The silence that followed the brutal, chaotic end to the physical interrogation was absolute. Daemon, battered and bruised but rapidly healing, stood over the two unconscious Imperial Soldiers, a single, blood-stained ball of ice still resting in his hand. He looked past the injured man on the floor, past the terrified questioner, Krell, and addressed the two most powerful men in the room: Chancellor Altdorf and Duke Steiner.
"The physical farce is over," Daemon announced, his voice tight but completely controlled, devoid of fear or anger. He tossed the crimson ice ball onto the stone desk where it melted into a small, insignificant puddle of water. "We can now negotiate like logical individuals."
He placed the blame squarely where it belonged. "Chancellor, you allowed yourself to be pulled into the Duke's personal vendetta, prioritizing brute force over intellectual gain. You were rash. I am a commoner, but my knowledge is the most valuable asset in this room, and you nearly destroyed it with blunt instruments."
Daemon quickly shifted the focus to the objects of their desire. "The Mythril-Tungsten alloy and the sustaining runes for my blade are revolutionary, even to me. That knowledge is my intellectual property, and I am willing to negotiate a price for its complete transfer. That price will also include substantial compensation for the physical pain and strategic inconvenience you have caused me."
As for the highly sought-after explosive, Daemon did not refuse outright. He pulled a piece of charred parchment from his pocket—a spare note he'd brought in—and scribbled down a basic ratio for the mixing of the explosive compounds. However, he deliberately skewed the proportions, sacrificing nearly all the pure explosive force to maximize the brightness and heat output. The result was a formula that would produce a massive flash-bang effect—perfect for terror and spectacle—but would be useless for leveling fortifications, denying Steiner his primary military goal.
"There is the formula for your bright light, Lord Constable," Daemon said, pushing the note forward. "But you have another, immediate problem: how to produce it."
Daemon's mind momentarily drifted, gazing upward at the reinforced ceiling. This world ruthlessly pursued magic and systematically discarded science. If these two disciplines had grown side-by-side, the complexity of this formula would be basic, and the materials easily synthesized. The failure is not mine; it is the Empire's lack of foresight.
He was abruptly pulled back from his philosophical reverie by Duke Steiner, whose face was purple with barely suppressed rage.
"You insolent peasant! Do you think a mere ratio is sufficient? You will teach us how to produce the materials required for this weapon, or you will regret the day you were born!" Steiner thundered, slamming his fist on the obsidian table.
Daemon merely mocked him with a slight tilt of his head. "I have better uses for my time than tutoring the Empire's backward science programs. However, I am a businessman. I can supply the materials required, in exchange for a suitable, ongoing fee."
Duke Steiner, his political power momentarily rendered impotent by Daemon's superior technical knowledge, could only glower. Realizing he could not simply bludgeon the formula out of the commoner, he swore under his breath and angrily stormed out of the chamber, his Imperial Knights following in rigid silence.
Daemon turned to the visibly frustrated Chancellor Altdorf. "Now that the distraction is gone, Chancellor, let us conclude this. My condition for the full transfer of the blade's structural secrets is resources. I require the authorization to immediately build a secured, specialized laboratory in the forested land surrounding the Academy. I need privacy and space for dangerous experimentation."
Altdorf, weary but recognizing the inevitable, steep price of revolutionary knowledge, looked at the bruised commoner. "Are you not angry about the torture, Daemon? You demand compensation, but show no rage."
Daemon looked mildly surprised by the question. "Anger is a volatile, stressful feeling, Chancellor. It consumes Aetheric energy and clouds rational judgment. It is inefficient. Negotiation is preferable."
Altdorf stared at the man whose mind was clearly structured on pure calculation. He had no choice. "The laboratory is yours. Choose your location, and the construction team will follow your specifications."
With the agreement sealed—the price of his freedom and his next major strategic asset paid—Daemon was promptly released. This new, secluded laboratory in the woods was the crucial first step toward building the Order's clandestine headquarters and his inevitable escape from the Empire's grasp.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Academy, the team—Jonas, Mikael, and Helga—were anxiously gathered, discussing the shocking events of the past few days: the poison trap, the dead guards, and Daemon's sudden, highly public summons by the Lord Constable himself.
Their tense discussion was abruptly interrupted. Camila von Brandt, the fiery redhead who was both arrogant and jealous, strode directly into their space, an expression of sneering superiority fixed on her face.
She stopped in front of Helga, directing her venom. "Well, well. Look at the little commoner whore who sold herself for a trinket. Your boyfriend—the commoner king—has finally been taken by the Imperial Constables. Did he tell them where you two were planning your pathetic little trysts before they locked him away?"
Camila's attempt at intimidation, however, met with a drastically different response than she anticipated. Helga, the previously timid girl who usually avoided all confrontation, looked at the noble, and then laughed—a loud, mocking, genuine peal of derision.
"You truly are a dumb cow, Camila," Helga retorted, her voice clear and cutting. "You are trapped by your vanity and your ridiculous noble delusions. You could never, ever understand what Daemon and I share."
Jonas and Mikael stared, dumbfounded. The once cowering commoner was openly antagonizing a noble in public. Helga's subtle reference to "what they share" was a direct, albeit veiled, assertion of the Order of the Archangel's secret bond and superiority.
Helga was not finished. She smoothly drew her Mythril-Tungsten Rapier, the dark, slender blade catching the light with a lethal shimmer. She pointed the needle-sharp tip directly at Camila, her Telekinesis humming softly beneath the gesture. "Now, leave. Or I will have the great pleasure of skewering a spoiled noble's leg and watching your pathetic Aether run out."
Camila had expected tears, cowering, and fear. She received cold, dangerous defiance. She stood frozen, realizing the small, quiet girl was genuinely threatening her with a lethal weapon. Not knowing any other line of action, Camila let out a furious huff of disbelief and stormed away, completely defeated.
The public courtyard was packed, and many commoners who had been watching the exchange now erupted in hushed, stunned whispers. Helga's display of newfound courage and absolute superiority over an arrogant noble would instantly become legendary among the commoner student body, signaling a new era of defiance and serving as a powerful, unspoken catalyst for the Order's future recruitment.