Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Major Thomas scrutinized the prisoner seated across from him:

About forty years old, average in appearance, ordinary in demeanor. Apart from his sturdy arms and broad shoulders—which hinted at a life surrounded by plenty of meat, milk, bread, and physical labor—he bore no other distinguishing features.

In fact, it was precisely this physique, so obviously different from the undernourished bodies of urban poor, that marked him as an obvious target—eventually leading to his capture.

"I think we can save each other some time, Mr. Kapufen." Major Thomas began speaking, his tone calm but commanding: "You know what lies ahead—execution by hanging as a traitor, or survival as a foreign spy. Two paths are before you. The choice is yours."

Alonso's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He coughed weakly a few times, his voice hoarse as he pleaded: "Could I have some water? I haven't had anything to drink in two days."

Major Thomas instinctively glanced toward the false baron beside him.

Alonso keenly caught this fleeting gesture, silently surmising: "The younger one is the decision-maker?"

Since the moment he had been brought into the interrogation room, the false baron hadn't so much as looked at him, instead idly fidgeting with a small stack of cards on the table.

It wasn't until Major Thomas silently sought his input that the false baron finally raised his eyelids to look at Alonso. His gaze was cold and indifferent, as though inspecting a lifeless specimen.

Alonso tried his best to return the man's stare, concealing any reactions, but he failed without understanding why. This one was trouble—he instinctively knew.

At the other end of the interrogation room, Winters also reached a conclusion—regarding the cards in his hand. The prisoner had shown no particular interest.

This revealed one of two things: either the prisoner was extraordinarily skilled at masking his emotions, to the point where Winters couldn't detect a single clue; or the cards were of such high classification that even the prisoner had no knowledge of them.

Winters gave a slight nod.

Receiving permission, Pierre, stationed in the room, picked up the water jug and walked over to the chair, holding the spout close to the prisoner's mouth.

Cold, refreshing water poured down Alonso's parched throat. He gulped greedily, nearly choking himself in the process.

"Glug, glug"—an entire jug was emptied in moments.

Alonso cautiously studied the man who had offered him water, finding his figure familiar. It seemed to be the same cavalryman who had pursued him relentlessly.

"Want more?" Pierre asked.

Alonso, panting heavily, replied, "No."

"Water's been drunk." Major Thomas's tone carried a trace of mockery: "Next, is it time for a bathroom break?"

The jug of cold water had stirred Alonso's tightly wound stomach, causing it to churn once more.

"No need." He endured the stabbing pain and replied honestly: "Couldn't hold it earlier. I already urinated."

"Bang!"

Major Thomas slammed his fist on the table, snapping: "Do you think this is a prison visit? Don't bother stalling—it's pointless. You're a spy for the Pretender Emperor; no one knows interrogation better than you lot. You want water? Fine, I'll give you water! You want bread? I'll get you bread! You want a woman? I'd even find you a prostitute if that's what you want."

He paused for a few seconds before delivering a chilling threat: "But as long as you refuse to cooperate, we have all the time in the world to torment you. However long you think you can delay, it won't matter. I haven't met anyone who could endure torture, but I've seen plenty beg for death under it. Don't dig your own grave."

Alonso savored the sweetness of the water and exhaled deeply: "You're going to kill me in the end anyway."

"Nonsense!" Major Thomas rebutted sharply, though his tone softened slightly: "Killing you benefits us nothing. Let me be frank—since you've landed here, there's no walking away unscathed. You could survive. You could live comfortably, perhaps even regain your freedom—but only if you cooperate."

"Cooperate?"

"Where are your other accomplices?"

A mocking smile flickered across Alonso's face: "How do I know you won't go back on your word?"

Major Thomas had barely opened his mouth when Winters suddenly gathered his cards into a neat stack.

The major straightened in his seat, cleared his throat, and stared at the prisoner without responding.

"You're not afraid of us killing you." Winters spoke slowly: "You're afraid your accomplices will come to silence you."

Alonso's smile froze.

...

[Old Town North Shore]

[Municipal Hall]

A double-hitched cargo wagon entered the Municipal Square from the western road and came to a stop at the foot of the hall's steps. The driver jumped down at once and hurried off.

Suspicious, the soldiers guarding the hall shouted loudly, ordering the driver to halt.

But the driver ignored them entirely, quickening his pace and darting into a side alley without looking back.

The soldier gave a hand signal, prompting two guards on duty to immediately pursue the driver. He then drew his side sword and summoned two more guards. Together, the three advanced cautiously down the steps to surround the wagon.

One of the guards carefully lifted the cloth covering the cargo box with the tip of his spear.

"Just rocks and scrap metal," the guard reported.

The soldier's focus shifted to the wagon shaft—he noticed that the leather straps connecting the yoke to the harness had been severed. The draft horses remained where they were, not from restraint, but because of their excellent training.

The soldier realized his grave mistake, grabbed the nearest subordinate, and bolted up the steps, yelling: "Run!"

Too late.

"Boom!" A deafening explosion shook the earth.