"Huff..."I exhaled, my breath trembling as it left me.

The air in the room was heavy. It smelled of blood and old wood.

The floor beneath me 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 me 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 me and reached for the doll.

Clap... clap.

The sound froze me.

I lifted my head.

A man stood before me, 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 me, 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, movements smooth, practiced. He drew the sides of his coat together with a small pull, then slid one hand inside.

When it came back out, it held a white handkerchief, the same 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 smelled faintly of lavender.

"Good job killing your parents," he said. His tone was calm, almost kind, as if praising a child for completing her homework.

"Merin."

The handkerchief moved slowly across my face, wiping away the blood.

His gaze shifted to the knife lying beside me, the one I had used. He reached for it, wrapping it carefully in that same 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 gleamed faintly in the narrow strip of light from the open door behind him.

The sunlight framed 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 me from the orphanage two years ago. They couldn’t have children, but they treated me like I was their own.

They taught me how to laugh, how to dream.

We had so many moments together... and now I was ashamed 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 gleamed 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 disappointment, 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 me his hand. I hesitated, but then placed my small hand into his.

His grip was warm. Too warm.

He pulled me along gently. Our steps creaked on the wooden floor, the same 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 time.

The two bodies lay there, still in their embrace.

Something inside my chest twisted. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t sorrow. Just... something small and tight. Something 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 remembered how my mother smiled when she handed it to me, that warm, bright smile.

My heart ached harder.

"Is this pain punishment 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, metal 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 came 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 same fool Gilmen 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 me, they were mistaken.

Interrogation is my art. I’ve broken men 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 somewhere 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 came the metallic clatter of an iron door.

The noise echoed like thunder in the stone halls. Chains shifted. A door somewhere above creaked open, then slammed 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 mercy 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 me? 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 frame, 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 me, and his eyes met 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.

Flames licked the air, bathing the walls in a deep orange glow.

He rummaged through some 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 measured.

My instincts screamed. The hairs on my neck stood up, a crawling chill spreading through me even as the air warmed.

He retrieved the sword, then sat down in the iron chair across from me. 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.

Something 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 me. Calm. Focused.

"So, Merin," he began at last, voice smooth as water. That same 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 me 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, menacing whisper. "And I personally prefer this one. You don’t tell me 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 me 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."