flowing.

“The Iron Lady… slaughtered Baron Porco?”

The voice escaped his lips, but it felt foreign.

“Wasn’t Baron Porco—he who founded the soup kitchen for orphans? Who donated to the temple every holy night?”

The Old Man only smiled. Bitterly.
Like someone who has watched hopes go up in smoke too often.

“All you know is what you’re allowed to know. But the underworld knows—children disappear every month. Children without names. Children of the lower classes who aren’t considered human…”

He took a deep breath, then whispered:

“The Baron… offered their small bodies in a demonic ritual. Flesh for power. Their souls sold for immunity. A filthy worship that even the heavens refused to judge… until the Iron Lady descended.”

“No… It can’t be…”

Lancelot’s face paled.

“It can’t be…”

But the world didn’t answer his denial.
Because beneath the bloody letter…There
was a single sentence in still-wet red ink:

“Honesty needs no trial. Truth needs no permission. The law has fallen. So let the blood speak.” — Iron Lady

The city’s atmosphere changed.
Not because of the threat.
But because of reality.
The world they believed in… had cracked.
And from those cracks, a long-buried voice emerged:
Justice without compromise.

—

Citizens Debate: Is the Iron Lady a Murderer or a Heroine?

A summer breeze crept through the cracks in the market tents, carrying the scent of warm bread, the sweat of the people, and the faint traces of death. In the usually peaceful town of Burgh, this afternoon seemed to be repainted in a dark red that was invisible—but palpable.

Lancelot slowly backed away from the pulsating crowd. His breath was ragged, not from running, but because the world he knew had just shattered like stained glass in a church. Voices flooded the air, no longer conversations, but battles of conviction.

“Baron Porco deserved to die. He was a cunning devil in silk!”

“But—didn’t he help so many people? Widows, orphans—they helped everyone!”

“All that was just a blanket of his sins. The Iron Lady unmasked him in blood.”

“She’s no judge. She’s nothing! Just a murderer without a mandate!”

The words struck the sky, shaking the birds in the church tower. The citizens of Burgh weren’t speaking the truth. They were searching for a foothold in a storm that was uprooting their moral foundations.

And among them, the name of the Iron Lady echoed—not like a human name, but like a curse, like the last sinner who dared to claim that heaven had no need for a criminal in formal attire.

“Better a murderer punish the devil, than a ruler who makes him an advisor!”

“Today the Baron… tomorrow who? We could all be targets!”

The debate descended into chaos. Faces flushed with emotion, hands began to rise, and mouths spewed out the resentment and hopes buried deep in the city.

Fists met cheeks. Sandals slipped from feet. Children cried because their mothers had been trampled.
And in the midst of it all, the Iron Lady was not there. But her shadow stood taller than anyone else.
An old woman stared up at the sky, as if searching for a sign.

“She is the shadow of the justice we have neglected all this time…” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Lancelot continued walking away. His steps carried his body away from the voices, but not his soul. He knew… he knew that the city was not talking about the Baron or the Iron Lady.

They were discussing themselves—about a world long since decayed, and whether they still deserved to be saved by law… or burned by bloody truth.
The midday sky suddenly darkened. Not because of clouds, but because of the tolling of church bells. Three times.
A tolling that once meant worship. Now… it sounded like a death knell.

No one knew who would be dragged down next by the iron wind from the east. But everyone knew one thing: Justice had changed its face. And that face… no longer smiled.

—

Behind Uniforms and Promises

While the outside world rumbled with shouts and whispers, in the colder, more isolated north side of Burgh City, the voices couldn't penetrate the thick walls of a grey stone building. The City Knight's Office. A place where justice was decided not by law… but by who controlled secrets.

The corridors were dark, even though the sun was high. The smell of old ink, metal, and unopened file cabinets mingled in the air that was never truly clean. Every step on the stone floor felt heavy, like the burden of the city's history carried by generations who inherited only decay and called it duty.
Lancelot, who had just returned from the market, stood before an old, faded door, worn by time and lies. He knocked three times.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Enter!”

The deep voice was heavy. It was like an undeniable command, but also… not entirely clean.
The room felt spacious, yet stuffy. The desk in the centre was covered with seemingly important documents, but they had been neglected. Behind the desk sat a blond man, Arthur, Commander of the City Security Guard. His broad chest was adorned with medals, but none of the precious metal could disguise the weariness and anxiety in his eyes.

Lancelot stood upright, but hesitated. Like someone bringing bad news to a funeral home.

“A blood letter, sir,” he said finally. “The Iron Lady. She announced the murder of Baron Porco… and his followers.”

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. He simply stared at the stack of papers. His face didn’t change, but the tension in his breathing couldn’t be hidden.

“The citizens call the Baron a heretic… a devil worshipper. But I know him—at least I think so. A benefactor. A nobleman. Perhaps… just a mask.”

Lancelot’s voice trembled. Emotion welled up beneath his restrained tone. But Arthur only closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to hold back something that was threatening to spill out—anger, perhaps… or fear.

“Iron Lady,” Arthur hissed, “she’s crossed the line this time. Killing is one thing. But shattering a reputation… that’s creating a legend.”

Lancelot ventured:

“Should we act, sir? Calm the citizens? They’re starting… to accuse us.”

Arthur opened his eyes. His gaze was sharp.

“If we act now, we’ll confirm the accusations. We’re not fighting the Iron Lady… we’re fighting her shadow. We can’t win on a battlefield like this.”

The clock ticked, slow and cold. As if weighing the odds between silence… or destruction.

“Increase surveillance. Every alley, every corner. Capture anyone suspicious. But… without a spotlight. Quiet. Clear. No one must know we’re starting to tremble.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lancelot bowed and left.
The door closed again. Silent. Heavy.
And Commander Arthur… remained where he was. But his face changed. Like a mask finally cracking.

He opened a drawer. A black box was pulled out, silently, like a forbidden memory. Once opened, the glitter of jewels greeted him, not like light, but like a snare. Gold, jewels, deep blue sapphires. Enough treasure to buy the silence of many.
He stared at it… as if staring at the sin he harboured.

“Baron Porco… you greedy pig. And now you’re dead. Not just dead—you’re open. Dissected before the people.”

He closed the box slowly, her breathing heavy.

“Iron Lady… you killed more than life. You killed an illusion.”

Slow steps took him to the window. The city of Burgh lay beyond—beautiful from a distance, scarred up close.

“Today, you win. But the show isn’t over. I still hold the stage. And if you wish to play in the shadows… then I will extinguish the light.”

His hands clenched. His breath was like embers.

“I will rip the name of the Iron Lady from the people’s tongues. I will erase the traces of your blood with other blood. This is my oath.”

And then…
He laughed.
A low, long, bitter laugh—like a mirror slowly cracking.
Outside, the city bells tolled again.
But inside the room, the war had begun.
And the enemy wasn't just a masked woman.
The enemy was the unkillable truth.
And blood… had just hit the floor.