Damn, I recarneted As A Judge in Fantasy World

Abel stood silently as Attorney Sean Malone pouted, clearly displeased with how things were progressing.

The attorney sat down next to the defendant, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. It was obvious why he was upset—Judge Abel Carries had intervened, but Malone knew there was nothing he could do against the judge, at least for now.

Inspector Cantrell continued his investigation, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any missed details. Abel watched him intently, knowing that, though he couldn't take the initiative, asking a few questions wouldn't cause any harm.

"Okay, let's start again," Abel said, breaking the silence.

Three facts had been confirmed so far:

- The butler's son, Norman, and his friend, Alan, had gone missing.

- A severed hand was found on the suspect, but Alan's body had yet to be discovered.

- Norman had claimed that he killed Alan.

Inspector Cantrell furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak. "Are you sure you killed him?"

"I'm sure," Norman replied casually.

"But why isn't Alan's body in the place you mentioned?" Cantrell pressed.

"I don't know. I was just pointing out the most likely places. Maybe a monster bit it?" Norman shrugged.

"There was no trace of that at all," Cantrell countered.

"How would I know that? I've been held here this whole time," Norman said, irritation creeping into his voice.

Prosecutor Anderson Cantrell glanced at Abel, his expression clearly conveying how tiresome this interrogation had become. He then turned back to Norman, his face stern.

"If you don't start speaking properly, I'll have no choice but to take you to court. Since you admitted to killing him, you'll go to jail!" the prosecutor threatened.

But Norman merely smiled, a broad, unsettling grin that suggested he wasn't the least bit afraid. Then, to everyone's surprise, a shocking statement slipped from his lips.

"Sir, do you know about the law of corroboration of confession?"

"What?" Cantrell looked puzzled.

Abel, who had been quietly listening, couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. What kind of seven-year-old kid says something like that?

In his mind, Abel quickly reviewed the law Norman was referring to.

Article 310 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, which dealt with the evidentiary value of a confession, stated that if a defendant's confession was the only evidence against them, it could not be used as proof of guilt.

Even Article 12 of the Constitution supported this principle, which was designed to protect the defendant's human rights. Similar laws existed in the empire's legal code as well.

But the real question was: how did a child like Norman know such detailed legal concepts? Even most adults didn't grasp these laws properly.

Abel's gaze shifted to Attorney Sean Malone. The man appeared just as surprised as everyone else.

'What? Didn't the lawyer tell him that?' Abel thought, wondering if Norman had learned about the law of corroboration on his own. If so, it meant the child had studied the law beforehand, preparing for this very moment.

The implications were chilling.

Norman was far more calculated than anyone had initially believed. No wonder even the hardened Earl Hewitt admitted to being afraid of his own son.

'If this continues, we'll just keep falling for this kid's tricks,' Abel mused. They needed to find Alan's body soon or strike at Norman in a way that would force him to reveal the truth.

Abel decided to throw a question at Norman. "You know the law well, and you're smart, but you were holding your friend's severed hand."

"That wasn't me," Norman said, his tone confident.

"You killed him, but you didn't cut off his wrist?" Abel pressed.

"Of course not. How could a helpless child like me do something like that? And how can we even be sure that was Alan's hand?" Norman replied smoothly.

If Abel considered it, Norman's point wasn't entirely off. Norman had never explicitly said the severed hand belonged to Alan—he had only been found holding it. That was a crucial detail that had slipped through the cracks.

'If we were on Earth, we could determine the hand's identity immediately through fingerprints or DNA testing,' Abel thought.

But this was a medieval fantasy world, where scientific methods were underdeveloped.

Proving that the hand belonged to the victim was challenging without direct evidence.

Finding Alan's body was of the utmost importance, but Abel was frustrated because there seemed to be no clear way forward.

Suddenly, a new thought struck him. 'What if Norman's claim that he killed Alan is a lie?'

Norman had never given a clear or consistent statement.

Every location he provided had been thoroughly searched, but Alan's body had never been found. What if Alan wasn't dead at all? Could this entire situation be a deception?

Abel's mind raced, connecting the pieces.

'This is a dark fantasy world. Death isn't always the final step when someone disappears. There's another horrific possibility: human trafficking.'

Abel recalled that even aristocrats like Skyler had been involved in such sinister activities. It wasn't unreasonable to think that a brilliant but twisted child like Norman might be capable of something similar.

Abel met Norman's gaze, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You sold your friend to a slave trader."

The effect of his words was immediate. Norman's face, usually so composed, faltered. For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed the boy's expression.

At that moment, Abel knew he had him. In Norman's character information window, the word 'embarrassment' finally appeared.

'Got you,' Abel thought, locking eyes with the boy. 'You little punk.'

Abel didn't let the silence linger for too long. Norman's brief slip of composure was the opening he needed, and he had to press forward before the boy could regain control of the situation. Inspector Cantrell seemed to catch on, his eyes narrowing at the subtle change in Norman's demeanor.

"Sold your friend to a slave trader, didn't you?" Abel repeated, his voice calm but deliberate. He watched as Norman's fingers twitched, a barely noticeable sign of agitation. The boy was sharp, but even the most intelligent could be shaken when their carefully crafted narrative began to crumble.

Norman tried to cover his unease with a cocky smirk. "You think I'd do something like that? I'm just a kid."

"A kid who's already quoted legal statutes most adults don't know," Abel pointed out. "So forgive me if I don't buy the innocent act."

The room fell into a heavy silence again.

Attorney Sean Malone, who had been slumped in his chair, sat up a bit straighter, his expression unreadable. It was hard to tell if he was trying to maintain a poker face or if he, too, was starting to feel the weight of the truth bearing down on his young client.

Inspector Cantrell crossed his arms, his voice steady. "You've been leading us around in circles, Norman. We've searched every place you mentioned, and no body. Now you say you don't know how that severed hand ended up with you. And now Abel's suggesting you sold Alan. It's starting to look like you've been hiding something far worse than we thought."

Norman's eyes flickered, betraying the storm of thoughts likely racing through his mind. Abel could almost see the calculations forming behind the boy's sharp gaze—trying to find a way out, trying to regain control.

"You have no proof," Norman finally said, his voice tight.

"No, but we've got you rattled," Abel countered. "And that's a start."

Abel shifted his posture, leaning forward, locking eyes with Norman. "Let me tell you how this works, Norman. Even without Alan's body, your confession has already raised enough suspicion. And if we start digging into your family's connections—especially if we find any ties to the slave trade—you'll wish you'd just told the truth from the start."

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Norman's smirk faded entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. For the first time, Abel sensed the mask dropping completely. There was no more pretense of childish innocence. Just the eyes of someone used to manipulating others, someone who thrived on control. But this time, the boy was losing it.

"Maybe I sold him," Norman finally admitted, his voice low, almost a whisper. "But you'll never prove it. And by the time you do, it'll be too late."

Abel felt a shiver run down his spine. This wasn't just a clever child anymore—this was someone truly dangerous.

Inspector Cantrell straightened, his jaw clenched. "We'll see about that."

"We'll be pulling apart every connection your family has," Abel added. "You may think you've covered your tracks, but no one's perfect. We'll find something."

Norman leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Go ahead. Waste your time. By the time you're done, none of it will matter."

Abel stood up slowly, his hands tightening into fists by his sides. He knew the boy was bluffing, or at least hoping they'd back down. But there was no turning back now. This had gone beyond just a missing child or a severed hand.

This was now a race against time—one where lives were still at stake.

Abel exchanged a glance with Inspector Cantrell. "We need to move fast. The longer we wait, the harder it'll be to track down where Alan is—or who he's been sold to."

Cantrell nodded, his eyes dark with determination. "I'll call in some favors. We'll start digging into the Hewitt family's contacts immediately. We might need to go beyond local law enforcement on this one."

As they prepared to leave the room, Norman's voice echoed behind them, cold and taunting. "Good luck. You're going to need it."

Abel didn't bother looking back. He knew they were dealing with something far bigger than they had anticipated. But one thing was clear—Norman Hewitt wasn't just a twisted kid. He was a calculated, dangerous player in a game they were just beginning to understand.

And Abel wasn't about to lose.