Chapter 3
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Whispers in the Prayer Room
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The next morning, sunlight filtering through the bars tapped against my eyelids.
"Saintess, your suffering shall soon become light..."
The eerie chant of the purification priests drifted in from afar.
It was the alarm signaling the start of another day in Luminas Camp 1.
I rose to my feet, loosening my stiff muscles.
Whether it was thanks to the holy water I'd drunk yesterday or because this body had already adapted to this hellish environment, the fatigue from the day before had eased somewhat.
I stood before the mirror, checking my condition once more.
Hygiene was a minor concern, but my wrist was healing smoothly.
"Alright, let's get to it."
I threw on my black cloak and opened the door.
The corridor was still bathed in the artificial glow of cold mana stones, with knights in heavy plate armor standing guard in shifts.
It was the same stark scene as yesterday, but one thing had changed.
“Good morning, Ian.”
They offered brief nods as I passed.
It seemed the rumor of the rookie whose pride Vargas had crushed had spread through the camp.
And Vargas had no doubt spent the night bragging that I was the talent he'd discovered, so their reaction felt natural enough.
'He must have more pull around here than I realized.'
I kept my indifferent demeanor as I headed to the mess hall.
The food here was as miserly as it was unworthy of the Holy Kingdom's prestige.
A single piece of stale, withered bread and a bowl of watery soup.
I shoveled it in mechanically while sifting through the original story's details in my mind.
Mirabel.
A core covert operative of the Empire's Intelligence Bureau, currently disguised as a high-ranking purification priest at Saint Jerome's Temple.
In the novel, she kept her identity and movements airtight from the church, but as a reader, I knew one of her secret habits.
'Every Friday at dusk, in the sealed prayer room of Saint Jerome's Temple.'
There, before the statue of the Holy Mother, she prayed alone for the Empire's prosperity.
A strict unspoken rule here forbade any priest—even a heretic interrogator—from disturbing a high priest's sacred rite.
Which meant, for the duration of the ritual, I could make contact without outside interference.
'The trick is finding a pretext to get in there safely.'
Fortunately, a solution had come to mind.
I finished eating and headed back to the interrogation room.
Today's official business was the second round: continuing to break Elena's spirit.
Clang—!
As I pushed open the door, Elena came into view, looking even more drained than before.
She flinched at the sound of my entrance and bowed her head.
Through her disheveled hair, her pale nape glistened with cold sweat.
I averted my eyes from her wretched state and turned to the man lounging there like he owned the place.
"Good morning, Senior Interrogator Vargas. You're already here."
I gave him a light nod, and he burst into loud laughter for the benefit of the surrounding priests, clapping me hard on the back.
"Hey, the rising star of the Heretic Interrogation Office! Ready to dazzle us with another one of your interrogations today?"
"Of course. The floodgates are open—it's only a matter of time before it bursts."
"Hahaha! That's my boy! I knew I had an eye for talent!"
Vargas puffed me up like one of his lackeys, putting on a show.
I was grateful for his sleazy camaraderie, in a way.
It let me solidify my solo interrogation rights without any awkward oversight.
"So, we can expect even hotter results today, right?"
"Yes, sir. Just sit back and enjoy the screams from outside. No need to dirty your noble hands on the likes of a saintess."
"You read me like a book! Alright, she's all yours."
Vargas gave my shoulder one last satisfied pat and strode out with a swagger.
Once his assistant priests followed him out and the heavy iron door thudded shut, a chilling silence settled over the room.
The clamor from moments ago might as well have been a lie.
I brushed off my shoulder where his hand had been and knelt beside Elena.
From my pocket, I pulled out a piece of bread I'd swiped from the mess hall.
I offered no kindness in handing it over.
Instead, I tossed the bread crumb indifferently at her feet, into the cold dirt.
"Eat. If you're too weak to scream, the interrogation gets boring—and if they don't hear screams, they'll find any excuse to meddle."
Elena stared blankly at the crumb.
It was hard and tough, but the first real food she'd seen since her imprisonment.
Yet she didn't cling to it like a savior—instead, her face grew paler, more nauseous by the second.
Her eyes were dimming, as if something was gnawing away at her from within.
"Why... why treat me like this..."
"I told you. I hate how this is playing out. I can't stand watching this chance slip away so limply."
I waited, looking away until she'd swallowed it properly, then gripped the chains again.
Clang! Claaang—!
I kept up the metallic racket to fool those outside, just like yesterday.
"Speak! Who's the one who bought you off? Who in the church helped with your betrayal?!"
With that, I slammed the chains against the floor.
Clang—!
I scraped them deliberately against the stone to amplify the grinding screech.
The moment her shoulders twitched, I closed in, dropping the chains right beside her wrist.
I pressed my lips near her ear and growled.
"Forget why I gave you that bread? Scream. If it gets any quieter, I'll rip into your flesh for real to make it louder."
Elena no longer questioned me.
She must have seen the madness in my eyes, the promise that those chains would tear her apart.
Instinctively, she let out a shriek.
"Aaaah! I don't know! I don't know anything! Please... please let me out of here!"
Her cries filled the basement, echoing down the corridor.
I plastered on a satisfied smirk and splashed blood-mixed water across the floor.
Proof that the torture was going brutally.
"Haa... haa..."
Wishing this hour would pass quicker, I gripped the chains again.
Two hours later, I emerged from the interrogation room drenched in sweat.
Vargas, waiting in the corridor, stroked his beard contentedly at the sound of Elena's anguished wails and approached.
"Oho, Brother Ian! Well done! You look pale—must've poured your all into it."
He clapped a hand on me again, playing the chummy senior.
Bearing the unwelcome touch, I twisted my lips into a grin.
"Her mind's almost gone. Just dangle the right bait, and she'll confess on her own. That said, I need to offer some prayers tonight. Threatening that young girl has left my conscience heavy."
"Hahaha! You're too soft-hearted for this job. A heretic interrogator worrying about prayers! Fine, if it bothers you that much, go ahead. But I expect solid results by week's end."
Luckily, Vargas seemed willing to wait a few more days for the saintess's confession.
It gave me the perfect pretext to approach Mirabel.
"Don't worry, sir. I'll live up to the faith. See you tomorrow, Senior Interrogator."
"You bet! Looking forward to tomorrow's show!"
Leaving his boisterous encouragement behind, I set off for the central cathedral.
Saint Jerome's Temple there was one of the few places open even to heretic interrogators, but the sealed prayer rooms inside were another story.
"Halt. A purification rite is in progress here."
A priest blocked my path.
I fixed him with a cold stare.
"Heretic Interrogator Ian. I had an urgent revelation from the Holy Mother before interrogating a major criminal. You dare bar a direct agent of the Papal Court?"
“That's not—”
“Senior Interrogator Vargas has approved it. What do you think he'll say if this delays the saintess's interrogation?”
Overwhelmed by my sharp tone and pressure, the young priest stepped aside in a fluster.
Thud—
As I stepped into the dim temple, the acrid scent of incense wood brushed my nose.
Just like in the original novel.
I navigated the familiar corridors to the door of the rearmost sealed prayer room and pushed it open.
There, kneeling before a massive statue of the Holy Mother, was a woman.
Her radiant golden hair tucked beneath her priestly robes, hands clasped in reverence.
Mirabel.
I approached slowly, stopping right behind her.
Then, in a very low voice, I recited the top-secret code known only to Empire Intelligence agents.
"When winter comes, the rose blooms in blood."
Mirabel froze for an instant.
She turned slowly to look at me.
Her face was serene, but her eyes blazed with shock—and unmistakable killing intent.
The moment her fingertips brushed the mana dagger hidden in her sleeve, I spotted the emotion window hovering over her head.
Target: Mirabel
Status: Extreme Caution, Murderous Intent
Favorability: -60 (Caution)
"How does a heretic interrogator scum like you know that code? One wrong word, and I'll rip your throat out."
Her icy voice sent chills through the air.
But I flashed a predatory grin and took another step closer.
"Come now, shouldn't you hear the intel before killing me? I came all this way to warn you that First Saintess Elena is about to be executed."
“...What?”
Mirabel's eyes flashed wide.
She held a high position in the church, but she couldn't access the deep underground interrogation cells.
So she hadn't grasped Elena's dire straits.
She probably never imagined the church would execute a saintess.
"What do you want? A church dog doesn't feed us intel like this for nothing."
“Hmm, what I want...”
I paused thoughtfully before speaking.
"I can't stand the outdated methods in this interrogation office. All that 'divine grace' nonsense while they just yank out fingernails—the barbarism of it. I can't entrust my future to those third-raters."
Gazing up at the Holy Mother statue, I let a vile smirk spread across my face. I wonder how it looked in her eyes.
"So I'm thinking of reshaping this hypocritical paradise my way. Carve out the old fogeys stuck in their ways and build a new stage—for me alone."
Mirabel listened silently, her eyes gleaming.
She was surely weighing how to use me.
I met her gaze head-on.
"You want the saintess for the Empire. I want to rule this office. Our goals align perfectly—why cut each other's throats?"
"Hmmm..."
The silence stretched on.
Minutes later, moonlight filtered into the prayer room, casting our shadows long across the floor.
Finally, Mirabel slipped the dagger back into her sleeve and gave a cold smile.
"Fine. I'll play along this once. Let's see what color your 'rose' blooms."
She tossed me a small folded paper.
"Meeting place and time. Be late, and you're a traitor."
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
When I looked up, she'd vanished into the shadows like a ghost.
I clenched the paper tightly.
For the first time, the thread of salvation felt real in my grasp.
But perhaps it was too soon to relax.
As I moved to leave Saint Jerome's Temple, a chilling voice struck from behind.
"Well, well, Brother Ian. Said you were here to pray, but you had quite the intimate chat with the priest. Old friends? I had no idea you'd built connections like that."
A shadow at the end of the corridor.
It was Damian, head of the Heretic Interrogation Office—and the ultimate black curtain of Camp 1.
My heart pounded wildly.
How long had he been watching?
No, that wasn't the point now.
I bit my lip and mustered a sly smile.
The act for survival was far from over.