Chapter 360| I Am Merely A Diplomat... Who Knows Precisely How To Make A Killer Hesitate Before Pulling The Trigger.

The footsteps outside the underground detention cell no longer formed a predictable patrol rhythm.

​The sound grew dense.

​Dozens of steel-clad boots halted in unison at key choke points, sealing off every avenue of escape and movement.

​From behind the steel-plated walls trapping them, mechanical creaks and the continuous cocking of steam rifles echoed in rapid succession, rattling like the teeth of a meat grinder.

​CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!

​Inside the stuffy cell, illuminated by a single dim steam bulb, everyone had already risen from their positions.

​Roland Sudrath stood at the absolute front, facing the steel door dead-on.

​His dark blue diplomatic coat draped neatly over his frame. His hands hung loosely at his sides, relaxed yet ready.

​His gray eyes stared unblinkingly toward the source of the noise.

​"Hmm... that door is going to open any second," Roland whispered softly, without turning his head even a fraction. "They have no intention of waiting for the council’s trial order tomorrow morning."

​The diplomat’s mind read the movement pattern flawlessly.

​The old faction wanted a clean, swift death devoid of bureaucratic red tape.

​A blind midnight execution was their only way to silence the truth without having to face it in court.

​"Don’t panic. And don’t fight back just yet," Roland instructed, his voice as cold as ice.

​Premature resistance would only hand them a legitimate pretext to pull their triggers immediately.

​On the left side of the door, Riven took his position.

​The Grand General’s colossal frame successfully masked half the corner wall.

​He had stripped off his black Wolf cloak earlier, tossing it casually over the iron table.

​The sleeves of his black military shirt were rolled up to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms tensed hard beneath the yellowish steam lighting.

​"Let them open the door first," Riven replied in a lethally quiet tone.

​"Once they step inside, the gap of this door is extremely narrow. At most, only three people can pass through the threshold simultaneously."

​Riven’s gray eyes locked onto the giant steel hinges before him.

​His brain automatically calculated attack angles, enemy blind spots, and slamming momentum.

​"Speaking from experience, General?" Captain Thorne asked softly.

​The veteran infantry officer rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles, then dropped into a low stance directly in Riven’s shadow, preparing for unarmed close-quarters combat.

​"You remember Northveil. We held the south gate for eight full hours against thousands of surging cyborgs," Riven answered flatly, his eyes never straying from the door.

​"Tonight’s situation still qualifies as a small party."

​Thorne gave a slow nod, absorbing his commander’s absolute composure.

​Beneath the ventilation slit, Rianor remained seated.

​However, the architect’s right hand now lightly pressed the plate of the Arcanotech Bracer on his left arm.

​Whirrr...

​Instantly, the blue glow of the Adamantite circuits on the device went completely dark.

​No more light. No more flickering data.

​There was only an extraordinarily faint hum of vibration, pulsing covertly like a second heart playing dead.

​Rianor ensured not a single trace of foreign energy could be visually detected by the enemy.

​"Wait, are you sure you can’t use the device’s circuits to hack and force this door open?" whispered Rumina, who stood hiding beside him.

​Rianor gave a slow shake of his head, adjusting his slightly slipping glasses.

​"Tch, this door’s locking mechanism is purely mechanical, Rumina. Not electrical circuits or magic."

​Rianor let out a faint sigh. "If I force it open with a kinetic energy blast, it will only draw their attention faster and hand them an excuse to shoot right through the door."

​"So we can only sit quietly and wait here?" Rumina grumbled through pale lips.

​"Precisely. We play the part of rats for the time being." Rianor glided a side-glance at his sister from behind his thin lenses. "But remember... a cornered rat always bites."

​Rumina let out a soft snort, holding back her anxiety.

​Her dark gray business dress rustled softly as she slipped backward, pressing into the darkest corner of the room.

​Her right hand tightly clutched a jagged piece of wood—a broken leg of a bench secretly snapped by Riven hours ago.

​On the other side of the room, Selene stood tall with untouched elegance.

​Her silver hair fell freely down her back. The sea-blue robes of her Water Arcanum fluttered softly in response to the gust of foul air from the vent.

​The Arcanum Master possessed absolutely no access to her magic source in this mana-void room, yet her body still radiated the absolute composure typical of an elite Luminara combatant.

​Selene stared at Roland’s back. "They’re bringing a lot of firepower, Roland."

​"I know," Roland smirked faintly, hidden from the guards outside. "But I also know for a fact... they won’t dare shoot the moment the door swings open."

​"And you’re so certain someone will stop them?"

​"Hah, if no one stops them, it means I’ve made a massive miscalculation reading the political layout of the Iron Empire tonight. And a man like me rarely misreads," Roland turned his head, flashing Selene a quick wink.

​"But pray anyway. Who knows, maybe the Goddess of Luminara will bother to turn her head and listen to prayers this far out."

​Selene’s pale lips lifted slightly, forming something that nearly resembled a smile.

​A second later, the sound they had been anticipating all along finally arrived.

​CLANG! CRACK! CRACK!

​Three layers of mechanical cylinder locks outside were forcefully turned in sequence.

​The ten-centimeter-thick steel door swung open with an ear-splitting screech of its hinges.

​Bright yellow light from the corridor lamps burst inside mercilessly, blinding the delegation within.

​The silhouettes of six soldiers framed the doorway.

​They did not wear the dark gray uniforms of the empire’s regular army. Their uniforms were a dusty combination of black and blood red.

​A crest of the old faction was pinned arrogantly to their left chests.

​Their steam rifles were fully cocked, their black metal muzzles pointing straight ahead, sweeping every corner of the cell.

​A middle-aged man stepped forward, cutting through his ranks.

​His face was rugged and lined with age. A small dot-shaped burn scar adorned his forehead.

​On his uniform chest, a diagonal red stripe signaled his status as a field officer of the old faction.

​His right hand gripped a short-barreled steam pistol that vented a hiss of hot steam. His index finger was already pressed tight against the trigger.

​"Southern prisoners!" the officer barked loudly, shattering the underground cell’s silence with his raspy voice. "Tonight, you are all sentenced to death by execution under the direct orders of the High Council!"

​Instead of trembling in fear or begging for mercy, Roland didn’t budge from his position in the slightest.

​The diplomat’s thin smirk actually broadened.

​"Hah, under orders from the High Council?" Roland repeated with crystal-clear articulation, loud enough for his voice to echo straight down the outer corridor packed with soldiers.

​"If that’s truly the case, show us the official seal. Tch, where are the execution papers, Commander?"

​The old faction officer furrowed his brow. "There’s no need for documents! This order comes directly from Lord Marcus!"

​"Wait, Lord Marcus?" Roland exploded into a soft, condescending chuckle. A crisp laugh that sounded extraordinarily bizarre in that chamber of death.

​Roland folded both hands behind his back.

​"So it’s not an order from the High Council. Not a decree from the Emperor. Nor a directive from the Strategy General."

​Roland shook his head slowly. "You, a squad of soldiers, sneak in in the dead of night on behalf of a low-tier old faction noble... purely to execute an international delegation in a locked cell?"

​The steam pistol in the officer’s grip shook violently. Rage boiled his blood.

​"Shut your mouth, Southern scum!" he roared in fury.

​"Fascinating," Roland actually took a slow step forward, deliberately closing the distance to the tip of that pistol barrel.

​"I just want to confirm one simple fact, Commander," Roland continued in an intoxicating whisper.

​"So that later... when our filthy blood coats this steel floor, you won’t make a mistake writing your accountability report."

​Roland narrowed his eyes. "Because any killer... ought to know the exact name of the target he murders, right? So they know where the continent’s vengeance will strike."

​THUD!

​The muzzle of the burning steam pistol was shoved, pressing dead center against Roland’s forehead.

​The heat radiating from the metal barrel nearly scorched the prince’s forehead.

​Instantly, the air in the cell felt as if it had been vacuumed out.

​Riven clenched his jaw, his leg muscles poised to spring forward and cave in the officer’s chest in a split second.

​Yet Roland remained standing tall like a marble pillar.

​He didn’t close his eyes in the slightest. Not a single drop of cold sweat trickled from his temples.

​He didn’t even stop smirking, staring dead into the officer’s pupils, which were beginning to flood with doubt.

​"By the machine ancestors, you really are completely insane," the old faction officer hissed. His breathing was ragged, yet his index finger held back.

​He was hesitating. The unnatural composure of the man before him permanently crippled his nerve.

​"No," Roland whispered, leaning his head slightly forward. "I am merely a diplomat... who knows precisely how to make a killer hesitate before pulling the trigger."

​For the first time that night, the red-and-black-uniformed old faction soldiers in the corridor exchanged hesitant glances.

​Roland’s psychological bluff succeeded magnificently in buying crucial time.

​And that fleeting tension... was finally shattered by the sound of metal tapping from the outer corridor.

​TAP. TAP. TAP.

​The sound was very quiet. Rhythmic. Yet its pace carried a vastly thicker aura of intimidation.

​Every head in the corridor turned simultaneously toward the source of the noise.

​A tall, gaunt man stepped out calmly from behind the bend in the hallway.

​His long gray coat billowed gently, sweeping the dust off the floor. His right hand held a metal measuring stick.

​The tapping sound originated purely from the tip of his stick touching the steel floor in rhythm.

​General Volkov.

​The old man walked with a chilling, absolute tranquility.

​Behind him, six elite inquisition guards clad in pitch-black marched in neat formation.

​Even before he arrived at the cell door, his flat voice sliced through the corridor.

​"Commander. Lower your weapon."

​The old faction officer holding his weapon to Roland’s forehead froze rigid. The muscles in his neck strained hard.

​"General Volkov!" the officer protested in a forced, high pitch. "This is our affair! The old faction has every right to—"

​"Lower. Your weapon."

​There was no barking shout in Volkov’s sentence. No explosive burst of anger.

​Yet somehow, his baritone, as flat as a sheet of ice, sounded a hundred times more threatening than the muzzle of a cannon.

​The old faction officer hissed in frustration. His jaw ground as he swallowed his embarrassment.

​With a trembling hand, he slowly pulled back his steam pistol and lowered it to his side.

​Volkov halted his steps right before the cell’s threshold.

​His old gray eyes swept over the cell’s interior, evaluating Riven’s lethal combat stance in the corner, before finally coming to rest on Roland’s face.

​"Southern prisoners," Volkov addressed flatly, as if Roland were meaningless dust. "Move aside."

​Roland slowly raised both hands with open palms in total mock surrender, taking one step back from the door.

​Then, Volkov turned his head slowly, looking at the old faction officer beside him.

​"I will ask you only once," Volkov said coldly. "Where is the execution order officially stamped by the High Council?"

​"We... we received direct verbal instructions from Lord Marcus—"

​"Lord Marcus is by no means a representative of the High Council. He is merely a logistics noble from the northern district." Volkov tapped his metal stick once against the floor.

​CLINK.

​"So," Volkov continued without blinking, "you just barged in and attempted to slaughter a line of strategic imperial prisoners without a single official document."

​Volkov narrowed his eyes. "Constitutionally... that is a second-degree violation of military law."

​The blood was instantly drained from the old faction officer’s face. Deathly pale.

​He looked at his own troops with undisguised panic.

​"B-But, General..."

​"You still wish to argue with me?"

​"Lord Marcus will definitely hear about this insult!" the officer threatened desperately.

​"By all means, report to him," Volkov stared straight through the officer’s soul.

​"I will also report this breach directly to Emperor Regulus’s desk. Let us place a wager and see together... whose neck arrives at the gallows first tomorrow."

​Silence. Absolute quiet.

​The old faction soldiers who had arrived carrying a killer’s aura now lowered their weapons. They no longer knew where to point their rifle barrels.

​The officer swallowed hard.

​Realizing he had utterly lost this power struggle, he spun around roughly and signaled his troops to fall back.

​"We won’t forget this, Volkov," the officer growled venomously as he marched past the General.

​"I strongly hope you remember it well," Volkov replied with his back turned, not bothering to look at him.

​The stomping footsteps of the black-and-red-uniformed troops finally faded into the distance and vanished at the end of the corridor.

​The space returned once more under the absolute watch of the pitch-black-clad elite inquisition guards.

​Volkov turned back toward Roland inside the cell.

​"You are no longer safe in this lower detention block," Volkov said.

​"Tch, only realizing that now, General?" Roland chimed in with an excessively light tone, deliberately baiting him.

​"You will be relocated to a holding cell on the middle floor of this facility." Volkov turned on his heel.

​"Step out of the cell. Follow me. And do not perform a single foolish act that makes me regret not letting them shoot you earlier."

​The Northreach delegation moved swiftly to close their formation and were escorted out of the cell.

​All along the long corridor they traversed, the black-clad elite guards formed a living fence barricade. They isolated the delegation from the eyes of regular soldiers.

​Selene walked beside Roland, glancing toward Volkov’s leading back ahead.

​"He deliberately came to protect us, Roland," Selene whispered softly.

​"No, Selene," Roland replied, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead. "He came purely to protect his military procedures. Not us."

​"Of course."

​Far above them, on a circular steel balcony on the upper level of The Iron Citadel.

​Anastasia Velthorne stood staring down.

​The Third Princess’s hand tightly gripped the balcony’s decorative railing as she watched the procession of the delegation being transferred by Volkov through the main hall.

​Her black wolf fur cloak fluttered gently in response to the steam draft from below.

​In her left hand, Anastasia clutched a red leather folder stamped with the imperial crest.

​It was the archive from the Restricted Wing freshly delivered by her guard.

​The princess had not yet read every page of those dusty documents.

​However, her eyes had accidentally caught a single line of thick black ink on the front page, and that single line was more than enough to violently shatter her lifelong convictions:

​"Project Legion — Resurrection Protocol. Status: PERMANENTLY SILENCED."

​Anastasia closed the red leather folder with a trembling hand, then clutched it tightly against her chest.

​She looked back down, staring at the party from the south continuing their march.

​"You..." Anastasia whispered in the silence of the balcony, "...you truly exist."

​The shadows of the past that her ancestors had forcibly buried for thousands of years had now risen again and were breathing inside her fortress.

​The procession finally arrived at a new corridor.

​The holding cell on this middle floor was vastly smaller than the previous cell, yet its condition was a stark contrast.

​The floor was much cleaner. Its ventilation windows were far more adequate, allowing for better air circulation. The lighting was more than sufficient.

​Though its walls remained thick steel, the temperature inside felt warmer due to its proximity to the central steam piping.

​"You will reside in this room until the continuation trial is held," Volkov said, standing in the doorway.

​The old general’s eyes met theirs one by one with a flat gaze.

​"And I warn you all... endeavor to stay alive. Tonight, far too many factions in the palace want your heads severed."

​Roland stood in the center of the room, returning the gaze. "And what do you want yourself, General Volkov?"

​Volkov’s turning step halted. The old man paused. He glanced slightly over his shoulder.

​"I don’t know for certain," Volkov answered, his voice sounding like a weary confession. "And I reckon... that is precisely the core issue right now."

​SLAM!

​The steel door was once again sealed shut from the outside.

​The Northreach delegation was locked up once more as prisoners.

​Yet this time, instead of responding with tension, Roland carved a smile across his tired face.

​The diplomat walked over and leaned relaxedly against the steel wall.

​"General Volkov is by no means our ally," Roland said softly, crossing his arms. "But tonight, he proved that he is no longer our absolute enemy, either."

​Riven snorted in agreement, unrolling his shirt sleeves.

​"He’s too busy figuring out what truly happened with his empire’s history. A man searching for the truth like that... is very easy to guide."

​Rianor walked toward the corner of the room, tapping the steel wall a few times with his knuckles to gauge its thickness.

​"As long as he’s occupied uncovering the truth of the palace archives... we will be the ones exploiting the time he bought us tonight."

​Roland turned to Selene.

​"Volkov saved military procedure tonight. But in the process, he has unwittingly begun to doubt every single doctrine he spent his life fiercely defending."

​"That is the starting point of a monumental shift," Selene murmured optimistically.

​"Or..." Roland looked back at the steel door trapping them. "...the starting point of a vastly bloodier civil war."

​Outside, the sky of the Iron Empire was still coiled in thick gray clouds and heavy soot.

​Yet inside that middle-floor steel cell, one crucial piece had shifted position.

​For the first time since setting foot on enemy soil, the Northreach delegation no longer felt alone facing the dark.