Belrand, the Black Prison.

The stench of rotten blood and the wretched wails of grief echoed endlessly through this deep and terrifying place of darkness. It was as if Death itself wandered just beyond the cells, waiting patiently for the moment it could reap the souls of the dead.

Dennis slowly regained consciousness.

The first sensations to strike were dryness and a tearing pain in his eyes. His vision remained blurred for a long while before it barely adjusted to the brightness, which was wholly unsuited to a place like this.

But that brightness was not some merciful gift. It was a form of torture designed specifically for the mind, because beneath the glaring magic stone shining before him, Dennis’s eyelids had already been completely cut away. He had no choice but to stare directly into that burning light.

The brilliance scorched his eyeballs with a faint sizzling sound, but to Dennis, that torment was nothing more than the appetizer served before the full banquet.

"Ah! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!"

In the next cell over, Dennis’s "neighbor" of less than a day was crying out shrilly. Dennis remembered that at the beginning, the man had been unbelievably arrogant, sneering that even if his arms and legs were chopped off he would not so much as blink. But now he was clutching a prison guard’s leg and begging for mercy like a dying dog, sobbing more pitifully than the frailest woman.

The sheer horror of it made Dennis’s wounds throb again. His gaze shifted downward with difficulty, toward his own body.

A full one hundred and forty-eight enchanted steel nails had been driven into every movable joint in his body. Heavy anti-magic shackles tightly bound his wrists, ankles, and even his neck. Blood streamed constantly from him. The flesh on the front of his body had already been carved away by skillful hands, and through the white gleam of his ribs, his beating heart could be seen clearly.

These were injuries so horrific that an ordinary person would have died ten times over. But Dennis’s powerful fifth-rank body was still sustaining him, preventing him from falling into Death’s embrace before he had received the entirety of this "delicious full-course meal."

And yet that very toughness was, for Dennis, another part of the torture.

"Well? Still not going to talk?"

The one personally serving Dennis this delicious meal was a pale man with a dark, sunless face. He looked as if he had not seen sunlight in ten years. The rotten aura clinging to him made him seem less like a living man and more like a corpse freshly dug from a grave.

As a senior figure in the Salvation Society, an organization branded as a terrorist group, Dennis naturally knew who he was.

The warden of the Black Prison. The "Kind" Butcher, Bray.

He had not earned that bizarre title because he was truly kind. It was because, to this day, the number of prisoners who had died at his hands was exactly zero.

That was right. He had never personally killed a prisoner, nor had he ever personally executed one. And yet his name alone was enough to make anyone brought into the Black Prison tremble. Information about him had long since spread among every organization hostile to the Empire, and he was widely regarded as an extremely dangerous figure—someone whose hands you must never fall into, even if the alternative was death.

Dennis’s nearly dissected body, and the heart still pounding powerfully in his open chest, were the clearest proof possible.

"Mr. Dennis, all I want is a little information about the Salvation Society. It’s hardly a major matter, so why keep forcing yourself to endure?"

Bray bent down. His pale, icy fingertips were pressing directly against Dennis’s heart, yet his tone was as gentle as that of a friend exchanging pleasantries.

"Or is there perhaps some unspeakable difficulty preventing you from opening up?"

"...khh..."

Dennis’s cheeks twitched with pain. His dry, split lips writhed, and only after a long while did a few words finally force themselves out of his throat.

"N-no... can’t... I can’t say..."

"Can’t?"

Bray tilted his head in mild surprise.

"Do you not want to speak, or are you unable to speak for some other reason?"

"Can’t... I can’t..."

"Ah, I see. As expected of the Salvation Society. So they really did place some kind of restrictive curse on you in advance?"

Bray smiled faintly, but he did not seem troubled by the answer.

"Please don’t worry, Mr. Dennis. I’m a professional. How many people like you do you think I’ve handled by now? It’s only a curse mark. Give me enough time, and even something like that can be removed completely."

"Khh... no... no..."

Clear terror appeared in Dennis’s eyes. Having already gone through one round of torment, he now understood very well what methods this kind butcher possessed.

But when had lambs waiting for slaughter ever been allowed to decide the course of their own fate?

"Don’t worry, dear Mr. Dennis. I’ll dig that curse mark out of your very marrow, little by little. Of course, the process may be somewhat unpleasant."

Bray put his bloodstained rubber gloves back on, and a full set of delicate tools had already been prepared. He looked as though he were about to perform some intricate surgery... except this operation was not meant to heal the sick or save the dying. It was meant to inflict the greatest possible suffering on the criminal before him.

"All right, then. Let’s begin... hm? What’s this?"

Bray had been practically eager to begin. After handling a large batch of nobles during the upheaval in the royal capital a few months ago, he had not had the chance in a long time to savor the dismemberment of someone this strong.

But before he could begin the second round, a prison guard hurried over to the cell and leaned in to whisper something in Bray’s ear.

"I see..."

Bray froze for a moment, then let out a regretful sigh. After hesitating briefly, he could only look helplessly at Dennis.

"Mr. Dennis, your luck is quite good. It seems I won’t be able to stay and enjoy myself with you personally any longer."

"Huh?"

Dennis swallowed with difficulty. Once his sluggish mind, dulled by agony, processed Bray’s meaning, a flicker of joy surfaced despite everything.

"Y-you’re letting me go?"

"I’m afraid not. As the warden here, I cannot possibly let any utterly wicked criminal walk free. It’s simply that in your case... it seems that person is unwilling to spend any more time on you. He’s run out of patience."

"That... person?"

"You’ve already guessed who, haven’t you?" Bray said with a smile.

"That one whose single sentence was enough to have you chased around like a dog... the emperor of this city’s dark side."

"..."

Dennis’s pupils contracted violently.

"Savor this time well. For a stray dog like you, being granted an audience with the 'emperor' is the highest honor... ah, dear me, as a civil servant drawing a state salary, perhaps I shouldn’t say such things. Her Majesty the Empress won’t have my head for it, I hope."

After leaving behind that final piece of advice, Bray swiftly gathered his things and turned to leave the cell.

In an instant, everything around them seemed to fall silent. The mad murmurs that had echoed from the depths of the Black Prison for who knew how long, and even the agonized shrieks of the neighbor next door that had just moments ago filled the prison, all vanished completely along with Bray’s departure.

It was as if everything here were holding its breath, waiting for that "emperor" to arrive.

Dennis unconsciously did the same. His exposed heart contracted hard, and the suffocating stillness pressed down on him with immense force. He had not even seen the person yet, but the flesh on his body that still retained some sensation had already begun trembling in fear.

That "emperor"—that "Dark Emperor" who had frustrated him again and again, that hidden ruler of Belrand’s underworld, that unseen master who could manipulate the city with a single word—was finally about to appear?

What kind of person was he? Some ancient monster rotting away in the shadows beneath the city? Some great figure standing at the pinnacle of imperial power? Or perhaps, if one dared guess even more boldly, the dark twin of the nation’s own sovereign power itself?

Dennis kept speculating, and the more he speculated, the more terrifying the other party seemed.

Creak—

Whether ten seconds passed, or a full hour—even Dennis no longer knew how much time had gone by, he had been focusing too intently—until at last, the iron door to the cell opened again.

A handsome young man with blond hair walked in slowly. Calm and at ease, he sat down in the chair that had already been prepared for him in front of Dennis.

"...Huh?"

Seeing that young, handsome face—so utterly unlike anything he had imagined—Dennis stared in a daze for a long while before another uncertain sound forced its way out of his throat.

"Muen Campbell? Y-you’re the Dark Emperor?"

"What? Is something wrong with that?"

Muen interlaced his fingers and asked with a smile,

"Or are you saying that, despite making me your target, you people still didn’t even know what I looked like?"

"Of course I know! I’ve seen your portrait—I even saw you from a distance with my own eyes! But... you? How could it be you? How could you possibly be the Dark Emperor?"

Dennis, who should have had barely enough strength left to speak after everything he had just suffered, now shrieked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"Muen Campbell! You’re just a young lion that hasn’t finished growing yet! Just another ordinary genius, the kind the continent has never lacked! How could you be the Dark Emperor? How could you be the hidden ruler of Belrand’s entire underworld? Why would those brazen gangsters and street killers obey some yellow-haired brat like you?"

Dennis was rejecting it. He had to reject it.

They had investigated everything about Muen Campbell long ago. He was the Empress’s fiancé—but she had only recently ascended the throne. He was the son of a duke and possessed the remarkable talent of House Campbell—but less than two years ago, he had still been nothing more than a useless playboy who had spent an entire year learning even a simple illumination spell.

They had come here full of confidence and hope, laying out what they believed to be a nearly perfect plan. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

Dennis could accept that his plan had failed because of an unexpected variable—say, the intervention of some major hidden figure like the Dark Emperor.

But if from the very beginning, their target had possessed an entirely different identity in those unseen corners of the world, one completely at odds with the intelligence they had gathered...

then would that not mean all the confidence, all the calculations they had relied on before this... had been laughable from the start?

Like clowns dancing inside a beast’s territory.

"I know you’ve got plenty of questions, and that you find what’s happening hard to believe. But that can’t be helped. Most of what I’ve done up to now has taken place in all sorts of strange little dark corners."

A nearly deserted fishing village. A transformed Lower District. An isolated lost land. Even Gutongs Castle, deep in demonfolk territory, where there had not been a single audience to witness anything. Muen himself found it rather frustrating how little screen time he seemed to get. He had worked this hard, yet his reputation still might not be as great as Aurier’s, now that the Kingdom prince was making such a dazzling display on the Empire’s front lines. It was not even easy for him to show off properly these days.

"So forget you—even my old man got a scare. A few months ago, his understanding of me was still stuck at the fact that I scored an eighty on my magic theory exam."

"..."

Dennis’s lips moved constantly, as if he wanted to say something, yet nothing came out. He looked ridiculous, like a half-dead fish flopping on land.

"All right, let’s skip the small talk. Time’s short, so let’s get straight to the point."

Muen shifted into a more relaxed posture, a warm smile appearing on his face—one gentle enough to sweep countless girls off their feet.

"Because of a certain rotten little loli, I’m currently very troubled over a certain matter involving your Salvation Society. Could you help me out, Mr. Dennis?"

"...I can!"

Dennis snapped out of his shock with a violent jolt and nodded frantically.

"I can! I’ll tell you anything! Anything I know, I’ll tell you all of {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} it! Just don’t let that Bray come torture me again and I’ll tell you everything!"

Whether Muen Campbell was truly the Dark Emperor or not, his priority now was surviving. Only if he survived would he have the chance to start over.

"Oh?"

Muen looked genuinely surprised.

"You folded that fast? I thought you’d hold out a little longer."

"Heh... there’s no need. I only joined the Salvation Society to fulfill my wish of protecting cats. Truth be told, I don’t care about any so-called new world at all."

Dennis spoke urgently, forcing out a smile of his own.

"As some old hag once said, they don’t even give you an egg—why sell your life for them? Not worth it."

"You’re taking this pretty well. Though this wish of yours about protecting cats..." Muen asked curiously, "according to the intelligence I’ve received, does that refer to turning cats into puppets you could control, to the point that in the previous battle, well over a hundred cats were injured to varying degrees or killed outright?"

"..."

Dennis shut his mouth at once.

"Heh. Mr. Dennis is clearly a man of great compassion."

Muen shifted again, this time looking even gentler, even more approachable.

"Still, even though you’ve promised to tell me everything, what about the curse mark on you? I saw a blood curse with the same effect in the Abyss before. It seems to be the sort of vicious thing that would kill you with backlash the moment you revealed any core secrets."

"That can be removed!"

Dennis said it immediately.

"I’ll cooperate with everything I’ve got. With the Empire’s methods, as long as there’s enough time—even if it takes a while—they’ll definitely be able to remove it! Of course... just not with that butcher doing it."

"I see..."

Muen stroked his chin.

"So with only a little time, you’d be able to hand over all the information you have. That does sound promising."

"Right? I’m very obedient!"

Dennis laughed awkwardly.

"I’ll definitely satisfy you, Young Master Muen!"

"Satisfy me?"

"Satisfy you! Completely satisfy you!" If his hands had not been shackled, Dennis would probably have been giving him a thumbs-up.

"Sat... is... fy me?"

But Muen was still turning those two words over in his mouth.

"W-what’s wrong?"

The blond young man in front of him had not visibly changed, nor had he made any additional movement, yet Dennis suddenly felt uneasy.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No. You didn’t say anything wrong. You said it very well. There’s not the slightest flaw in what you said."

Muen clapped his hands lightly.

"It’s just, about this business of satisfaction... you people burned my house, hurt my girls, and dragged all of Belrand into chaos along with it. And in the end, all you’re offering me is some trivial information...

What gives you the idea that I’d be satisfied with that?"

Muen tilted his head, and all at once the smile left his face. He stared at Dennis with absolute seriousness.

"Do I look that easy to talk to?"

"W-wait!"

Dennis finally realized something was very wrong.

"I can apologize for those things! Those were orders from above, I was only—"

"Mr. Dennis."

Muen cut him off directly, giving him no chance to continue.

"I don’t know how to interrogate people. I don’t have Mr. Bray’s skill at stripping curse marks away. And I certainly don’t have the patience to negotiate terms with you until I find them satisfying. Because of that damned Third Seat’s attack, my—"

He paused, the words turning hard and cold.

"—she is still unconscious right now. I’m in a very bad mood. A very bad mood."

Bad enough that he wanted to kill someone.

Muen rose to his feet.

In an instant, the aura he had hidden so well began spilling from his body. Dennis’s heart clenched violently, and he started shaking, because that aura was even more terrifying than the butcher’s had been.

This was no young lion.

No pampered playboy carrying nothing but the empty title of genius.

He was not nearly as gentle or calm as he looked.

This was a monster that had walked out step by step from mountains of corpses, seas of blood, and endless life-and-death crises.

And right now, that monster was furious.

Truly furious.

From the very beginning, he had never intended to let Dennis live.

"So do you understand now, Mr. Dennis? I’m not here to pursue the process. I’m here to obtain the answer directly."

"Muen Campbell, you—" Dennis roared.

But it was only a roar.

The next moment, Muen raised a hand and pressed his palm over Dennis’s face.

And Dennis’s roar—together with the tiny scrap of strength he had somehow gathered without realizing it—was swallowed completely.

Swallowed by the endless darkness flowing in Muen’s palm.