The Central Criminal Court of London, commonly known as *The Old Bailey*.
This was the most solemn and majestic courtroom in the entire British Empire. Its high dome, the dark oak jury box, and the white wig atop the judge's head—symbol of absolute authority—all bestowed upon it a heavy, imposing atmosphere.
Today, it was overflowing.
The public gallery was packed with people from every walk of London life. There were journalists from major newspapers, ready with pen and paper to record every detail of this crucial battle; business competitors eager to witness the downfall of a rising star; and even more ordinary citizens, gathered to demand justice for the poor factory girl who had lost her sight.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the tall windows, forming hazy beams in the dusty air and illuminating curious, angry, or smug faces throughout the courtroom. The air was thick with the mixed scent of aged wood, leather, and the sweat of the crowd, making it hard to breathe.
On the defendant's bench sat Arthur, calm and composed, dressed in an elegant black suit. Behind him was his lawyer—a young man who looked inexperienced and slightly nervous.
Across from them, in the plaintiff's stand, sat the tailor shop owner and the family of the injured worker. Beside them, an illustrious London barrister: Sir Samuel Phillips.
Sir Phillips, stout and arrogant, was famous for his vicious cross-examinations and fiery rhetoric. He was the trump card for whom Conroy had paid a handsome sum.
To him, Arthur's defeat was certain. The eyewitness testimony (the injured worker), the material evidence (the broken parts), and the overwhelming public pressure had formed the perfect dead end.
For the first time, Arthur felt what it meant to stand at the center of a public storm. Gazes from all directions, like countless invisible needles, tried to pierce his composed façade. From the gallery he could hear whispers—malicious speculations that painted him as a cold-blooded vampire who would do anything for money.
"Look, that's Arthur Lionheart. Handsome face, but a truly black heart."
"I heard the injured girl is only sixteen, and now she's blind. How tragic."
"Royal supplier? More like a royal disgrace!"
Despite all this, Arthur's heart remained steady. He knew that today he had to do more than clear his name—he had to expose the hidden hand behind the scene, drag it into the light, and sever it publicly.
In the plaintiff's area, the atmosphere was completely different.
Sir Samuel Phillips—well known in London's legal circles for his "poisonous tongue" and emotional manipulation—organized his documents with confident ease. His stout body was wrapped in an expensive legal gown, and an arrogant smirk curled on his glossy face. To him, this was merely a pre-won performance.
The tailor and Anna, the injured worker, played their roles perfectly—faces full of sorrow, occasionally wiping tears with a handkerchief, stirring waves of sympathy among the audience.
In a shadowy corner of the courtroom, Conroy's confidant—Scarface Martin—stood motionless like a statue, his cold gaze fixed on Arthur as though savoring the prey's final struggle before death.
When the judge's gavel struck sharply, a dull thud echoed through the hall and all sound vanished instantly.
*Dong!*
"Silence! The court is now in session!"
As the trial began, Sir Phillips immediately took the initiative. He did not rush to call witnesses or present evidence; instead, he used his highly theatrical voice to deliver a passionate opening statement.
"Your Honour, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury—guardians of conscience and justice!" He spread his arms like an actor on stage. "Today, we are not here to discuss a dry matter of business, nor a lifeless machine. We are here for a young life! A delicate girl, fresh as a budding flower. Her name… is Anna!"
He approached the plaintiff's bench and gently placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl whose injured eye was covered by gauze. The girl flinched slightly and began to sob softly.
"Look at her!" Phillips' voice was full of feeling. "Just fifteen days ago, she had bright eyes filled with dreams of the future. She worked diligently, sewing beautiful clothes with her own hands. Yet—because of a so-called 'sewing machine' meant to improve efficiency, a machine produced in the factory of our promising 'Royal Supplier,' Mr. Arthur Lionheart—her entire world was shattered in a single, harsh metallic snap!"
"The light has abandoned her! Her future has turned into darkness! And the culprit is that machine, built with grave defects in quality! It is the inferior materials used by the defendant in pursuit of profit, ignoring the safety of others!"
The speech ignited the audience instantly. Faces twisted in anger, and their glares toward Arthur grew even more hostile.
Phillips had successfully shifted the case from a commercial dispute to a moral judgment.
"Defendant, Mr. Arthur Lionheart!" After his emotional appeal, Sir Phillips suddenly turned, revealing his true aggression. Pointing accusingly at Arthur, he demanded: "My client has suffered permanent disability due to the use of a sewing machine produced by your factory—one with serious quality defects! In the face of this undeniable fact, what defense do you possibly have?!"
All eyes in the courtroom turned to Arthur.
His young lawyer was sweating heavily. He was about to stand and raise a procedural objection, but Arthur placed a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
Under the astonished or contemptuous gazes of the entire courtroom, Arthur slowly rose to his feet.
In that moment, he didn't look like a defendant—he looked like the master of the room.
He ignored Phillips' question entirely, first bowing respectfully to the judge, then to the jury. Every movement was slow, deliberate, filled with absolute respect for the court.
"Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury."
When his voice rang out, the entire hall fell silent. This voice was nothing like Phillips' emotional outburst—clear, steady, completely controlled, yet powerful enough to command attention.
"Before I begin my statement, there is something I must do."
He turned toward Anna, still quietly sobbing. There was no anger or resentment in his eyes—only a deep, unfathomable calm.
"I, Arthur Lionheart, personally extend my most sincere and heartfelt apologies to Miss Anna, who has suffered greatly from this unfortunate incident, and to her family."
The courtroom froze. Even Sir Phillips frowned; he clearly had not expected such an unconventional move. Defendants normally denied everything or evaded responsibility. Never had he seen one apologize voluntarily.
Arthur continued evenly:
"We are here to seek the truth—to pursue legal justice. But legal justice cannot restore the light Miss Anna has lost. Therefore, I make a promise before everyone in this courtroom."
"Regardless of today's final verdict, regardless of who is found legally responsible, I, Arthur Lionheart, will personally cover all future medical and living expenses of Miss Anna for the rest of her life. I hope this promise may bring her and her family the faintest measure of comfort."
The words landed like a shockwave.
The entire room fell into stunned silence.
Even those who had just insulted Arthur now looked conflicted, confused. Would a cold-blooded businessman ever say something like that?
Anna's mother rose abruptly, overwhelmed. Anna herself buried her face, her sobs stopping mid-breath, her shoulders trembling.
Sir Phillips' face darkened dramatically. The tragic atmosphere he had meticulously crafted had been dismantled by a few calm sentences. His opponent had used a higher moral dimension to overturn the emotional trap he had set.
"Order!" Phillips barked, trying to regain control. "Defendant, this is a court of law, not your charity stage! Answer my question! Do you admit that your product has quality defects?!"
"I do not."
Arthur's reply was concise, cutting, authoritative.
"Oh? Even with indisputable evidence, you still deny it?" Phillips sneered and signaled the clerk. "Bring in Exhibit A! The broken sewing machine part!"
Soon, a tray was brought forward. On it lay a metal connecting rod, snapped cleanly in two.
"Mr. Arthur, open your eyes and look carefully!" Phillips pointed aggressively at the part. "This is the murder weapon found in your sewing machine! The evidence is undeniable! What do you still claim? Are you saying this piece was not produced by your factory?"
This was the trap: force Arthur to deny it, then destroy him with accusations of baseless speculation.
All eyes returned to Arthur.
He looked at the familiar piece of machinery and, instead of panicking, a faint smile appeared on his lips—the smile of a hunter watching the prey step neatly into his snare.
Meeting Phillips' gaze, he said, clearly, word by word:
"Sir Phillips, you are correct."
"This sewing machine *was* produced by my factory."
The room erupted.
Phillips, already savoring the victory, opened his mouth to mock him—but Arthur bowed toward the judge and spoke words that stunned everyone, including him:
"Your Honour, I request to proceed to the next stage, during which I will personally demonstrate this point to everyone present. It is time to put to use everything I studied in law… in my previous life, before I was brought into this body."He thought in his mind.
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