"Every Wail Shall Become Your Lullaby"

The morning mist had yet to disperse. On this side of the Augustgrad palace complex, the central square was already packed with disarmed Terran soldiers.

They had shed their CMC Powered Combat Suits, wearing only thin training uniforms and tactical boots or leather boots.

Their once-polished military boots were now caked with mud, while their carefully maintained medals had been torn away, leaving only a few loose threads fluttering at their collars.

The senior generals had been lined up separately. Some tried to straighten their backs and preserve the last of their dignity, while others stared blankly at the ground.

More than ordinary soldiers, they knew exactly how much innocent blood stained their hands.

On the alloy platform at the center of the square, more than twenty of Mengsk's most loyal followers had their hands bound behind their backs and were forced to kneel on the cold metal floor.

These former Executioners looked ashen. Some still had bloodstains from the previous night's battle on their uniforms.

Meanwhile, in a temporarily requisitioned council chamber on the north side of the square, crystal chandeliers cast a bleak white light across the floor.

Arcturus Mengsk was bound to a plain chair. His once-crisp marshal's uniform was now wrinkled like a rag, and his graying hair hung in disarray.

But most chilling was the Tyrant's gaze. There was neither fear nor anger in it, only cold calculation, as though he were still weighing his chances of turning the situation around.

"Ha ha ha!"

Tychus Findlay tapped the knee of his Power Armor with an armored finger, his rough laughter echoing through the hall.

"You crafty old bastard. You schemed your whole life, only to be checkmated by the pawn you threw away."

As he spoke, Tychus deliberately bent down, allowing Mengsk to clearly see