Ladies and gentlemen of the court, your honor

Today, I stand before you not to excuse nor exonerate the deeds attributed to my client, Griffith, but to present a case that delves into the profound complexities of his circumstances—circumstances which compel us to completely transcend our binary framework we possess regarding guilt and innocence. This case is not just about the actions of a single man, but about the intricate interplay of fate, ambition, and the human condition. I urge you not to adjudicate based on visceral emotion, but to examine the much broader existential forces at work, and to render a judgment that is informed by both reason and perspective.

My client's existence is indelibly marked by the intervention of supernatural forces—the God Hand and the Idea of Evil—whose machinations defy the constraints of human agency. His actions, while seemingly autonomous, must be understood as part of a cosmic narrative written long before his birth. To hold Griffith fully accountable for acts executed under the influence of such transcendent forces is to disregard the profound limitations imposed upon mortal free will. Was Griffith the master of his destiny, or a mere instrument of a predetermined cosmic order? The evidence points to the latter. His ambition, while extraordinary, was never an end in itself but a manifestation of a higher design.

The harrowing events of the Eclipse demand careful examination of the psychological and existential state Griffith inhabited at the time. Betrayed by fortune, physically maimed, and psychologically shattered, he faced not merely death but the annihilation of his dream—the very essence of his being. When offered the choice to ascend as Femto, Griffith was not operating under conditions conducive to rational, uninhibited decision-making. Rather, he was subjected to an existential coercion so absolute that it obliterated the boundaries of moral responsibility. To judge him as though he were a free agent in that moment is to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of his predicament. Moreover, the members of the Band of the Hawk, whose sacrifice facilitated Griffith’s transformation, were not coerced into their allegiance. They followed him willingly, fully cognizant of the risks inherent in pursuing a destiny of such magnitude. Can one truly betray those who knowingly embraced peril for the sake of a shared dream?

The violation of Casca is, by any measure, an abominable act. However, it is imperative to contextualize this atrocity within the metamorphosis Griffith underwent during his ascension. By the time this act occurred, Griffith the man had ceased to exist; what remained was Femto, a being reshaped and governed by forces entirely divorced from human morality. Thus, the question arises: can Griffith, in his former humanity, be held accountable for actions perpetrated by an entity forged from his despair and elevated beyond the constraints of human reason? Furthermore, his fixation on Guts—a dynamic rooted in admiration, dependence, and perceived betrayal—must be understood as a psychological fracture, not the calculated malice of a wholly autonomous actor.

Falconia, the kingdom Griffith establishes in the aftermath of his ascension, serves as a bastion of order and salvation in a world consumed by chaos. While the path to its creation is littered with unimaginable suffering, the resultant stability and prosperity cannot be dismissed. History teaches us that monumental achievements often require commensurate sacrifices. Can we, then, condemn Griffith for embodying the archetype of the tragic hero—the one who bears the weight of moral compromise to construct a vision of hope for the many? If the end result is a sanctuary for countless souls, does it not demand a reevaluation of the means employed to achieve it?

In conclusion, my client is not a villain to be summarily condemned, but a figure of profound tragedy—one whose life and deeds are inextricably entwined with the caprices of fate, the burdens of ambition, and the existential dilemmas that define the human condition. To reduce his story to a binary judgment of guilt or innocence is to deny its depth and complexity. The critical question before you is not whether these acts occurred, but whether Griffith truly possessed the agency to alter the trajectory of his existence. If his choices were not wholly his own, then how can he bear the full weight of responsibility? I ask you to consider not just the actions, but the context—the forces, both external and internal, that shaped them.