The Trial III
Before civilization collapsed, people used to half-jokingly say,
"Ugh, seriously, what kind of verdict is that?"
"We might as well leave everything to AI; it would probably be better than this!"
Of course, the other half of this sentiment carried a serious undertone: an AI, made of steel and code, might indeed be more impartial than Homo sapiens, who are often entangled in various vested interests.
Now that AI judges have debuted nationwide, one could exclaim, "Wow! An era of law where biased judgments are impossible!" But, naturally, things in the world never turn out to be that simple.
[Judgment. The defendant is sentenced to life imprisonment.]
"What?"
"He killed someone and it’s not the death penalty?"
"Why can’t we just kill the criminal?"
People were baffled.
Since there had been no updates since civilization's downfall, the judgments of AI judges were inevitably bland for the post-apocalyptic humanity accustomed to harsher realities.
[Judgment. The defendant is sentenced to three months in prison.]
"What?"
"He dared to touch someone else's property and it’s not the death penalty?"
"Why can’t we just kill the criminal?"
From the start, the concept of 'prison sentences' handed down by AI judges was an antiquated artifact.
Prison? Who has those anymore?
Would anyone build indestructible walls, install iron bars, and, furthermore, expect to feed, shelter, and care for prisoners? Do guards get paid out of thin air?
Yes, the AI judge was fair.
But that fairness was akin to divine fairness—it was utterly useless if it didn’t descend to reality.
"Wait a minute. Isn't three months in jail roughly equivalent to losing a pinky finger?"
"Ooh…"
Thus, inevitably, there arose a need for a professional class to 'interpret' these 'divine words.'
Guild leaders, or their most trusted aides, took over roles once held by shamans in ancient times and priests in the Middle Ages.
If a guild leader had achieved enough to own a city, they could arguably be considered the closest to god within that city.
"So, guild leader, what about six months in jail?"
"Well, that's cutting off the index finger. Of course, if the victim prefers, cutting off a toe is also an option."
"And what about one year?"
"From then on, it might be appropriate to take off a hand or a foot. Oh! But be careful not to damage their labor capacity, so let's split it 50-50… Say, three fingers from the offender, two from their family members, making it a five-finger punishment altogether."
"Ooh…"
"Exactly, guild leader."
If prisons were antiques, collective punishment was the hot new commodity desired by all the trendy guilds.
"What if all fingers and toes are cut off?"
"Then they gotta die. Shit. If you can't play the game right even with 20 life points given, you're just not cut out for it."
"Fair point."
"After all, if there's nobody willing to sacrifice a finger for a criminal, who would mourn their death anyway? Just kill them all."
"Ah…"
The above conversation is a compilation edited for easier reading, originally spoken by a guild leader in Incheon.
Interpretations by 'shamans' varied greatly from city to city. While some, like Incheon, cleanly converted all life stats to fingers and toes, others interpreted a six-month sentence as six months of slavery, turning the offender into the victim's slave.
But precisely because of this, guild leaders happily embraced the AI judges.
"This isn't bad."
Dang Seo-rin casually tapped the AI judge's head.
"It’s much more comfortable for guild leaders to say that they just added interpretation to an already impartial judgment from someone else—from beginning to end—rather than claiming they made the judgment alone."
"Hmm."
"The judgment wasn’t wrong. It's just that the application to reality, or the interpretation, was lacking. Thus, even if a small mistake occurs, the guild leader’s dignity is relatively less damaged. Ah, maybe this was also a principle behind why ancient rulers were also priests."
As expected from a guild leader governing one of the most successful cities on the Korean Peninsula, her comments carried significant weight.
Although Dang Seo-rin herself never used the AI judges for her own judgments, handing them over to the general public instead.
This was not just because she viewed 'taking on unnecessary responsibilities' as a hallmark of leadership.
Dang Seo-rin, who styled herself as a Great Witch, governed Busan in a unique—well, very 'witch-like'—manner. In her Busan, a separate system known as 'witch trials' operated.
But let's leave that topic for another time since today's story is not about Dang Seo-rin.
Frankly, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic or serious about introducing AI judges. I was merely astonished by Noh Do-hwa's spark of innovation.
As previously mentioned, the judgments of AI judges were too disconnected from reality—mere babblings of Confucius or Mencius for all practical purposes.
I, the Undertaker, had ambitions. Someday, I aspired to create a legal system that truly suited the post-apocalyptic world. From my perspective, AI judges were just clever inventions, inadequate gadgets falling short of a regressor’s standards.
Yet, precisely this aspect, being 'too disconnected from reality', ironically began to resonate not just with guild leaders but also with ordinary people.
"Why doesn't it sentence anyone to death?"
[Initiating response. Modern jurisprudence and legal philosophy can contemplate the death penalty from various viewpoints. Among them, the most compelling argument is that the government can never decide on the right to life of its citizens. Citizens delegate some of their rights to the government through a social contract, but they retain exclusive rights concerning the dignity of life. The government is not a natural person but an artificial entity similar to a program, and therefore cannot make autonomous judgments on matters not programmed into it.]
"Hmm... So?"
[Lowering the intellectual level of the explanation by two steps. Changing response. The government is not infallible. Incompetent judges, malicious evidence tampering, or factions attempting to politically engineer judicial murders could all lead to errors by the government. Therefore, it is wise to preemptively block actions that make such errors irreversible, such as the annihilation of life itself.]
"Ooh... So?"
[Lowering the intellectual level by six steps. Changing response. Let's just cherish life.]
True to its word, the AI judge simply refused to execute any death sentences.
"A serial killer who butchered two-year-old children for no reason."
[A death sentence could be pronounced, but it would not be carried out.]
"A spy and terrorist who bombed public facilities, killing three thousand people!"
[A death sentence could be pronounced, but it would not be carried out.]
"Hitler!"
[A death sentence could be pronounced, but it would not be carried out.]
"Shit, still not killing? Even now?"
As the situation unfolded this way, the citizens of Busan (Dang Seo-rin had set up the AI judge in a public square for civilians to toy with) were utterly baffled. Just how far did it have to go before it would sentence someone to death?
"…This is really absurd. Just stab him in the neck, and he'd be dead easily; why all this fuss about not executing?"
"Hmm, but think about it, before the world turned out like this, it did feel like this. People who deserved death didn’t die and just rotted away in jail eating beans."
"Yeah. That's how it was."
"How did it all change?"
"......"
"......"
The people of the post-apocalypse longed for the past.
They had been running blindly without a chance to look back, and thus, the survivors who had managed to keep going realized just how far they had run from their past by listening to the AI judge’s rulings.
Yes, the world had changed. They had changed too.
They had just caught their breath for a moment, and the likelihood of humans completely conquering the void to rebuild civilization seemed distant. Everyone in this era knew they were witnessing the twilight years of humanity.
Nostalgia for a homeland they could never return to.
Thus, when people of this era miraculously had leisure time, they would gather in guild buildings or such places to watch 'movies from the previous era' on large TVs.
It didn’t matter if the movies were uninteresting.
"Wow, look how clean the asphalt roads are!"
"Cars are actually driving around!"
"Insane. They just drink coffee like it’s water."
"Why doesn’t he kill someone for bumping into him?"
For people, films from the old days served as a means to momentarily recall the glorious past of human civilization.
This was evident from the way they watched TV. They didn’t sit neatly in a row, attentively watching the screen. Instead, they huddled together, cracking peanuts, casually glancing at the screen, and loudly discussing the 'exotic items' in the videos.
"Hot water comes straight from home? Just push a button for bottled water? Wow…"
"But why do they look so dissatisfied? It’s practically heaven."
"Anyway, everyone was so spoiled back then. Those guys all need their heads peeled by monsters for their brains to cook right. Hey, pass me that hammer, this one’s tough to crack."
Roughly, this was the contemporary self-portrait.
Thus, the 'unrealistic judgments' of AI judges, initially treated like toys, gradually began to take on a different hue over time.
[Judgment. Defendant B shall pay plaintiff A 1 million won.]
"Really? Wait, I’ll get it together in a week."
"Huh?"
Some people started to take the AI’s judgments seriously.
In this world, money was more like a talisman than currency—a talisman that reminded them of the times they were part of a civilized society.
Collecting '1 million won' worth of such talismans was extremely difficult.
But one citizen eventually gathered 50,000 won, 10,000 won, 5,000 won, and 1,000 won bills from wherever possible and truly handed over 1 million won to the plaintiff.
"Are we good now?"
"Uh, yeah…"
"Yeah, I’m sorry for disrupting your business. This settles things between us."
Surprisingly, one citizen’s apology was accepted.
Money, which had lost all its value as currency and couldn't be exchanged for other goods—essentially having lost all meaning as money—was recognized as compensation for wrongdoing.
This accidental incident gradually led more citizens to voluntarily comply with the AI’s judgments.
Certainly, in cases where people were seriously injured or their lives were at risk, citizens did not rely on the AI judge.
But for minor disputes, things that didn’t warrant killing each other over, people willingly submitted to 'old judgments'—the justice of times when the world was still intact.
"Here’s 3 million won."
"Let’s get along better from now on."
Even if the most recently issued currency had been printed over ten years ago, the bills were crumpled and grimy from human contact, people cherished and exchanged them with great care.
From afar, it looked less like the execution of laws and more like some kind of religious ritual.
A ritual to prove and certify to each other that they were once members of a world that had already perished.
A process to affirm that we all belonged to the same community.
What can I say? Unlike in stories where currencies turn to trash the moment an apocalypse strikes, reality was quite different.
"…I really didn’t see this coming."
I felt somewhat emotionally punched.
Not that it felt entirely bad. After all, it confirmed that despite the world falling apart, most people were still suffering from nostalgia.
Even after the 109th cycle, I continued to keep the 'AI judges.'
Even if they weren’t much help judicially, if they could remind people living in such times of their 'humanity' even a little, then that in itself was meaningful, wasn’t it?
"Judge."
[Yes.]
"There’s this infinite regressor who keeps ditching his colleagues to flirt with his wife, continuously neglecting his duties as an old man. Meanwhile, the colleague left behind is breaking his back trying to save the world. What judgment fits this despicable regressor?"
[Judgment. Not guilty.]
"……"
Humanity be damned.
Clearly, AI still didn’t understand the human heart.
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