CHAPTER 36: EX 36. YOU OWE ME AN ARM

Leon sat alone in a bare, dimly lit room, his expression blank, eyes half-lidded in disinterest. The soldiers had dropped him off without a word, not even pretending to follow protocol.

The moment the door shut behind them, they left—quickly—like they couldn’t get away fast enough.

The room itself was claustrophobic, stripped down to the essentials: four steel-gray walls, no windows, a bolted door, a rusted table, and a single chair placed opposite Leon’s.

Above, a single bulb hung from the ceiling on a loose wire. It flickered every so often, casting weak, uneven light that barely counted as illumination, more shadow than glow—like it had long since given up the will to shine.

Outside, muffled screams echoed through the concrete halls—agonized and broken. They were the cries of people mid-interrogation. The sounds were clearly intentional, engineered to crawl under the skin.

The entire room was built with a singular purpose: psychological erosion.

Magic laced into the walls to amplify fear. Soundproofing calibrated to let just enough torment in.

A waiting game designed to gnaw at the nerves. Someone had spent a lot of time perfecting this setup.

But Leon?

Leon was bored.

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.

At least they got something right. The boredom was real.

The architects of this room would be crushed if they knew how utterly ineffective their work was. It wasn’t that they’d failed—the design was solid, well-crafted, refined for F-rank trial takers.

But putting Leon in here was like locking a predator in a playpen made of plastic bricks.

First, the flickering darkness was completely useless against Leon.

His high Sense stat compensated entirely, allowing him to see more clearly in the gloom than most could in daylight.

Second, the screams?

They didn’t disturb him. If anything, they gave the room an ambiance. His Sense stat once again dulled any emotional impact. If these people wanted to affect him, they’d need something beyond recycled terror.

’My Sense stat really does a lot’ Leon thought idly, tapping a finger against the steel table. ’Might be worth investing more in it going forward.’

Just then, the door clicked open.

A man stepped in, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a pressed black uniform and an identification card that swung from his neck:

Anthony Gordon.

He carried himself with practiced arrogance, that same overconfidence Leon had seen earlier from the previous captain—before that man’s pride crumbled beneath a wave of killing intent.

Gordon closed the door slowly behind him.

Then he walked around the table, not rushing, placing each step like he owned the room.

He stopped beside Leon and stared down at him.

Leon looked up lazily, unmoved.

The silence dragged.

Before Gordon finally said.

"You’re a tough one," he muttered, eyes narrowing.

Then, without warning, he placed a firm hand on Leon’s right shoulder, leaning in slightly.

"But everyone breaks eventually."

Leon’s eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in irritation.

He whispered something under his breath, too low for Gordon to hear.

Gordon’s brows furrowed.

"What did you say?"

Leon tilted his head slightly and replied, voice calm, sharp, and chilling:

"Get your hand off me... unless you want to lose it."

For a moment, the bulb flickered again—this time not from poor wiring, but as if the air itself had shifted.

And Gordon?

He froze.

****

Gordon stood frozen, eyes locked on Leon.

He hadn’t even realized when his hand withdrew from the boy’s shoulder—a subconscious retreat, almost instinctual.

It wasn’t until the cold air brushed against his palm that he noticed it was gone.

’Did I just... pull away?’

His jaw tightened.

’Am I scared?’

The very thought repulsed him.

He clenched his fist, trying to steady his breathing, his pride flaring like a wounded beast.

’Impossible. Why would I be scared of a brat?’

A flicker of shame turned into anger. Needing to reassert control, Gordon suddenly lashed out—

SLAP.

His palm cracked across Leon’s face with a sharp echo, the force snapping Leon’s head to the side. The metal table rattled from the motion.

"Just because you’re a noble," Gordon sneered, venom curling in his voice, "don’t think you can run your mouth however you like."

Leon didn’t respond.

He stayed still, his face turned, strands of white hair covering his eyes as silence settled between them.

He wasn’t stunned by the strike.

He was restraining himself.

He knew the law—trial takers under investigation couldn’t retaliate against enforcement officers, no matter the provocation.

But that didn’t stop him from speaking.

Leon slowly turned his head back toward Gordon. His blue eyes, once dull with boredom, now gleamed with a frost-sharp chill.

When he spoke, his tone was calm—but carried the weight of a quiet, deadly promise.

"You’re owing me a hand."

Gordon’s breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, he almost stepped back.

Almost.

There wasn’t even a mark on Leon’s face. Not a welt, not a bruise—nothing. It was like the slap had struck stone.

’What the hell...?’ Gordon thought, his heart pounding. ’How is he still talking like that?’

And worse—that look.

That detached, unreadable glare that said, you’re nothing.

It made something in Gordon snap.

Fury overrode caution as he raised his arm again, ready to strike harder, to make Leon feel it this time—

BANG!

The door slammed open.

A young soldier rushed in, his expression tense.

"Sir!" he barked.

Gordon snarled, arm still halfway raised.

"What do you think you’re doing? Interrupting an interrogation?!"

The soldier stiffened, swallowing nervously.

"It’s a call for you, sir. it’s Urgent."

Gordon exhaled sharply through his nose, the veins in his neck taut with frustration.

He turned, snatched the ringing device from the soldier’s hand, and waved him off with a dismissive flick. The door shut quickly behind the retreating soldier.

As Gordon pressed the receiver to his ear, barely restraining his temper.

"This better be good."

****

Gordon had always hated nobles.

But it wasn’t the kind of hate born from rivalry or injustice.

It was the kind of hate birthed from wounded pride, from the festering belief that he should have been above them all.

From a young age, Gordon stood out—broad-shouldered, sharp-witted, faster than his peers at everything that mattered.

He was told he was special. He believed it.

And when the trial resonance awakened in him, that belief solidified into an unshakable delusion:

He was destined for greatness.

But that illusion cracked—and then shattered completely—the day he stepped into the one-year training program.

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A/N: Please send power stones and leave reviews.

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