"Huff..."I exhaled, my breath trembling as it left .
The air in the room was heavy. It slled of blood and old wood.
The floor beneath was soaked, the sound of every drop hitting it echoing faintly in the stillness.
My eyes drifted toward the corner of the room, to the toy my parents had bought yesterday.
A small stuffed doll. A girl with a red dress and black stripes.
She looked so... cute. So innocent. I crouched to pick it up.
My white gown brushed against my knees, the crimson stains across it spreading further as I bent down.
I placed the knife, still wet with blood, beside and reached for the doll.
Clap... clap.
The sound froze .
I lifted my head.
A man stood before , tall, calm, and composed, like the world itself couldn’t dare to touch him.
A single circular glass rested before his left eye, the silver chain of it swayed downward, glinting faintly before disappearing near his ear.
His hands moved slowly, clapping. His lips curled into a smile. His eyes were closed.
"A fine job," he said softly, still clapping.
When he finally opened his eyes, they were like thin slits of polished ice.
His gaze flicked toward the pool of blood behind , and the two bodies lying within it.
My parents.
My father’s arms still wrapped tightly around my mother’s body, as if he could protect her even in death. Her hands clutched the cross to her chest, refusing to let go.
The man stopped clapping. He walked closer, the stride of his dark blue suit brushing the air before settling around him.
He crouched to my level, movents smooth, practiced. He drew the sides of his coat together with a small pull, then slid one hand inside.
When it ca back out, it held a white handkerchief, the sa shade as his shirt.
He leaned closer, and his large hand, easily the size of my face, gently pressed the cloth against my cheek. The fabric felt soft. It slled faintly of lavender.
"Good job killing your parents," he said. His tone was calm, almost kind, as if praising a child for completing her howork.
"rin."
The handkerchief moved slowly across my face, wiping away the blood.
His gaze shifted to the knife lying beside , the one I had used. He reached for it, wrapping it carefully in that sa handkerchief before tucking it back inside his coat.
"I’ll borrow this," he said. His words were polite, but they carried weight.
"Now, my dear..." He tilted his head slightly, one hand resting beneath his chin. "We wouldn’t want sinners holding our sacred cross, would we? We can’t allow such disrespect."
His expression twisted faintly, not in anger, but in mock struggle, as though he were pretending to search for the right words.
His silver hair glead faintly in the narrow strip of light from the open door behind him.
The sunlight frad him in a soft glow, making his features harder to see, just a tall shadow with polished shoes and perfect hair.
He always looked that perfect.
Did he spend hours every day just combing his hair?
I nodded wordlessly.
My bare feet stepped into the pool of blood. The warmth had already begun to fade. My parents.. no, not my real parents, lay still.
They had adopted from the orphanage two years ago. They couldn’t have children, but they treated like I was their own.
They taught how to laugh, how to dream.
We had so many monts together... and now I was ashad of all of them.
Because they were traitors.
They had stolen the sacred cross from the cathedral. They attended secret sermons, the kind the Church called heresy.
They worked for them, for the enemies of God, pretending to serve the divine while shaking hands with devils.
They were sinners.
And sinners deserved to be purged.
I crouched again, reaching for the cross my mother still clutched. Her fingers were stiff, but I pulled harder until it slipped free from her grasp.
The cross glead faintly under the dim light, its surface woven with spirals of many colors, twisting like threads of glass.
It was... beautiful. Too beautiful.
My eyes followed where all those colors converged, at the center, where there was... a skull?
Before I could look closer, a hand reached out and covered my view.
"It’s a no to look at others’ things," the gentleman said. His tone carried a soft disappointnt, like he was scolding a child who had reached for candy before dinner.
"You’ve been affected by their sins," he continued, his voice steady and gentle, but his eyes cold. "Being near them tainted you." He sighed softly, shaking his head.
"Don’t worry. I will ask God for forgiveness, on your behalf."
He stood up, offering his hand. I hesitated, but then placed my small hand into his.
His grip was warm. Too warm.
He pulled along gently. Our steps creaked on the wooden floor, the sa floor I had played on, slept on, eaten on for two years. Each sound echoed louder in my chest than in my ears.
Before we reached the door, I turned back one last ti.
The two bodies lay there, still in their embrace.
Sothing inside my chest twisted. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t sorrow. Just... sothing small and tight. Sothing that hurt.
My eyes fell on the doll. The little stuffed girl in her red dress with black stripes.
The one we’d bought yesterday from the vendor near the playground.
I rembered how my mother smiled when she handed it to , that warm, bright smile.
My heart ached harder.
"Is this pain punishnt from God," I muttered, "for looking at others’ things without permission?"
"AAAAHHHH!"
The scream sliced through my mind like a jagged blade. My body jerked instinctively, but my muscles refused to obey.
My head snapped left, though even that simple motion felt like dragging stone. My legs scraped against the cold floor, tal links rattling. Chains.
Both my arms were hoisted high above my head, wrists shackled to the wall. My back ached from the strain, my body slumped forward, half-naked save for a single strip of coarse leather.
I was a prisoner.
For a second, my mind blurred in confusion, then the pieces fell into place like shards cutting through fog.
The veil creatures. I lost to them.
From beyond the wall ca the hoarse, broken cry of a male orc.
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Please! I won’t ever betray AgaiaaAAHHHH!"
The scream ended with a wet choke. A male orc.
Must be the sa fool Giln boasted about twisting into his little informant. Poor bastard. He must’ve thought betrayal bought him a way out. Now he’s just another voice fading into these stone walls.
I would not join him.
If these filth believed they could extract a word about the Servants of the Gods from , they were mistaken.
Interrogation is my art. I’ve broken n whose wills were forged from divine oaths. These creatures are nothing but children playing with iron toys.
’AHHhh.."
A dull silence fell, broken only by the faint drip of water sowhere far away.
The orc must’ve blacked out.
Typical amateur work... pain without rhythm, no patience, no control. That would only make the target faint.
Creaakk..
Then ca the tallic clatter of an iron door.
The noise echoed like thunder in the stone halls. Chains shifted. A door sowhere above creaked open, then slamd shut.
My eyes darted upwards.
Heavy footsteps followed, two sets, descending a staircase.
So, this place is underground. My guess was right.
"Damn, Lydia, you show no rcy at all," a man’s voice said. Shocked, but also impressed.
Heh. That’s impressive to him? He should see how I do it.
"Well, you shouldn’t. They’re traitors, and they have what we need," a woman’s voice replied, firm, self-satisfied.
Their steps stopped just beyond the cell door.
"Lydia," the man said after a pause. "Will you leave this one to ? You can take over if I don’t produce results."
Oh, this was rich.
There was hesitation, then the woman’s voice, uncertain but yielding. "Umm... okay."
The iron door shrieked open and then closed again. Her steps faded away, leaving only one. The man’s.
The sound of his boots was slow, deliberate. Each step echoed against the stone, coming closer.
He descended the last few stairs, and in the light of the brazier I finally saw him.
He was... young. Or at least looked it. A lean fra, steady gait. His right hand gripped a sheated katana, but what caught my eye was the chain looped around the hilt, clinking softly as he walked.
No sheath belt, he carried the weapon in his hand, carelessly, like it was part of him.
He stopped in front of , and his eyes t mine.
Then, he smiled.
Warm. Innocent. Like a priest greeting a child.
I almost laughed. This was my interrogator? This soft-eyed fool? The smile of a man who’d never dirtied his hands? What a joke.
He dropped a coiled iron chain at my feet with a low clank, then laid his sword on it.
Without a word, he turned toward the brazier, the only source of light in this suffocating chamber.
Flas licked the air, bathing the walls in a deep orange glow.
He rummaged through so scraps near it, picked up an iron rod, and held one end into the fire.
My eyes narrowed.
What’s he doing?
The air around him felt wrong, too calm, too asured.
My instincts scread. The hairs on my neck stood up, a crawling chill spreading through even as the air ward.
He retrieved the sword, then sat down in the iron chair across from . He crossed one leg over the other, arms resting lazily on the chair’s edges, the blade lying across his lap.
His posture was relaxed, too relaxed. There was a quiet authority in it, a kind of presence that didn’t match the plain f-rank weapon he held.
Sothing about him... was off.
The rod in the fire glowed a deep red now, heat distorting the air around it. He didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on . Calm. Focused.
"So, rin," he began at last, voice smooth as water. That sa faint, harmless smile touched his lips. "You have two options."
Heh, typical amateur move.
They think giving hope through one option by making the other one a threat will make the target succumb.
"Option one: you tell where the earth mother insignia is, and this... persuasion... session will only last five hours. Five long, excruciating hours. I will beat you with that."
He gestured towards the iron, glowing an ominous crimson in the coals.
"Until your skin bears its mark. Simple."
He walked closer..
"Option two," He said, his voice dropping to a low, nacing whisper. "And I personally prefer this one. You don’t tell where the insignia is, and I will... torture you to my heart’s content. And I promise," He leaned in close, my breath ghosting across his cheek,
"It will last a lot longer than just five hours."
A shiver ran down my spine. He continued, elaborating on the promise.
"Torture that includes tearing your skin, layer by painful layer, watching the crimson life seep out of you. And then.."
He run a finger along my hair, making flinch.
"Shove that hot, red iron up your ass. I will make you heal yourself with your divine gift and then... repeat the process throughout the session. Again and again, until you scream out the truth, or your spirit breaks. Which will it be? Quick, easy, relatively painless... or a slow, agonizing session? I say we go with the second one."
What is he.. saying?
"Just kidding."
Huh?
"No matter the option, I am shoving that rod up your ass."
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