Clank

  As the heavy door thudded shut, the group stood in utter darkness, the air thick with the metallic sting of iron and the acrid burn of sulfur. Only one gasp echoed—sharp and startled—while the rest remained silent, too familiar with scenes like this. In the gloom, a fire-djinn was bound to a reinforced chair, his androgynous, muscular frame etched with glowing enchantments that pulsed faintly—his expression twisted with pain, desperation, and something far more unsettling, cutting through the dark like a warning.

  “Oh, Mr. Narsiz!” A voice rang out from the shadows—cheerful with a razor’s edge of mockery—reverberating through a room lined with torture devices. “To what do I owe the pleasure, and with such exquisite company, no less~?” The tone was genteel, like a butler offering tea on a summer afternoon. Yet the rhythmic clanging of wet metal approaching suggested something far less quaint.

  A foxkin emerged—a rare male specimen with striking blond-orange fur and hair, eyes like polished rubies, and white gloves stained crimson to match the apron clinging to his frame. This was Sarusos, Kairoso’s most devoted retainer, a man whose sadistic smile had earned notoriety in even the most jaded of noble circles.

  Sarusos continued with unsettling cheer, setting the blood-slicked pincers onto the scarred table beside the prisoner with almost dainty precision. “Had I known ahead of time, I could’ve dressed the place up a bit—perhaps tea, a cloth napkin, maybe even a fruit tray—”

  Before he could finish the explanation, Isabella stormed toward the restrained prisoner, only to find Sarusos moving with swift precision to block her path. His [Aura] pushed against her ever so slightly with a maddening pressure that made her fur stand on end skin crawl with unease.

  Before he could finish his theatrical musings, Isabella stormed toward the bound prisoner—but Sarusos intercepted her with unnerving grace, placing himself between them like a drawn blade—[Aura] flaring subtly, exuding a maddening pressure that made her fur bristle and skin prickle with visceral discomfort.

  “Get out of my way immediately!” Even though Isabella was momentarily fearful, it was as quickly over—all righteous instincts came to the forefront as her voice carried moral authority. “Don’t you know what Alexander explicitly said?! No torture of—”

  “Step aside. Now.” Isabella’s fear flared for only a heartbeat before righteousness surged to the surface. Her voice rang with uncompromising resolve, cutting clean through the tension. “Alexander gave explicit orders—no torture of—”

  Cold sweat trickled down Isabella’s spine as a hand settled on her shoulder—firm, unshakable. The voice that followed slithered around her neck like a venom-laced chain, every word steeped in quiet menace. “How about you listen—carefully—before deciding whether this particular soul deserves respect,” Narsiz murmured, his tone cold and lethal as a serpent’s poised strike.

  Narsiz’s idealistic little brother had laid down sweeping rules for the benevolent treatment of prisoners of war—admirable in theory, but not always practical in the field. Some situations demanded exceptions, and this one, slumped half-dead in the interrogation chair, was precisely the sort that justified bending those pristine ideals.

  Silence stretched—enough for Narsiz to take it as consent. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said smoothly, the hand gliding off her shoulder as he strode toward the battered wooden desk. From it, he retrieved a single sheet of paper. “You see, certain individuals carry... unusual gifts—ones we’d rather not trigger by accident.” He placed an ink dot on the page, watching it spread and float toward Isabella. “Would you mind reading this aloud for everyone?”

  As the sheet drifted toward her like a wounded bird, Isabella marveled at how someone so delicate in appearance could radiate such potent, oppressive [Aura]—a force that reminded her of the Nine-Fire Household Lord, whose presence was so formidable that even her parents spoke of him with measured silence.

  As Isabella caught the document, she scanned it with measured care, casting a brief, questioning glance at Narsiz before letting out a sigh, beginning to read. “Information indicates a hidden explosive device,” she murmured, brows knitting. “Nothing too surprising—those damned magical bracelets have fooled plenty before.”

  To Narsiz, cruelty was an oddity—something fundamentally unnatural among their enemies. Like Isabella, he found it repulsive and largely unnecessary. But where she sought a higher road, a method steeped in ethics and restraint, Narsiz leaned toward blunt resolution to identify the root of a problem and tear it out—ruthlessly, if need arose.

  Narsiz nodded with grim satisfaction, plucking a slender, gleaming knife from a rolled leather tool bag laid neatly on the table beside the prisoner. “Please continue reading,” he said, his voice low but expectant. “The next part is where things get... truly enlightening.”

  During the military operation, most of the gathered intelligence was mundane—logistical routes, guard posts, notable names—the kind of details that could be bulldozed past on the road to brute-force victory. Yet, every so often, something cropped up that even managed to surprise Narsiz.

  Isabella exhaled sharply, irritation thickening into dread as she continued. “Inside the... left abdomen there is a... mechanical device?” Her voice wavered. She looked up in alarm just as Narsiz, unbothered, traced the blade’s tip across the precise spot on the prisoner’s torso. “Is that actually...?”

  Narsiz understood that many in power clung to the belief that rulers must dominate their subjects—treating them as expendable tools to preserve control. But not him. Not anymore. Alexander had shown a better way: that sharing power strategically could inspire something far more enduring—authentic loyalty, earned pride, and, above all, a collective strength that surpassed anything coercion could yield.

  “Observe closely,” Narsiz murmured, guiding the blade into the abdomen with meticulous control, crafting a clean, surgical incision that drew barely a flinch from the prisoner. “Tell me—what would you do with someone this... committed?” From his fingertips, dark ink seeped into the wound like a living shadow, coiling inward until it drew forth a small, spherical device that pulsed ominously with condensed mana.

  Moorgrel invested heavily in the training and education of its people, equipping them to surpass even some lords and ladies in skill and capability—a strategy that naturally earned them deeper loyalty in return. In contrast, other territories treated their populations like livestock, a mindset that increasingly infuriated Narsiz. He believed nobles were born to lead with competence, not complacency. A wise ruler should recognize both the limitations and potential of their people—understanding that while not everyone was fit to govern, true leadership cultivates strength rather than exploiting weakness.

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  “Got’cha,” Bjoern said, his tone grave as his gaze flicked to Isabella, who was unknowingly crumpling the paper in her hands. He chose to ignore her rising panic, anchoring himself to the urgency of the moment. “We’re keepin’ this from Alex, then. Jus’ between us?”

  The mana radiating from the device turned vicious—spiteful, almost sentient—until Narsiz’s ink slipped into the hairline cracks along its surface, threading through the conduits like a parasite. The ominous hum died instantly. There was no doubt—it was a bomb. But its activation mechanism remained a mystery, and identical devices had already been found inside the corpses of other prisoners, offering no clearer answers—all explosions that happened were attributed to the bracelets, but now it was unclear what came from what.

  “There’s another reason I gathered you all here—beyond this disturbing discovery,” Narsiz said, raising his gaze to lock eyes with each of them in turn. “I need a team to head to the Strip immediately and extract Janina from the area.” His tone carried a thin veil of irritation, not at them, but at the sheer necessity of the task. “Now then...” He launched into a detailed explanation of the layered complications they were about to face.

  To prevent complications during mating season—a time when teenagers already struggled with impulse control—the school implemented a three-month break. For the younger students, structured volunteer opportunities were introduced to keep them occupied and supervised, one of which was located on the Strip of Hope.

  Persephone interjected, disbelief etched across her face. “I don’t get it,” she said, her small tail flicking in irritated arcs. “Janina’s your sister, right? How could your parents just let her go off on her own? I mean, Alexander’s... well, he’s different, but still.”

  Narsiz couldn’t fault Persephone’s concern—while their father would certainly look after Janina, the situation was still dangerous. As a druid, he wasn’t adept at using mana in combat, relying more on lifestyle magic and divine sense for observation. But divine sense didn’t interact with mana directly, leaving critical gaps in awareness.

  “It’s a long story,” Narsiz said as he stood, walking over to a wooden barrel and tossing the deactivated mana bomb into it with casual indifference. “This is a favor I ask for,” he added, bowing slightly. “I promise—it’ll be worth your while.”

  There were other reasons Narsiz chose not to mention—chief among them, Janina’s growing admiration for Alexander. Like him, she was becoming increasingly bold, reckless even, trying to emulate the very traits that made him so dangerous and inspiring in equal measure.

  “I’ll go—why not?” Mathilda said with her usual breezy nonchalance, the kind of laid-back confidence everyone had come to expect. “Not like I’ve got anything vital going on here~” She gave Isabella a warm, reassuring smile as she accepted the task. “Besides,” she added, conjuring a fireball that danced briefly in her palm before winking out, “my mana control’s solid. Hehe.”

  Narsiz paused, deciding Mathilda was the right choice—her stubbornness and unwavering loyalty made her ideally suited to handle someone like Janina. Though Janina’s raw talent rivaled Alexander’s, her gifts came with complications. She relied on regular physical enhancements just to function properly, and her skill set left her especially vulnerable to the effects of Nature Break. Most concerning of all, she specialized in pure emotional manipulation—finding the precise words to bend others to her will. Anyone less iron-willed than Mathilda would likely be ensnared.

  “Thank you, Mathilda,” Narsiz straightened with that signature disarming smile, subtly invoking the [Mystic Skill] known as [Prince Charming]—a lingering test to see whether he could still sway her, or if she was simply playing along. “I’ll repay you,” he said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “No. Matter. What.”

  Mathilda only hesitated for a heartbeat before her hand shot to the hilt of her sword, anger flashing in her eyes as the fur on her tail bristled. “Pull that again and I’ll slice you into ribbons!” Her [Aura] flared—faint but unmistakably metallic, like standing before a wall forged of raw steel. “Got it?!”

  Narsiz raised both hands in a show of peace, adopting a sheepish smile. “My apologies,” he said, though inwardly pleased—Mathilda’s fire was exactly what Janina needed. If anyone could knock sense into his sister, it was her. A few broken bones were preferable to a grave. “Clearly, I’m no match for a sharp-eyed young lady like yourself—”

  Mathilda cut him off, exhaling a sharp breath as her temper cooled. “Spare me,” she muttered. “I hate flattery.” Her gaze locked with his, fierce and unblinking. “I know I can do better than some sadistic bastard,” she added, each word laced with defiance—clearly baiting him.

  “Of course,” Narsiz relented, allowing Mathilda her well-earned win. He turned to Isabella, who remained silent—still processing the whirlwind of events—until his voice snapped her to attention. “Thoroughly examine all injured prisoners. Look for any signs of similar implants. If found, isolate them immediately and apply your new [Surgery] [Skills] to extract the devices with care. Mark each one and begin identifying any shared traits or patterns.”

  “How many prisoners are we talking about—” she started to ask, but Narsiz simply pointed toward three more enormous sealed boxes. The unspoken message hit hard: the danger was far greater than she’d assumed. That gesture alone gave her all the answers she needed.

  “For the rest of you,” Narsiz said, his tone hardening as he stepped toward the group, each footfall heavy with intent. The weight in his voice left no room for misinterpretation as he laid out their orders in detail. They were to alert only their most trusted allies, remain hyper-vigilant, and most crucial of all: “If you have even the slightest doubt about someone’s loyalty or intent—kill them. No hesitation. Our survival takes precedence over everything else.”

  Narsiz turned just in time to see the prisoner’s blood spilling in slow, dark ribbons from the surgical cut—when Isabella suddenly bolted forward. She tore off one of her gloves, revealing a hand glowing with pristine white light, and pressed it to the wound without hesitation. Healing energy surged from her palm, golden threads knitting flesh together in defiance of death.

  “I really hate you,” Isabella muttered as she focused on healing, her white [Energy]—neither holy nor divine—writhing like spectral serpents across the wounds, weaving the torn flesh back together. “I still can’t believe Alexander has siblings like you,” she added, biting her lip, caught between irritation and reluctant duty.

  Narsiz shrugged with indifferent ease. “Heal him if it soothes your conscience,” he said, nodding toward Sarusos, who was already polishing his instruments with mechanical precision. “I only ask that you keep this from Alexander—he’s far too invested in his subjects’ well-being to appreciate the uglier necessities of war. And frankly, no one knows how he’d react.” A thin, calculating smile played across Narsiz’s lips, the weight of that uncertainty clearly amusing him.

  Alexander’s responses were notoriously unpredictable. While his subordinates tried to follow his stated principles, his youth and idealism made him volatile—every setback risked tipping him toward a dangerous philosophical extreme, whether toward ruthless pragmatism or rigid idealism—a barrier had to exist to protect the perfect and unsullied soul.

  “Monster,” Isabella whispered with genuine disgust, her eyes boring down on him with moral condemnation.

  Narsiz’s smile vanished instantly, replaced with obvious annoyance at her na?ve perspective. “Anything else—”

  VROOM!

  Before he could finish his dismissive response and proceed to leave while providing all the necessary information, the underground cellar began vibrating violently, as if a massive earthquake were passing directly through their location.

  “Death comes for the unfaithful,” a terrifyingly divine voice resounded through the very stones around them, carrying an authority that made everyone’s bones ache with supernatural dread.

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