Chapter 8
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Persuasion Begins
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The little rat twitched its nose right in front of my eyes. Gray fur patchy and falling out, a pink tail wriggling disgustingly, and black eyes gleaming even in the darkness.
It clutched the bread crumbs I'd tossed it in its front paws and gnawed away diligently.
The authority of the Empire's Emperor had fallen not just to the ground, but now even the rodents in the underground prison ignored me.
"Hey, are you listening to me? If you've received His Majesty's grace, shouldn't you show some kind of reaction?"
I stretched my finger through the bars and poked the rat's butt.
Squeak.
It let out a short cry as if annoyed, then grabbed the bread crumb in its mouth and scurried into a crack in the corner wall.
Even as its tail tip vanished into the darkness, there wasn't a speck of awe toward me.
"Damn. No way it'd work anyway."
I thunked my head against the wall and let out a sigh.
[Persuasion (Lv.1)]
The description called it a "tongue that opens closed hearts" in grand terms, but the system hadn't bothered to kindly explain that it only worked on humans with intelligence.
Well, if I could persuade a rat and succeed, I'd be a druid, not an emperor.
The sweet, nutty aftertaste of the soup was slowly fading from my mouth.
My stomach had calmed thanks to the rare warm food, but my mind was filled with the ticking of clock hands.
'Ten days.'
Considering the Roselia army's advance speed, that left just over nine days and half a day. Helena. The red-haired queen. She wasn't simply coming to kill me.
She was coming to crush and tear me apart, to the depth of the humiliation I'd inflicted on her—or even more.
The moment she arrived, my eleven lives would plummet into the negatives in an instant.
Dying from torture, reviving, then tortured again in an endless loop. Just imagining it made my legs tremble.
I fiddled with the iron chains. The cold metal's chill seeped into my fingertips. Escape? Impossible.
My magic was sealed, and fully armed guards with eyes blazing stood watch outside the door.
With Duke Karls personally watching me down to the last detail under the guise of "protection," any sloppy escape attempt would only tighten surveillance.
In the end, all I had left was this tongue. I had to hone this shallow level 1 skill somehow, turn Duke Karls to my side, or redirect Helena's rage elsewhere.
But I had no practice partner. Talking to the wall would just get me labeled a madman, and the skill proficiency wouldn't rise.
That was when it happened.
Clank.
The iron door at the corridor end creaked open. Not the regular boot steps of soldiers, but lighter, dragging footsteps. And the sloshing of a water-filled bucket.
I instinctively straightened my posture. Someone was approaching through the darkness. Torchlight shadows stretched long, casting over the floor beyond the bars.
"…"
It wasn't a soldier who appeared. A woman in a shabby gray apron, her face wrapped in thick linen cloth covering nose and mouth.
Her head was covered by a worn hood, hiding every strand of hair, but the apron strings cinched at her waist and the white forearms peeking from rolled-up sleeves suggested she was quite young.
In her hands were a mop and a wooden bucket. A pungent disinfectant smell wafted from it—like lime powder mixed with vinegar, sharp and sour.
She stopped in front of the spot where Lucas had collapsed, where his vomit foam, filth, and spilled porridge had dried.
'A cleaner.'
A maid handling the filth of the imperial palace's underground prison. The lowest, the job no one wanted.
Without glancing at me, she silently dipped the mop in the bucket and wrung it out. Squelch, squelch. The waterlogged mop scraped across the floor, echoing in the silent prison.
A nauseating stench hit me. Lucas's stomach acid, the lingering scent of moonflower poison, mixed with the disinfectant—it turned my stomach. But instead of pinching my nose, I stared piercingly at her back.
This was a chance.
A living human I could talk to. One unguarded, focused only on her work—not wary or hateful toward me, the emperor.
She bent deep at the waist, scrubbing the stains on the floor. The thick apron stretched taut over the curve of her hips.
Not a fancy dress or smooth silk, but the body's lines beneath that rough cloth instinctively drew the eye.
I licked my dry lips. Cleared my throat. Not too intimidating, not too servile.
"Hey."
My voice bounced off the stone walls, low and echoing.
The scrubbing hand paused. Her shoulders twitched slightly.
But she didn't look up. As if pretending not to hear, she gripped harder and scrubbed vigorously again.
"The smell's brutal, right? It's where someone nearly died. Death's scent is always foul like that."
I scooted closer to the bars and continued. I focused my intent to activate the skill. [Persuasion]. Open her sealed lips, make her look at me.
[Persuasion (Lv.1)] Activated
"But people like you, who sniff that smell and keep cleaning without fleeing—they make this hell a bit more bearable."
A touch of exaggeration, subtle praise. Maids and slaves hungered for recognition of their labor. Especially from a high status like the emperor.
Her movements stopped again. Longer this time. Slowly, very slowly, she straightened and turned her head.
Our eyes met over the mask. Brown eyes sparkling oddly under the dim prison light. Fear, wariness, and a faint curiosity swirled within.
"…"
She still said nothing. But she didn't look away.
Definitely different from talking to a wall. I pressed on.
"What's your name? The emperor asks—surely you can answer out of courtesy. Oh, or can you not speak?"
She blinked. Hesitated, then gripped the mop handle tightly and shook her head slightly. Unclear if it meant she couldn't speak, or wouldn't give her name.
Success?
Something like a ding rang in my ears. Skill success??
"I'm Sia..."
She hurriedly finished cleaning the rest, then grabbed the bucket and fled. The sloshing water sounded urgent as it faded.
But just before turning the corridor corner, she glanced back once more.
A brief moment, but that gaze held a different warmth from her initial indifference.
Clang.
The iron door at the corridor's end shut. Silence again. But a faint smile crept to my lips.
"Yes. This is it."
No real conversation, but my intent reached her, and I stirred her emotions.
This sensation. This feeling—I had to remember it. A hundred times better than wasting effort on a rat pup.
I looked down at the remaining water on the floor. Amid the harsh disinfectant, a faint soap scent she'd left lingered.
"Next time, whether it's the patrol captain or whoever, I'll get someone I can talk to longer."
The prison evening arrived silently. The bluish light from the magic stone in the wall dulled slightly, and the faint draft through ceiling cracks grew chillier—that hinted at time's passage.
My empty stomach echoed like a hollow cave. Hunger wasn't mere appetite; it twisted my guts in physical pain, pulling my belly inward.
Clack. Clack.
Regular footsteps echoed from the corridor end. Heavy boot heels striking stone, but different from the daytime soldiers'. More centered weight, straight and unhesitating rhythm.
I carefully rose, chains silent, and crawled to the bars. In the dark, silver breastplate gleamed faintly.
"Dinner."
A dry voice flowed through the bars. Patrol Captain Adella.
She held a crude wooden tray in one hand, the other on her sword hilt at her waist, looking down at me.
She looked even more fatigued than earlier. Sweat beaded in her tied-up brown hair, faint shadows under her eyes.
What drew the eye first was the scar. A white line slashing diagonally from above her left eyebrow to her temple.
That scar across her beautiful face created a strange discord, yet exuded a wild, untamed allure like a feral horse.
Clunk.
She bent to unlock the food slot. A rustle of leather gloves, and the tray slid in.
"Menu's beef stew and black bread. On the duke's orders, we replaced all the kitchen staff including the cooks. Water's from a different well than Lucas brought, and two coroners' magic checks are done."
She explained as she straightened. Steam rose from the dark brown broth bowl on the tray. Simmered meat aroma, bay leaf fragrance, hearty bread scent—it made my salivary glands ache.
I grabbed the wooden spoon with trembling hands. But before eating, I paused it midair and slowly looked up at Adella.
"You brought it yourself? Could've sent a subordinate."
"Who should I trust?"
She snorted. Arms crossed, leaning on one leg naturally. From her armor gaps, sweat-mingled faint iron scent wafted from her neckline.
"One of my men nearly died in my sector. Till the culprit's caught, I trust no one. That's my way."
Her eyes were resolute. Duty, anger. Hostility toward the unseen enemy burned in those brown depths.
I took a spoonful. Warm, salty stew enveloped my tongue and slid down. Warmth spreading through my cold body made my eyes close involuntarily.
"Delicious. Even more so without poison."
"Spare the empty words."
Adella replied curtly, but watched me eat till the end. Her gaze was watchful, yet mixed with unconscious protective instinct confirming my safety.
I tore bread, dipped it in broth, and tossed out a line. Now it begins. [Persuasion] time.
"That scar."
Her eyebrow twitched. She reflexively turned her head, as if to shield the scarred side with her shoulder. A complex. Or a reverse scale not to touch.
Shit... Did I say the wrong thing?