The courtroom was suffocatingly packed, a sea of bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder, each face eager and alight with curiosity. The trial had become a spectacle—a moment that millions across the world anticipated. News outlets broadcast the proceedings live, while social media buzzed with a frenzy of debates, theories, and outrage. This was no ordinary trial; it was the trial of Adam B. Kaal, a former leader of the nation Shir and a polarizing figure. After months of deliberation, today was the day the verdict would be delivered.

  The double doors swung open, revealing Adam B. Kaal. His entrance was commanding, almost theatrical. The crowd, as if moved by an unspoken force, rose to their feet. Their collective action sent a ripple of unease through the air.

  The judge, an aged Shiri man with deep-set eyes and a mouth pressed into a permanent frown, scowled at the display. He struck his gavel sharply, the sound echoing like a thunderclap.

  “Why are you standing up?” the judge demanded, his voice harsh. “This is a criminal, a man who shall be prosecuted today. Do not stand for him!”

  Yet no one moved. No one sat. The people’s defiance was palpable, their silent protest more deafening than any shout.

  Adam B. Kaal walked toward the stand with measured steps, his gait steady, his posture unyielding. His dark eyes were locked on the judge as if daring him to flinch. Though months of imprisonment had weathered his appearance, his presence remained magnetic, his charisma undiminished.

  The room seemed to hold its breath as he reached his place and turned to face the judge. The tension crackled like static electricity.

  “Would you please identify yourself to the court?” the judge began, his tone laced with contempt.

  Adam tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Me? Identify myself? To who? You are a Shiri. You know exactly who I am.”

  Murmurs swept through the courtroom, a rising tide of whispers and murmurs that threatened to drown the proceedings. The judge slammed his gavel again, shouting, “Order! Order in the court!”

  The accused remained unfazed, his confidence bordering on arrogance. He lowered himself into the chair provided, crossing his arms as though he were the one presiding over the court.

  The judge’s face darkened. “Stay standing. We will issue the verdict, and you will listen to the court’s decision while standing.”

  Adam raised an eyebrow. “I will hear the decision. But I will hear it sitting.”

  “Stand up!” the judge barked, “Guards, get him up!”

  A pair of guards hesitated before stepping forward, their movements slow and uncertain. Adam’s gaze shifted to them, cold and piercing.

  He didn't need to speak, his eyes said it all.

  The guards froze, their resolve visibly crumbling under his words. The room’s atmosphere grew heavier, the weight of Adam’s presence undeniable, yet by his own choice Adam stood up with a smirk on his face.

  The judge gritted his teeth. “There’s no point in reasoning with you,” he muttered before slamming his gavel once more. “The court has decided. The sentence for the indicted, Adam B. Kaal, is death by hanging. Under the..”

  As the words left the judge’s mouth, Adam’s expression became serious. Then, with deliberate calm, he pointed a finger at the judge.

  “Long live the people,” he declared, his voice ringing clear and defiant.

  The judge pressed on, ignoring him. “Under the Shiri constitution…”

  “Long live the people of this nation!” Adam repeated, louder this time. His chant ignited a spark in the crowd, and scattered voices began to echo his words.

  The judge slammed his gavel furiously. “Order! Order!”

  “Down with the invaders!” Adam shouted, his voice rising above the chaos.

  The judge’s voice was nearly drowned out as he attempted to read the law. “Under law number…”

  “Screw you and your court,” Adam spat, his lips curling into a grin. “This nation is mine, and I will continue serving it.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  His words sent ripples through the crowd. The energy in the room was volatile, teetering on the edge of eruption. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to intervene.

  The judge’s face turned crimson with anger as he pounded his gavel again and again. “Order in the court! Order!”

  This was no ordinary politician, but a man whose shadow loomed over the very fabric of their country, yet today he was sentenced to death, this invincible figure.

  People were frowning, some were crying, some were satisfied but no doubt that the man who shall be executed left his mark on the world's history.

  After that day, nobody has ever seen Adam B. Kaal again.

  A man knelt before a grave, rain-soaked and unmoving, as if he were just another weathered statue marking the graveyard. His clothes clung to him, waterlogged and heavy, but he didn’t stir. On the tombstone in front of him, words were faintly visible through the rain: a woman’s name, followed by the inscription “A Loving Mother.” A passerby moved toward him, splashing through the mud, reaching out to help him out, but the man was unresponsive, his hollow eyes fixed on the tombstone.

  Why does my head hurt? he thought, as a dull ache throbbed in his temples. Slowly, he opened his eyes, finding himself lying on his back, staring up at a ceiling he didn’t recognize. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and make sense of the dim, smoky light that barely illuminated the room. Around him, strangers lay sprawled on rough beds, bodies swathed in blankets that barely covered them.

  A nurse approached, her expression worn but kind. “You’re awake, sir. Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice gentle yet strained.

  He didn’t answer, only stared back, his eyes hollow. His hands went to his head, pressing hard against his temples to silence the relentless pounding. When that didn’t help, he began tapping his fingers against his skull, as if the rhythm might dull the pain. The nurse reached out and gently stopped him, placing her hand over his and pressing it down to his chest.

  “Please, don’t,” she said softly. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “My name?” he muttered, as though the question were unfamiliar, a foreign concept that he couldn’t quite grasp. “What… is my name?” He groaned, the pain making it nearly impossible to think. “My head…”

  “Rest,” she said quietly, a softness in her voice that cut through his haze. “Just close your eyes and sleep. You’ve been through quite a lot.” He let his head sink back, her words lulling him back into the darkness.

  A week later, he opened his eyes again, the headache now reduced to a dull throb. The nurse was beside him, her face lined with exhaustion but still attentive. “Are you feeling better? Any headaches?” she asked, her gaze intent.

  He glanced around the dim, crowded room. “Am I… in a hospital?” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. The worn cots, the peeling walls, and the faint odor of dampness and wood smoke did not fit his idea of a hospital.

  The nurse offered a faint, nervous smile. “Yes… of sorts.”

  “What’s the name of this place?” he asked, the words coming slowly, as if his thoughts were suspended in fog.

  She hesitated, her eyes shifting away briefly. “I’ve been taking care of people here for as long as I can remember,” she said softly, as though uncertain herself. “Don’t you remember me?”

  He frowned, her question only adding to the confusion clouding his mind. “No… I’m certain I’ve never seen you before,” he thought, though he kept silent.

  With a sigh, she explained that he’d been found lying outside in the rain, his body dangerously cold. Someone had brought him here, she said, and without that act of kindness, he wouldn’t have survived. “It’s a miracle you’re alive,” she murmured.

  He looked down at his hands—hands that felt wrong, unfamiliar. They were rough, hardened in ways he didn’t remember. Who am I? The question formed slowly, its weight pressing down on him. Did I… die? Why can’t I remember?

  Memories stirred, hazy and fragmented, drifting through his mind in pieces he couldn’t place. Faces blurred together, memories from a different life, and a strange realization crept over him: he wasn’t who he’d been. He’d become… someone else. And as the fragments pieced together, he felt only a dull ache, not quite fear but something hollow and consuming.

  When he awoke again, his mind was clearer, though a sense of emptiness gnawed at him. Some details surfaced—names, faint memories. He remembered this nurse and the place, though it brought him no comfort. His eyes scanned the room, and a faint, creeping despair settled over him. Somehow, he’d ended up as this person, a man in his twenties, working as a guard on a poor farmer’s land, tasked with watching over livestock through the cold night hours to keep away thieves.

  He sifted through fragments of his new life, his gaze blank as details floated to the surface, each one leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. This man was uneducated, hardly more than a stranger in his own world. His knowledge was basic at best, and his life was confined to the most ordinary of tasks, watching sheep in the night and retreating each dawn to a cold shack at the edge of a village that barely tolerated him. He was a man who had drifted through life, scarcely noticed and rarely needed.

  The frustration he felt was dull, his thoughts sluggish, as though even his emotions had grown weary. Is this my life now? he wondered, though there was no spark of resolve behind the question. Just a deep sense of loss, an ache that settled in his chest and refused to leave.

  As days passed, he watched the nurse shuffle between patients, her face etched with a constant strain as she moved from one bed to the next. The makeshift hospital overflowed with people in need, the air thick with quiet despair. She always returned to his bedside, bringing him a small meal, offering what little she could. But her words barely registered, her face a distant blur. His mind felt like it was slipping further from clarity, as though every new detail he discovered about this life only pushed him further away from himself.

  When he was well enough to walk, he left. No words of thanks, no lingering look back. He took the bundle of clothes she handed him without comment, his face blank as he stepped out into the cold air.