Witch, Fireball and the Evil God of Steam-Chapter 850 - 164: Thousand-faced Witch
Imperial Prison, Level 5.
"How did it go? Did Balmon confess?"
The moment a member of the Judicial Court came to report, the Eldest Prince immediately stepped forward to inquire.
During the waiting time, Balmon's calm gaze was like a thorn in his throat. He couldn't understand why someone who was on the brink of death could remain so composed.
Balmon was different from commoners. As the Imperial Chancellor, he naturally understood the methods of the Judicial Court. Though surrendering couldn't save his life, it could make his path to the afterlife easier.
This interrogation team had been selected with great scrutiny, each experienced in countless battles, but now they were showing signs of difficulty.
"We've temporarily... encountered some obstacles."
The captain of the team said, "We can't continue for now. We've injected him with a large amount of sedatives to keep him fully conscious during the interrogation, but he... it's like he doesn't feel pain at all."
Pain, itching, these were their most commonly used methods.
They had adopted more aggressive interrogation plans, using methods far beyond the usual standards, which would have driven an average person insane, yet Balmon hadn't even glanced at them.
"We're performing emergency resuscitation on him and need to examine his entire body to ensure his negative senses aren't sealed by some spells."
"No matter what methods you use."
The report from the interrogator made the Eldest Prince more restless. He impatiently waved his hand, "I just need the results. How did he leave the Imperial Capital back then, and who secretly assisted him? If these cannot be found out, you should know the consequences..." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮
The threat was self-evident.
The interrogators dared not respond. They understood the Eldest Prince's methods and knew how he treated worthless failures.
It seemed they needed to adopt more aggressive interrogation methods, even if it meant Balmon wouldn't survive the night.
"Against someone like him, those methods are useless."
A woman's voice came in, startling the guards beside the Eldest Prince, who all drew their weapons. The man in the black cloak stepped sideways to shield the prince instantly.
However, when they followed the voice and looked around, they couldn't find any unexpected guests.
It was reasonable to think the prison guards wouldn't dare barge into the Eldest Prince's room, especially when he was in a bad mood.
"That person before too, so alike, really too alike."
This time, everyone in the room finally saw the source of the voice. Everything came from several masks hanging on the wall, each with different expressions — smiling, weeping, angry, melancholic. They didn't know when these masks had appeared.
The woman's voice seemed to possess some magical power, lingering among the crowd. At first, it was the interrogators who found their limbs uncontrollably suspended, as if an invisible gaze had hung them up, turning them into marionettes manipulated by the performer on stage.
Before they could say anything, the masks flashed before them, firmly sticking to their faces.
In an instant, insane and terrifying visions flickered in their minds.
Same place, same scene.
Only back then, the person here was Henry VI.
In his youth, wearing what now seemed like somewhat retro finery, was equally furious.
The interrogators then had used every method they knew, yet they never got the prisoner to speak, and so "they" saw their end.
Deemed worthless failures, Henry VI ordered the prison guards to drag "them" away.
"They" heard pleas for mercy and screams, and the heart-rending pain followed, akin to skin peeling off, or burning branding irons pressing against their skin; those were the tortures "they" were familiar with, now used against "them" one by one.
In the Eldest Prince's eyes, he only saw those masked interrogators falling to the ground, letting out heart-wrenching screams, their bodies convulsing uncontrollably, and the room began to smell horridly disgusting.
Someone had lost control of their bladder.
"Stop it, Thousand-faced Witch."
The man in the black cloak said, feigning calm, but his uncontrollably twitching right hand and the sweat dripping from his forehead betrayed his feelings.
"You know me?"
The interrogators ceased their cries. In a movement that defied human behavior, they abruptly stood up from the ground. Their feet lifted off the floor, as if pulled into the air by invisible strings. One interrogator floated toward the man in the black cloak, tauntingly saying, "You're afraid of me."
"If this goes on, you might have trouble explaining it to the Prison Warden."
The man in the black cloak's heart pounded fiercely, and he didn't deny the other's assessment.
Facing such an unstable character, one who could go mad anytime, not being afraid was abnormal.
Madness meant her behavior couldn't be predicted and she might even attack them.
He knew the truth behind this prison. Each year, a large number of Imperial People were imprisoned here, not immediately executed, but instead stored as "consumables" to prevent these "sealed" monstrosities from going berserk and breaking out to the surface.
