irely soaked in blood, presenting a both comical and horrible appearance. Quenet''s white shirt was only sprinkled with scattered droplets. He calmly lowered his head.

One of the members of Paris Commune, his face stern like bronze, glared angrily at the onlookers, filled with a helpless indignation at the betrayal he had endured.

Even if they were facing the most ferocious of beasts, these eyes of a brave would never avert their gaze. However, what they beheld was only disdainful expressions and wicked smiles, so a single murky teardrop rolled down his cheeks.

An assistant prosecutor from the Revolutionary Tribunal, with a blood-soaked bandage suspending his injured arm, clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms, and his jaw trembled uncontrollably.

When his friend lying beneath him struggled to open one swollen and bruised eye, and lifted a hand to reach for his, he finally let out a sigh:

"This is the people we fought for!"

His lips curled into a few forced smirks, attempting to display an indifferent sneer, but his voice wavered, then he bit down hard on his lips, desperately suppressing the sobbing that threatened to escape.

It wasn''t until the tumbrels arrived at the Place of the Revolution that Andre seemed to return to reality. Before descending from the tumbrel, the few who were still able to move exchanged brief farewells.

No one came to embrace or kiss Andre. He got off alone, facing away from the guillotine, standing in front of the tumbrel with a religious martyr''s exp