Volume One: The Sinner

Prologue: Thirteen Sinister Federals

He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

Inside was a rectangular, spacious room.

Cold-toned lights shone down from above, gathering on a long table at the center of the room.

The table was wooden, made of thick material, and exquisitely crafted; around it were thirteen tall, high-backed armchairs with armrests.

At this moment, the chairs numbered "2" through "13" were all occupied. So, he had no choice but to walk toward the seat with the number "1" on its back.

"Whew..." He adjusted his breathing, moving toward the long table at a steady pace.

During this process, he quickly observed the twelve people already seated at the table; among them were both men and women, dressed differently, the oldest appearing to be around forty, while the youngest looked just over ten.

As he approached, the twelve seemed quite calm—some eyed him coldly, some gave him mocking smiles, and some didn't even lift their eyelids.

Until he sat down, no one spoke a word; this room, with thirteen people present, was eerily silent—even the sound of breathing seemed harsh.

He could feel... a strange atmosphere was spreading here—or rather, had long since spread.

Before long, his gaze involuntarily shifted to the tabletop in front of him, because on the entire long table, only there—in front of the "number one seat"—was an object placed.

Ring ring ring ring ring—

That thing rang, right on cue.

He hesitated for a few seconds, and only when more than half the people had turned their eyes to him did he reach out and pick up the receiver of the old-fashioned telephone.

"Hello?" He put the receiver to his ear and answered.

In the next ten seconds, the person on the other end said a few words to him; only he could hear them clearly—even the "number two" and "number thirteen" sitting on either side of him only caught a few muffled syllables, unable to make out the specifics.

After ten seconds, a distinct hang-up click and busy tone came from the receiver.

So, he sighed, hung up the phone, and then took an I-PEN out of his clothes pocket.

He unfolded the I-PEN's electronic membrane, turning it into a "tablet" mode, then entered a password on the unlock screen; once the screen was unlocked, a document popped up directly.

He stared at the screen for a few seconds, then looked up and swept his gaze over the twelve people on either side of the long table.

Only then did he begin to read, word for word, from the document: "First, I would like to use the mouth of the number one juror to apologize to all of you, because most of you were invited here by rather extreme means.

"Of course, whether you accept my apology or not is unimportant.

"I believe that, like me, you are not the type to fuss over trivialities.

"I further believe that those who can sit at this table not only possess outstanding talent, but also have a vision that encompasses the whole world.

"Today, I have invited you here to serve as jurors in a 'special trial'; as long as the thirteen of you present... can ultimately reach a consensus on the topic I provide, you may leave."

At this point, the number one juror suddenly put down the device in his hand, looked up at the group, and asked, "Let me just ask—do you really intend to listen to me read all this?"

No one answered him—at least, not in the first few seconds.

After a while, the number four juror—a man in a black suit, slicked-back hair, and a scar running diagonally across his face—responded in a deep, calm voice, "The reason I'm sitting here listening is the same as the reason you're sitting there reading."

Although he used "I" instead of "we," this statement clearly represented the others' stance as well.

"Heh..." The number one juror gave a dry laugh at that. "Alright then..." With that, he picked up the I-PEN again and continued reading, "Now, I will begin to present the first file related to this topic..."

Chapter Zero: The Sinner

The man before me questioned me in a cold tone; from his expression, it was clear he was well accustomed to this kind of procedure.

Although I could easily put an end to this farce, surrendering too soon or resisting too fiercely could arouse suspicion or draw attention.

Even if the other party might not notice anything, I didn't want to create any extra risk.

So...

"You son of a bitch..." I cursed right back at him.

I had barely started when the guy switched the "treatment device" back on.

The next second, electricity coursed through my body, the searing pain on my nerves and the brief paralysis of my heart jolting my mind awake.

If torture is an art, then I am the Van Gogh of this field, and this institution I'm in now... they're probably at the level of a community college's public art class.