Chapter 36: The Unbreakable Wall of Faith and Blood 🩸🧊
The failure of the Telepath, Sorin, shattered the illusion of the Empire's absolute control over knowledge. Chancellor Altdorf and Duke Steiner were left with the cold reality: Daemon's mind was not a target they could breach; it was a weapon they had just triggered. The interrogation was now forced back to conventional methods, but with a crucial escalation.
"No more questions, Altdorf," Duke Steiner commanded, his voice raw with fury as Sorin was dragged out, still muttering about impossible science. "The commoner has proven he respects nothing but force. We must ascertain the location of any further bombs and break his will. I am authorizing the use of pain compliance."
Chancellor Altdorf, though disgusted by the crude reversion to barbarism, agreed. "Very well. But do not damage the vocal cords. We still require his ability to speak."
Two hardened Imperial Soldiers, specialized in non-magical coercion, strode into the obsidian chamber. They wore no mage robes, only heavy leather armor, and carried thick wooden batons and weighted leather whips. Daemon, still sitting calmly, offered no resistance as they approached.
The interrogation instantly devolved into brutality. The soldiers did not use spells; they used blunt, grinding force, aiming for non-lethal but excruciating pain. The rhythmic thwack of the batons against Daemon's ribs and the snap of the whips against his back filled the otherwise silent chamber.
"Where is the formula for the explosive?" one soldier roared, slamming a baton into Daemon's knee. "Where are the remaining canisters?" demanded the other, lashing him with the whip.
As the physical abuse began, Daemon began to speak. He ignored the questions, the pain, and the presence of his high-ranking captors. He began to recite, not equations, but an ancient, powerful text, instantly adding a layer of bewildering mystery to his persona—a psychological ploy designed to distract and confuse his tormentors, adding the veneer of a fanatic to his cold logic.
His voice, strained yet steady through the pain, filled the room:
> "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness covered the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God hovered over the water. And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."
>
The soldiers hesitated, baffled by the strange, devotional response, but the Duke's silent glare urged them on. The beatings intensified. The whips drew blood, the batons inflicted deep tissue damage, and yet Daemon continued his recitation, his focus absolute, his voice rising in volume with terrifying resilience.
Every strike that landed was met with a concurrent, invisible flow of Aether. Daemon had spent his isolation training his Healing Affinity, and now he put it to the ultimate test. As the soldiers fractured his bones and tore his flesh, Daemon immediately channeled his internal mana, pushing it through the damaged somatic tissue to rapidly mend the worst of the trauma. The guards saw the blood, but they couldn't see the rapid, internal mending that kept him from collapsing. The continuous, agonizing process of being broken and simultaneously restored only deepened his endurance.
Daemon reached a deliberate pause in his recitation, his face bruised and covered in sweat, but his eyes strangely luminous. The soldiers, exhausted by their efforts, paused, waiting for the crack in his resolve.
Daemon looked directly at his tormentors, his lips cracked but his voice carrying an unnerving clarity.
"Do you know," he asked, his gaze settling briefly on the moisture condensing on the obsidian walls, "that the human body is seventy percent water?"
The interrogators exchanged confused glances. This commoner was speaking in riddles after enduring a brutal, sustained beating. Krell, the professional questioner, leaned forward to demand an explanation, but he was too slow.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, his concentration becoming razor-sharp. He didn't move a muscle, but he forcefully channeled his Water Affinity—an affinity he had rarely displayed in combat—to an extreme, specialized purpose. He targeted every source of non-bound liquid in the room: the blood splattered on the floor, the saliva hanging in the air from the guards' shouting, the condensation on the walls, and the high percentage of water in the guards' own bodies.
With a silent, furious exertion of will, Daemon forced the moisture to coalesce. It rapidly pulled together, forming a single, grotesque, fist-sized ball of bright red ice and coagulated blood that hung suspended in the air. The speed of the freezing and concentration was shocking.
Before the soldiers could react to the impossible, flying weapon, Daemon thrust his will forward. The compact, heavy projectile slammed into the head of the nearest Imperial Soldier with sickening force, knocking him instantly unconscious. The second soldier whirled around in shock, attempting to cast a defensive spell, but Daemon launched the icy weapon again, hitting the second soldier directly beneath the helm on the throat, crushing his windpipe and dropping him to the ground in a choked gasp.
Silence returned to the interrogation chamber, broken only by the rasping breath of the surviving soldier on the floor and the steady, heavy breathing of Daemon. He was battered, bleeding, and bruised, but utterly unbroken. He stood, retrieved the small, blood-stained ball of ice, and placed it calmly in his pocket.
The doors to the interrogation chamber were warded against unauthorized exit, but Daemon no longer planned to walk out the front. He moved swiftly, his mind already calculating the quickest route through the Academy's maintenance tunnels.
The escape had begun.