The Standard of Interrogation
Isaac had a question.
The three pillars gnawing away at Bernsi: Dietrich Marquis, Baris the market leader, and the Baisman gang. The marquis and the market leader were figures who had gradually built their influence in the city. The marquis had done so by coming and going from Goethe as an inspector, getting acquainted with key figures in the city council. Baris had amassed enormous wealth and earned the trust of the guilds. It was only after forging friendly ties with Bernsi's core merchants that they could hatch their grand scheme to swallow the city whole.
Records from his predecessors mentioned as much, and it wasn't hard to predict. But then, where had this Baisman gang popped up from? How had these guys suddenly seized control of the slums and sewers, even reaching out to the marquis and market leader? Had it all happened in the few short months Isaac had been away? Or had it been steadily progressing in the shadows until now?
Either way, they were different from your average street gang.
"You're Isaac von Goete, right?"
Even locked in the deepest underground solitary cell, without a single ray of light, the assassin's attitude was brazen. His filthy cloak had hidden it, but he was well-groomed. Trimmed mustache, short hair slicked back. His chin beard was neatly shaved, as if maintained regularly.
"Yeah. That's me."
Isaac dragged a chair over and sat before the assassin. The man's wrists were bound in handcuffs laced with dimegtrium. Dimegtrium was a mineral that dispersed mana. Compared to the thug caught in the slums' brothel, this one knew how to wield proper aura. Precautions were necessary.
"The marquis made a bad call. He really sent you, huh? Young master, right?"
"Spot on."
"So, gonna torture me now?"
The assassin asked flatly, as if this situation wasn't unfamiliar.
"Dunno. Thinking about it."
"Whatever you're hoping for, you won't get it."
"Pretty confident, aren't you?"
"Heard of a 'room of the mind'?"
"Room of the mind?"
"Exactly what it sounds like—a room in your head. Guys like me have one. When the body's in pain, you hide inside it."
"Intriguing. Go on."
Isaac crossed his arms and responded.
"My master died under torture. Tongue cut out first, then ears. Nose next, eyes gouged, fingers one by one. Toes all ten, then balls sliced off. He lasted three days like that. Never made a sound. Hell, he was smiling when he went."
"Inspiring tale for some."
"Nah, master wasn't the inspirational type. My guess? He was rolling around with naked women in his room of the mind. Always did. Gotta stock it with what you love to keep it secure."
"So, should I test yours? See how sturdy that room of yours is?"
"Yeah. Figured my turn would come someday. Didn't think it'd be this backwater dump. Come on, if you're doing it, get on with it."
The assassin sighed.
"Got a few questions first."
"Young master, you an idiot? You know I won't spill, so you're tying me up for torture, right?"
"Why didn't you kill the guard captain? You gave him a huge lump on the side of his head—flat of the blade, not the edge."
"Why ask something so pointless? Makes me look bad."
"It's pointless, so you can at least answer."
"No reason to kill him."
The assassin shrugged like it was obvious.
"One more. You used aura when you came at me. Why drop it the moment you snapped my sword? You could've finished me."
The assassin sighed in exasperation at Isaac's question.
"You really are an idiot, young master. Had hopes since you sent the note yourself. Tsk."
"Answer."
Carlson gripped the assassin's shoulder hard. Bound in dimegtrium, he couldn't shield his body with aura.
"Hey, my shoulder's gonna shatter. Hurt me that bad, and I'll crawl into my room of the mind like a hermit crab."
"Fine by me. Then I'll bust in and kick your ass out."
"Saw it in the swordfight—guy with presence. I like it. Ack—hurts, man, hurts!"
Carlson tightened his grip at the assassin's words. The man twisted away, legs kicking, but there was no real tension in it.
"Okay, okay! What big deal question is this? I didn't kill you 'cause killing you wasn't the goal. Obvious, right? And pissing off the count by offing you? Even more hassle."
"I see."
Isaac nodded and rose from his chair.
"What? That's it?"
"Kinda tired today."
Isaac yawned and stretched. He'd pulled an all-nighter assassinating Baris, tortured the thug Carlson caught, faced his father, blocked the assassination attempt. Two days without sleep, and his brain wasn't firing right.
"What kinda guy's like this?"
The assassin chuckled in disbelief.
"You two, keep watch. Carlson."
Isaac assigned two guards as jailers and left the underground prison with Carlson.
"What do you think?"
Strolling the garden, Isaac asked. Fresh air cleared his head a bit. The count's private study window still glowed. He'd noticed the commotion but pretended not to, leaving it to Isaac. After Isaac's not-quite-declaration about not wanting to look unworthy of heirship.
"He definitely came to kill the thug I caught."
"But avoided unnecessary kills. Composed, good talker. Calling me 'young master' right away—lots of noble contacts? Sword for hire to nobles?"
"Maybe."
Carlson nodded. They walked the garden in silence a couple laps. Isaac had known an assassin would come to silence the thug. But this guy was different from expected.
This Baisman leader's even more intriguing.
Neither the thug Carlson nabbed nor the assassin sent to kill him seemed likely to talk easily. The thug wasn't as glib as the assassin, just spat curses and threats, but no key info. How could a sewer-lord gang boss command such tight-lipped types with brute force alone? Gangs were merchants at heart, selling muscle like mercenaries—just less specialized. Yet these wouldn't crack even with death on the line. Something beyond profit.
"Not certain, but."
Carlson, following quietly, spoke up.
"Hm?"
"The assassin's swordwork. Seen something like it before."
"You have? Where?"
"Modified a lot, but resembled the republic's guard swordsmanship."
Carlson explained the republic's guard style. The republic favored magitech weapons, shunning heavy armor—it'd pierce under a hand cannon hit anyway. Magic-resistant armor cost as much as a capital mansion. So they ditched shields and plate for attack-focused swordplay.
"Sure?"
If Carlson was right, estimating Baisman's motives got easier. A republic revolutionary leader? Lots of puzzle pieces would fit.
"Not just the style. The 'room of the mind' sealed it."
"How so?"
"Republic's Revolutionaries splintered after purging the king. Street fights, espionage galore. Room of the mind's base for their knights' aura training—and torture resistance. Train not to crack under pain. Official name's 'inner sanctuary.' They call it room of the mind in slang. Most folks don't know it or its revolutionary ties."
Carlson's tale wasn't in the histories Isaac knew. History of the Continental Wars just said the republic purged its king, adopted republicanism, fought feudal backlash—briefly.
"How do you know that?"
"Lived in the republic before Winterband service."
"Thought you served long at Winterband. You were young then? Spy too?"
"Year or two older than you, young master. Of age, had to."
Carlson said flatly.
"Interesting."
"What's the plan? If they don't talk, no leads on Baisman. Marquis arrives at the manor in two days."
"Let's think."
Isaac sat on a garden bench, deep breath. For things to go his way, the thug and assassin needed to crack. Shake the board with Baris's hit, then court or crush Baisman. Squeeze the marquis's throat, grab his weakness tight. He'd never eye Bernsi rashly again. Could even leverage him to boost Goethe's position.
Baisman—help or hindrance? Unclear. But if tied to republic revolutionaries, per Carlson...
Isaac nodded, thought done.
"Might have a way."
Splash!
"H-Huh, heok—"
The thug gasped at the icy water dumping from his crown. Already freezing in the cell, chills hit hard.
"Wh-What the fuck, sh-shit!"
Shivering, he glared ahead eyes wide. Isaac sat legs crossed, chair pulled up—who knew when.
"It's over."
Clang!
Isaac tossed the bloodied rapier to the floor.
"Wh-What’s over, fucker."
"Yesterday, this blade's owner came to kill you. Silencing you, looks like."
"...So?"
"......"
The thug's eyes quivered. That rapier's owner—Baisman's strongest. Not likable, but his skilled aura matched any knight. Respected that much.
But why was his blade here? Curved edge. His prized one.
The thug's mind reeled.
"S-So!?"
Shaking from cold and shock, he demanded.
"......"
Isaac just stared silently.
"Spit it out, you bloody bastard! What happened!?"
"Executed."
"...What?"
"Gouged his eyes first. Left the tongue for talking, then fingers and toes. Balls next..."
Isaac detailed the tortures slowly, deliberately. Quoting and inflating the assassin's own words.
The thug's face crumpled.
"Y-You devil fuck!"
"He bragged about his room of the mind, pain tolerance bullshit. Wanted to see how long he'd last. Didn't to the end."
"You motherfucker I'll rip apart!"
The thug thrashed, chair-bound. Futile—Carlson pinned his shoulders.
"Sigh. Yeah, went too hard maybe. Ripped and sliced too fast overnight, didn't last. What'd he say? Some revolutionary errand boy, hand-in-glove with Baris the market leader and Dietrich Marquis, plotting something."
"...!"
The thug paled. Never dreamed he'd spill that. Hated to admit, but Baisman's top dog. For him to break under torture, betray his god...
Despair flooded the thug's face.
"Died mid-shit after that. Lucky you? He's in pieces, but you've only lost ten nails. And you're still kicking."
Isaac smiled coldly. Goosebumps rose on the thug.
"Read in a book—top torture mixes a bit of malice. Effective. So I brought someone."
Creeeak—
Iron bars opened. A familiar face entered: Bill.
"Morning, Gerald."
Thud!
Bill dropped a heavy sack, grinning wide. The thug's eyes bulged.