Chapter 357| Tomorrow... We Shatter The Convictions Of This Empire Right In Front Of Their Own Council.

Time inside the underground cell of The Iron Citadel was no longer measured by the sun.

Instead, it was measured by the condensation dripping from the steam pipes behind the steel walls.

Drip... drip... drip.

A freezing chill crept up from the floor, numbing their fingertips. This cramped room served only a single purpose: to slowly gnaw away at its occupants’ sanity.

Roland Sudrath sat leaning against the hard wooden bench. His eyes were closed, but his mind was racing.

As a diplomat, Roland had memorized the anatomy of psychological torture. The Iron Empire had no need to physically break them. Leaving the Northreach delegation to rot in absolute silence—without knowing whether they would survive the next hour—was more than enough.

Despair was a poison far deadlier than arsenic.

Roland opened one eye. Selene stood like a statue at the corner of the table, her usually gleaming sea-blue eyes now looking murky. The void-like air was choking the Arcanum Master.

Across from her, Rumina’s fingers constantly folded and unfolded the hem of her gray gown. A nervous tic. She was fighting tooth and nail to hold back a panic attack.

Just as Roland was about to break the deadlock, a rhythmic tapping echoed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Focus shifted. Rianor Sudrath was tapping his index finger against the iron table.

The eye bags on the genius architect were severely dark. Deprived of any mana intake, his frail body was forced to work twice as hard just to maintain his core temperature. Yet, behind the fogged lenses of his glasses, Rianor’s pair of gray eyes sharpened in horror.

Oxygen, Rianor thought coldly.

His brain calculated. Thirty-six square meters. Five people breathing at a stressed rhythm. The ventilation shaft above was indeed open, but the rotation of its exhaust fan... was slowing down.

"The oxygen levels are slowly being lowered," Rianor murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was raspy, purely analytical. "Around eighteen percent. In three hours, we will start hallucinating. Then... absolute compliance induced by cerebral fatigue."

Rianor looked up at the steel door. "This isn’t a waiting room. This is a preconditioning chamber. They want us half-brain-dead when they interrogate us."

Rumina swallowed hard. Her fear had now taken an empirical form.

But in the darkest corner, a giant shadow moved.

Riven Sudrath slowly stood up. The Grand General rolled his neck.

Crack.

His warrior instincts were screaming. Riven couldn’t care less about Rianor’s mathematical calculations. His ears, as sharp as a northern wolf’s, caught an anomaly outside the steel door.

The rhythm of footsteps.

Since being locked up, Riven had memorized the patrol rhythm outside. A hundred iron-booted soldiers stomping with a heavy clack, clack, clack. But this time was different.

The steps were light. Measured. High-quality leather shoes, flanked by a dozen synchronized footsteps. Not regular soldiers. Elite guards.

"Stand up," Riven ordered abruptly. His baritone was low, menacing. "Someone’s coming."

Everyone stood on reflex. Roland stepped to the center, straightening his diplomatic coat.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The three mechanical locks were forcefully turned. A hydraulic hiss echoed as the two-ton steel door was pulled open. The corridor light blinded their eyes.

It wasn’t General Volkov. It wasn’t Commander Varus.

The silhouette stepping inside was a young woman.

Tall and slender, she was clad in a dark gray, tailored Iron Empire uniform. Silver thread embroidery adorned her collar. A black wolf fur cloak was draped elegantly over her left shoulder—a sharp, biting irony.

Her jet-black hair framed a face as pale as porcelain. Symmetrically beautiful, yet it felt frozen. Lethal.

The most unsettling feature was her eyes. Icy gray eyes that stared at them as if dissecting frogs on a laboratory table. Four elite guards in black shirts stood at attention behind her, the muzzles of their rifles locked onto Riven’s chest.

The woman strode in with the elegance of a tyrant. Stopping exactly two paces in front of Roland.

"Seventeen point eight percent, to be exact, Lord Rianor," the woman suddenly spoke. Her voice was melodic, yet as cold as steel.

Her icy eyes glanced at Rianor for a moment. "Your analysis was nearly correct. But you missed the fact that pure carbon monoxide gas is being piped in micro-doses from the bottom vents. Just enough to make you all a little more... cooperative."

Rianor’s jaw clenched. The scientist had just been humiliated in his own arena of expertise.

The woman turned her gaze back to Roland. Her black leather-gloved hand raised, flipping the metal collar on Roland’s neck with the tip of her index finger. Arrogant.

"Prince Roland Sudrath. The silver tongue of the North," she whispered.

Roland didn’t brush her hand away. Instead, he plastered on his most flawless diplomatic smile.

"It is an honor, My Lady. Seeing the quality of your uniform and your access to the Iron Citadel... I assume I am not speaking to a mere messenger."

The woman retracted her hand. She tilted her head slightly.

"I am Anastasia Velthorne," she stated, every syllable falling with absolute precision. "Third Princess to Emperor Regulus. Head of the Iron Empire’s Intelligence Inquisition."

That name struck the floor like a sledgehammer. Velthorne. The flesh and blood of the absolute ruler.

On the outside, Roland remained perfectly calm. Inside his head, dozens of new scenarios were being rewired. This was it. The nerve center of the enemy.

"Princess Anastasia," Roland bowed his head. "We came bearing intentions to—"

"Stop wasting my time with cheap rhetoric, Roland," Anastasia cut in sharply.

She walked around the iron table, scanning every face.

"The fools at the port might believe you came here to negotiate. But I read the reports. A Grand General, a Genius Architect, and a Head Treasurer all on one ship? Without a full escort fleet?"

Anastasia stopped right behind Riven. The general tensed up, ready to kill if touched. But Anastasia merely whispered in his ear.

"This isn’t a delegation. This is a suicide mission."

She returned to the front, standing a mere inch away from Roland. The freezing chill radiating from her body nearly frosted his skin.

"You didn’t come for peace," Anastasia narrowed her eyes, piercing right through Roland’s soul. "You came to plant a time bomb. An information bomb. You brought a past you think can topple my father’s regime, didn’t you?"

The room choked on its breath.

Rumina held her breath. This woman... She guessed the absolute core of our strategy in less than five minutes!

Roland’s blood rushed violently. He had never faced an opponent who read his chessboard this terrifyingly fast.

In that case, I will use her ignorance as my weapon, Roland thought.

"Hah, an information bomb?" Roland chuckled softly. His laugh was crisp, completely unfeigned. "Princess Anastasia, if the Iron Empire is so fragile that it can be toppled by a mere story of the past... Tch, then perhaps this empire is already rotting from the inside."

Anastasia’s icy eyes flashed. "You are incredibly bold for a prisoner breathing my rationed air."

"I am merely being rational." Roland stared back without flinching. "You claim we brought a bomb from the past. The question is... do you yourself know the true history of your ancestors? About who actually betrayed Project Legion?"

Anastasia’s lips thinned.

For a fraction of a millisecond, Roland’s keen eyes caught it. There was a ripple of uncertainty behind that wall of ice.

Anastasia didn’t know everything. Regulus’s regime hid the truth from his own children to maintain their indoctrination of hatred.

Roland smiled triumphantly in his heart. Got you.

"We possess data that will make Emperor Regulus question his every command," Roland added, lowering his voice into a demonic whisper. "Take us to your father. Or... are you terrified of the reality you might hear, Anastasia?"

The room froze. The guards outside simultaneously cocked their weapons, reacting to Roland’s sheer audacity in addressing the princess without her title.

Yet, Anastasia did not explode in anger.

She stared at Roland for ten full seconds. Slowly, the corners of her pale lips pulled upward. Forming a truly horrifying smile. The smile of a butcher who had just found her favorite knife.

"Your brain is incredibly dangerous, Roland Sudrath," she whispered lethally.

She pivoted her body, stepping back toward the threshold. Her fur cloak fluttered softly.

"My father does not entertain beggars from the south," Anastasia stated without looking back. "But I will grant you one opportunity to prove those arrogant claims."

She glanced over her shoulder, looking at Rianor and Riven in turn.

"Tomorrow morning, you will be brought to the Hall of Iron Judgment. Before the entire council. Make us believe you. Or I will personally skin you alive, inch by inch, to upholster my office chair."

The woman strode away, vanishing down the corridor.

SLAM! The door was slammed shut. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! The locks once again trapped them in suffocating silence.

The air in the cell felt phenomenally heavier. Anastasia’s psychological terror settled into every steel corner.

Rianor wiped his cold sweat. Riven exhaled heavily, relaxing his muscles. Rumina finally allowed herself to slump weakly against the wall.

Selene slowly approached Rianor, who was sitting near the vent.

"You know the oxygen levels aren’t going to improve. Why are you still sitting over there?" Selene asked quietly.

Rianor turned to her briefly, then went back to staring at the vent above him. "Because the coldest air pools directly beneath the vent. I’m keeping my brain cool."

Selene smiled faintly, then sat down beside him. "You weirdo."

Rumina hugged her knees in the corner of the room. Her face was still pale, but something in her eyes began channeling a newfound strength.

I’m used to dealing with numbers, not toxic gas. But if I give up here... what was the point of me coming?

Her fingers clenched tightly over her gray gown.

On the other side, Riven still stood staring at the steel door. His face was as hard as stone. "That woman wasn’t afraid of me. That isn’t bravery. That is the habit of being surrounded by monsters."

Thorne, sitting near the table, nodded slowly. "She is indeed not an opponent who can be conquered with a sword."

In the center of the room, Roland still stood in the exact same position.

The diplomat rubbed his neck where Anastasia had touched him. Yet beneath his physical exhaustion, his pair of eyes radiated the blazing fire of ambition burning brightly.

She had taken the bait. The intellectual monster had just thrown the main gates wide open for them.

From behind the steel doors, rhythmic footsteps echoed, far more numerous than before.

Roland strained his ears. "They’re increasing the guards. That means information about tomorrow’s trial is beginning to spread."

Riven threw a brief glance. "Or they’re afraid we’ll try to escape tonight."

Roland smirked faintly. "Which means they fear us."

The two brothers looked at each other for a moment, before Riven leaned back against the wall once more.

"Prepare yourselves mentally," Roland whispered softly, a lethally thin smile now adorning his face. "Tomorrow... we shatter the convictions of this empire right in front of their own council."