Chapter 91

Chapter 91

Twenty minutes earlier, one of the five cages slowly roused from a dazed state. Upon seeing his surroundings and the crowd of people below—though his vision was blurred—he was overcome with shame and couldn’t bear to face them.

Just the day before, he had been the admired "Sir John," yet now he was locked up like an animal, put on display before so many. The disparity was crushing.

He assumed this was the King’s punishment, a deliberate humiliation meant to expose their wretched state to both acquaintances and strangers alike, inviting mockery and scorn.

So, John turned his back to the crowd, huddled with his knees hugged to his chest and his face buried in his lap, as if this would make him unrecognizable.

Later, he heard the old woman’s cries and felt a momentary relief—she wasn’t calling for him. He hadn’t been discovered.

But his relief was short-lived. A creeping, pins-and-needles itch surged through his body in waves, making him tremble uncontrollably.

John clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. The pain brought a fleeting moment of clarity, but the dizziness, the pounding heartbeat, the sapping exhaustion—it all overwhelmed him, and he collapsed in the cage.

Gasping for breath, he no longer cared if anyone recognized him. All he wanted was it—just a little, just enough to ease the torment.

"Let me go! I’ve done nothing wrong! You’ve got the wrong man! Please, I beg you, release me!" John scrambled to the bars, reaching out desperately toward the guards on the steps below.

"Did you hear that? That young man says you’ve arrested the wrong person! What about my son? He’s never touched that poison you speak of! And even if he had, it’s his own body he’s harming—why must you punish him?" The old woman latched onto this hope, struggling harder.

"Enough! Keep this up, and we’ll haul you to jail too under the law. Stand back and watch—see if they’re still the people you knew." Eugene, who had replaced Josephine, thought of the horrors he’d witnessed in the prison and backed Kane’s decision 100%.

Such evil had no place in this world. The current punishment wasn’t harsh enough—it needed to drive the fear deeper into the hearts of the people.

"How—how can you do this?" Faced with the cold, armored guards, the old woman hesitated despite her worry.

They had warned that families would be implicated. What if she lost not just her son, but her grandson too?

"Quiet! You know your guilt—you confessed and signed the papers. What’s the use of denying it now?" Some guards had been assigned to prevent suicides, and hearing John’s outburst, one struck the cage with a long rod, then snapped a warning.

The guard wasn’t arguing with John—he was explaining to the crowd below, ensuring they understood the full context.

Whether John listened or not didn’t matter. As His Holiness put it, when addicts were in withdrawal, they’d turn on even their closest kin without hesitation.

"No... I’m not wrong—I mean, I am! I’m guilty! Please, just a little ‘Bliss’—I’m dying here!" John’s face twisted, spit and snot running uncontrollably, his expression grotesque.

"If ‘Bliss’ is so wonderful, why are you suffering? Shouldn’t you be ‘happy’ forever? Look at you—crying from joy!"

Fletcher, the guard taunting John, was a quick-thinking man. Instead of lecturing the crowd about the drug’s dangers, he grabbed a metal bullhorn, using John’s state as a real-time example.

Dazed by the blaring noise, John hesitated, then crawled toward Fletcher, bowing frantically. "Just a little... How can I be happy without it?"

"Do you really want it?" Fletcher glared down in disgust.

Many of his comrades had been ruined by that poison. If not for the King and His Holiness’ intervention, he’d have been next. The thought of selling his wife and daughter in madness—it was unthinkable. He’d worked too damn hard for this life to let anything destroy it.

"Yes! I want it!" John’s eyes locked on him, waiting for him to pull out a packet of "Bliss."

"Louder. I didn’t hear you. What do you want?" Fletcher held the megaphone closer, coaxing the words out.

"I WANT ‘BLISS’! GIVE IT TO ME!" John’s mind was nearly blank—he obeyed blindly, desperate for relief.

Below, someone with a small telescope gasped at the sight of John’s contorted face.

"Christ... He looks monstrous."

"What does ‘Bliss’ even do? Why is he so desperate for it?"

"I don't know, but it sure doesn't sound like anything good. Look at that man—he's acting like a lunatic."

As if confirming the crowd's whispers, Fletcher continued questioning John, "Alright, I can give it to you right now. But you’ll have to hand over your estate for it. Deal?"

"Yes, yes! I’ll sign the transfer papers right away!" Overjoyed by Fletcher’s offer, John bobbed his head like a puppet.

"Oh, I heard your wife is quite beautiful. How about letting her spend a couple of days with me? I’ll treat her well." Fletcher pulled out a small cloth pouch from his pocket, tossing it mockingly in front of John as if it contained the very thing he craved.

"This..." John hesitated briefly, but seeing Fletcher start to withdraw his hand, he hastily agreed, "Fine, please look after her for a few days."

"On the way here, some old man threw a rock at me. He seemed to be your father. What should I do about him?" Fletcher held the pouch just within John’s reach, only to snatch it back at the last second.

Driven to the brink of madness by Fletcher’s relentless taunts, John let out a guttural wheeze like a broken bellows, his face contorted like a crumpled rag. "Agh! Do whatever you want! Beat him, kill him—I don’t care! Just stop asking me!"

The crowd below grew increasingly horrified as they listened to the exchange. They had only heard about the dangers of the substance from the guards’ warnings, but witnessing its effects firsthand was a thousand times worse.

"How could he say such things? That man must be insane!"

"Just for that thing called 'Bliss,' he’s willing to throw away his fortune, his parents, his wife—how terrifying!"

......

Some whispered fearfully about the horrors of "Bliss," while a few with darker intentions lit up with greedy interest. "So there’s something this powerful? If I got my hands on it, I could make anyone do anything, couldn’t I?"

Though he breathed to himself, the tightly packed crowd caught every word. The moment they realized a potential threat was among them, they lunged at the man, pinning him down.

"Guards! This one’s scheming—he wants 'Bliss' to control people!"

"That’s right! We all heard him! Arrest him and investigate!"

In recent years, Kane had overhauled the laws, introducing incentives for reporting crimes. As a result, the capital’s citizens had grown increasingly vigilant—after all, snitching paid well. With new laws in place, opportunities to earn extra coin seemed endless.

From then on, even the slightest suspicion could raise eyebrows. If someone yawned too much or looked fatigued, bystanders might wonder if "Bliss" was to blame.

One farmer, exhausted from a sleepless night in his melon field, choked back a yawn under his aunt’s scrutinizing glare. "No, I swear—I didn’t sleep last night. I’m just tired."

His aunt eyed him skeptically before pinching his arm, reassured by the firm muscle beneath. "True. With your ramshackle hut and no wife to speak of, who’d even bother tempting you with that stuff?"

The melon farmer could only sigh. Gotta love family—no filter.

Even those naturally thin faced suspicion.

"Son, stop being picky. People are starting to wonder if you’re on that stuff," a well-padded noblewoman fretted, eyeing her beanpole of a son with concern.

"What? That’s ridiculous! Look at me—do I seem like a 'Bliss' user? My eyes are bright, aren’t they?" The tall youth scoffed, offended.

"But you’re so thin! Your father and I aren’t like this." She patted her own ample waistline—a sign of prosperity. Her son’s lean frame stuck out like a sore thumb in their social circle.

"Ugh, this is the ideal physique—slim in clothes, built underneath. You’re stuck in the past." He resisted the urge to lift his shirt and prove his point.

"Sigh. We just think you’d look better with some weight. Like us—no one would suspect a thing." She pityingly thrust a cake into his hands. To her, his slender frame had always looked half-starved—now it invited unwelcome side-eye.

Staring at the cake, the young man threw in the towel. Arguing with older generations about body ideals was a fight you can’t win. Best to just eat it.