Chapter : 385

The assassin, his forward momentum stopped, his sword arm trapped, had no time to react. The blow landed with a sickening, wet CRACK that echoed unnervingly in the silent alley. The assassin let out a sharp, choked gasp of pure, unadulterated agony as the bones in his elbow shattered, his arm bending at an unnatural, horrifying angle. The black sword clattered from his nerveless fingers, skittering across the cobblestones.

But the assassin was a professional. Even through the blinding, white-hot pain, his training took over. He spun, his body low, his other sword, held in his good hand, lashing out in a desperate, sweeping arc aimed at Lloyd’s legs, trying to cripple him, to create distance.

Lloyd released the shattered wrist, stepping back half a pace, the sweeping blade whispering past his ankles. He could have ended it there. A kick to the head, another disabling blow. But he wanted more than just a victory. He wanted answers. He needed the assassin alive, and cowed. He needed to demonstrate not just skill, but overwhelming, absolute, and terrifyingly versatile, power.

It was time for the chains.

“You’re skilled,” Lloyd said, his voice a low, almost conversational murmur, a stark contrast to the assassin’s ragged, pain-filled breathing. “Disciplined. But you are out of your league.”

He raised his hands, palms open. The assassin, clutching his shattered arm, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and dawning, horrified confusion, stared as the air around Lloyd’s hands began to shimmer, to coalesce.

With a sound like a thousand tiny metallic whispers, the chains erupted into being. Not one, but two. Gleaming, solid lengths of polished Ferrum steel, flowing from his palms like living, metallic serpents. They slithered through the air, their movements fluid, silent, impossibly fast.

Before the assassin could even think to raise his remaining sword, before he could attempt to flee, the chains were on him.

One whipped around his good arm, from wrist to shoulder, binding it to his torso in an unbreakable, steel embrace. The other snaked around his legs, coiling tightly from ankles to knees, yanking his feet out from under him.

The assassin cried out in alarm as he was trussed up in mid-motion, crashing to the ground with a heavy, metallic thud, bound and helpless, a fly caught in a spider’s gleaming, unbreakable web. The steel chains held him fast, their cool, unyielding pressure a constant reminder of his utter, comprehensive defeat.

Lloyd stood over him, the ends of the two chains still connected to his own palms, a puppeteer standing over his captured, helpless puppet. The fight, if it could even be called that, was over. He had disarmed, broken, and bound a skilled, professional assassin in less than thirty seconds, without a weapon, without his spirit, without breaking a sweat. He had used only his own body, his own will, and the terrible, beautiful, half-forgotten art of his Steel Blood.

He looked down at the struggling, gasping man on the ground, at the hateful, fanatic glare in the eyes visible above the mask. The trap had been sprung. The predator had been captured. Now, the interrogation could begin.

________________________________________

The dead-end alley had become a chamber of interrogation, its grimy brick walls a silent witness to the swift, brutal reversal of fortunes. The assassin lay on the damp cobblestones, a trussed-up effigy of his former lethal grace, bound in the gleaming, unbreakable coils of Lloyd’s Chain Shackles. The pain from his shattered elbow was a white-hot agony, but it was dwarfed by the cold, chilling terror of his situation. He had been defeated. Effortlessly. By a boy, an unarmed boy, who had moved with the preternatural speed of a master and now wielded a power he couldn’t comprehend.

Lloyd stood over him, a figure of calm, menacing authority. The ends of the steel chains were still connected to his palms, a physical manifestation of his absolute control. He looked down at the bound man, his eyes, cold and analytical, holding no hint of pity or triumph. This wasn't personal. This was business. The business of intelligence gathering.

“Let’s try this again,” Lloyd began, his voice a low, conversational murmur that was somehow more terrifying than any shout. “I ask the questions. You provide the answers. It’s a simple dynamic. Though,” he added, a flicker of something sharp and dangerous in his gaze as he flexed his fingers, causing the chains to tighten fractionally, eliciting a choked gasp from the assassin, “we can certainly explore more… complex… variations if you prefer.”

He crouched down, bringing his face closer to the assassin’s, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Who sent you?”

Chapter : 386

The assassin glared back, his eyes, visible above the simple black mask, blazing with a hateful, fanatic light. He spat, a glob of bloody saliva landing near Lloyd’s boot. “Go to hell, Ferrum dog,” he snarled, his voice a ragged, pain-filled rasp.

Lloyd sighed, a sound of weary, almost bored, disappointment. He hadn't expected it to be easy. A professional of this caliber wouldn't break from a simple question. He stood up slowly, looming over the bound man.

“Wrong answer,” Lloyd said softly. He focused his will, not on the chains, but on the Void power itself, the innate fire of his Ferrum bloodline. He didn't need to create flames. He just needed to transfer heat.

The steel chain wrapped around the assassin’s shattered arm began to warm. Slowly at first, then with increasing, inexorable intensity. It didn't glow red-hot, but the air around it began to shimmer with heat distortion. The assassin gasped, his body tensing as the warmth turned to an uncomfortable, then painful, then agonizing, burning sensation, searing through his leather jerkin, directly against the raw, exposed nerves of his broken limb.

“Aaargh!” A choked scream was ripped from the assassin’s throat. He thrashed against his bonds, his body arching in agony, but the chains held him fast, the heat intensifying, cooking him from the inside out.

“Let’s reconsider the question,” Lloyd’s voice remained unnervingly calm, a detached observer at a scientific experiment. “Who. Sent. You? Was it Viscount Rubel? Was it the Altamiras? Give me a name. A faction. Something to work with. And the pain,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “will stop.”

The assassin’s body convulsed, sweat pouring down his temples, his breath coming in ragged, agonized sobs. But through the pain, through the terror, his eyes, when they met Lloyd’s, still held that same, unwavering, fanatic hatred. He gritted his teeth, a low, animalistic growl rumbling in his chest. He was not going to break. His loyalty, his conditioning, was stronger than the pain.

Lloyd frowned, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his cold composure. This level of resistance… it was remarkable. He’d seen hardened soldiers, trained spies, break under far less pressure in the interrogation simulators back on Earth. This wasn't just loyalty to a master, or fear of reprisal. This was… zealotry. The unshakeable conviction of a true believer.

This changes the threat assessment, his internal strategist noted grimly. This isn’t just a hired killer. This is a fanatic. Part of a dedicated, disciplined, and ideologically motivated organization. Far more dangerous.

He let the heat in the chains recede slightly, giving the man a moment’s respite. The assassin gasped, sucking in ragged breaths, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the agony.

“Impressive,” Lloyd admitted, his voice holding a note of genuine, if reluctant, respect. “Your pain tolerance is… noteworthy. Your loyalty, even more so. This tells me you are not just a common sell-sword. You belong to something. An order? A cult? Who are you, really?”

The assassin simply glared, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a silent, hateful defiance.

Lloyd sighed again. Very well. The direct approach had failed. Time for a more… persuasive… application of force. He wasn’t a torturer by nature, but the Major General knew that sometimes, a carefully applied, non-lethal demonstration of overwhelming pain was the most efficient way to extract critical intelligence.

“A shame,” Lloyd murmured, almost to himself. He began to focus his will again, this time on the chain binding the assassin’s legs. He would start with the kneecaps. Shattering them, then slowly heating the fragments… that tended to loosen even the most stubborn of tongues.

But just as he was about to unleash a new wave of calculated agony, he saw it. A subtle shift in the assassin’s expression. The fanatic hatred was still there, but beneath it, a new emotion flickered. A glint of something cold, triumphant, almost… smug.

The assassin’s jaw, which had been clenched in pain, worked suddenly, a sharp, grinding motion.

Lloyd’s instincts, honed over a hundred battlefields, screamed. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew, with an absolute, gut-deep certainty, that he had just lost control of the situation.

He moved instantly, his hand shooting out, grabbing the assassin's mask, trying to wrench his jaw open, to see what he was doing.

But it was too late.

There was a sharp, distinct CRUNCH from within the assassin’s mouth, the sound of a tooth shattering. A flicker of something dark, something that felt like a release of corrupted, negative energy, pulsed from the man’s body. It wasn't Spirit Power, not Void Power. It was the unmistakable signature of a curse. Black magic.