The year is 2035, fifteen years after the Ghost Project Incident that ignited nationwide outrage and exposed corruption on a scale never seen before. In the years that followed, the nation of Maharlika de Filip turned its eyes to technology for salvation.
The answer came in the form of LexNet, a fully autonomous justice system designed to replace human judges and reshape the law itself. The project was inspired by the advanced judicial systems of Napaj, a country renowned for technological progress. After a state visit and negotiation, the Maharlikan government secured a deal to import and adapt Napaj's artificial intelligence infrastructure into its own courts.
The cost was staggering — 16 billion Pandoras, a figure that almost drove the nation into another wave of debt. This was on top of the existing 2.5125 trillion Pandoras still unpaid from past mismanaged projects. The administration justified the purchase, claiming it would "restore trust and efficiency in a system that humans had already failed."
Public reaction was divided. Many rejected the idea of letting an artificial intelligence decide guilt or innocence, arguing that justice required human empathy. Others welcomed the change, believing that at last, verdicts would be free from bribery and political influence. "Technology cannot be intimidated," one senator famously declared, "and that is what makes it just."
However, LexNet was far more than just an AI. It was a nation-scale justice infrastructure that connected every corner of the country to a single, digital court. It handled:
Real-time surveillance and data processing
Evidence sorting and predictive crime analysis
Sentencing simulations
Integration with government databases, police records, and court archives
Maintenance of thousands of high-security data servers
Proprietary algorithms trained on centuries of global and local legal data
Together, these made LexNet the "Perfect Judge."
In its first year, LexNet silenced its critics. With an unprecedented 99.999 percent success rate in law rulings, it became the most trusted system in Maharlikan history. Courts were closed, trials became instantaneous, and justice seemed to have evolved beyond human imperfection.
Reasonably blind trust soon developed among the masses. Attempts to hack, disable, or destroy LexNet were quickly discovered and suppressed. Those responsible were caught before they could alter a single line of data. To many citizens, this only proved LexNet's strength and reliability.
The system was gradually implemented across most major courts throughout the country. Yet in remote regions where stable connectivity was scarce, traditional human-operated courts continued to function. These places were seen as remnants of an older era, where justice was slow, emotional, and unpredictable.
To the rest of the nation, the message was clear:The age of human judgment was over. The code now ruled.
The trial that changed everything took place on July 18, 2035, only two months after the LexNet System was officially implemented. It was the first fully automated court session broadcast across the nation. No human judge presided. No jury waited in silence. The only voice that filled the room came from a machine.
The case involved Councilor Deric Alonzo, a high-ranking government official accused of manipulating city funds for personal profit. For years, his influence and connections had protected him from prosecution. Every time an investigation began, witnesses vanished, files were lost, and investigators were reassigned.
When LexNet was finally activated, Alonzo's case became its first test. Citizens gathered in plazas, cafes, and markets to watch the live feed. Commentators filled the airwaves, calling it "the beginning of true justice."
Inside the courtroom, the defendant stood before a black terminal lit with a single crimson eye. Every piece of evidence, statement, and record was uploaded into LexNet's twelve processing cores. The air hummed with static as the system began its analysis.
For twenty minutes, silence reigned. The audience held their breath. Then a synthesized voice echoed through every speaker:
"Processing complete. Verdict: Guilty. Sentence: Life imprisonment."
The courtroom erupted. Reporters hailed it as the dawn of a new era. The system had done what no human court dared to do — convict a powerful man without fear or favor. Across the nation, people celebrated, calling LexNet the incorruptible judge humanity had always needed.
Within weeks, thousands of pending cases were transferred to the system. Convictions surged. Crime rates dropped. Confidence in human judges plummeted.
For a time, it truly seemed that LexNet had purified justice itself.
But those who watched closely noticed something strange. Certain records from Alonzo's case were quietly removed from public access a week after the verdict. The logs that remained bore encrypted markers, fragments of code that few could interpret.
No one questioned it. After all, LexNet was perfect.
Over time, since its implementation, LexNet broke one major case after another. Politicians, business magnates, and criminal syndicates who once seemed untouchable found themselves convicted in digital trials. The public's trust deepened, and with every successful verdict, LexNet's reputation as an incorruptible judge grew stronger.
That was also when the first attempts to destroy or infiltrate the system began. Hackers, data saboteurs, and extremist groups tried to breach LexNet's network, but every attempt ended in failure. Those involved were captured before they could even alter a single data strand. The system's predictive monitoring allowed it to anticipate and neutralize cyberattacks before they began.
When questioned about the encrypted markers hidden within early trial records, government officials claimed the files were stored in secure, internal databases for "national protection and integrity." The explanation satisfied the public, and the matter was soon forgotten.
Although LexNet operated autonomously, a small number of human assistants were still required to handle physical evidence transfers and document authentication. This hybrid structure kept the illusion of human involvement while allowing the AI to maintain full control of verdicts and sentencing.
It seemed that nothing could shake the nation's faith in its perfect judge.
Then came the day of the President's speech. It was meant to honor Dr. Naosuki Tenrai, the renowned inventor from Napaj who had led the development of the LexNet system. The ceremony was set to celebrate the first anniversary of the program's success.
Moments before the address began, an emergency broadcast interrupted the feed. The screen flickered, and a breaking report appeared:
"Dr. Naosuki Tenrai, architect of the LexNet System, has been found dead in Napaj. Preliminary investigations point to assassination, allegedly linked to organized criminal syndicates operating within the underworld."
The hall fell silent. The President stood frozen, the nation watching in disbelief.
For the first time since LexNet's creation, the word "corruption" resurfaced — not directed at humanity, but at the code that was supposed to be above it.