About five minutes passed. The nobleman's body began to convulse violently, his eyes rolling back, white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably.
His limbs were like those of a puppet with its strings cut. Had Ang not used magic to steady his body, he would likely have already lost control of his bladder and bowels and fainted on the spot.
Considering how frail the man's soul was, Ang used a trace of Holy Light Magic alongside Soul Grasp, barely managing to preserve the integrity of that wisp of a soul.
The intertwined forces of black and white coiled around the man's body, like a purgatorial baptism of soul and flesh.
At last, Ang obtained fragmentary information from deep within the man's mind—his name was Carl, and he was the commander of a squad under Steven Brill. He had only recently been promoted to baron.
Disappointingly, however, his memories contained no useful clues about why the villagers had fallen unconscious.
Ang withdrew his hand and gave Carl a cold look. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the remaining five.
"Viscount, spare us!"
"I really don't know anything!"
"I'm just a runner! I don't even know magic!"
The five pleaded one after another, their voices filled with terror and despair, overlapping into a chaotic mess.
Ang swept his gaze over them indifferently, his eyes eventually settling on the man beside Carl.
The man had an ordinary face, a thin frame, and a pale complexion. When Ang approached, tears streamed down his face as he struggled violently in the metal chair.
"You..." Ang glanced at him, his brow slightly furrowing as a trace of irritation appeared on his face.
Thinking Ang had shown pity, the man's face flashed with relief. He was just about