A Wonderful Night in the Dungeon

Late at night.

Twin Towers City, Garrison Corps dungeon.

Raul slumped dejectedly in a corner. The Garrison Corps had no use for civilized manners—no matter what kind of criminal came in, they got beaten first.

Things had been a little different for him, though. After several soldiers entered, they first had him sign a few photographs before beating him.

Business was business.

They had even put some extra hatred into the beating, not because of the despicable charges pinned on him, but seemingly because he had received far more attention than he deserved.

The soldiers cursed as they hit him.

"So you're handsome, huh? You played Magic Shadow, huh? Think you're something special, huh?"

"'Ah! Raul is so handsome! Ah! I want to marry him!' How about now?"

Things like that.

Raul felt wronged too. Was that his fault? He was the one being harassed by crazed fans. He was the victim, all right?

As for the so-called victimized girl, she did not really care. The noble lords played far dirtier games than this.

There was nothing in the cell except a chamber pot, and naturally no bed. He could only lie on the cold stone floor and groan in pain.

The chamber pot, passed through who knew how many hands, gave off a rancid stench that assaulted his already exhausted nerves and kept him awake.

Outside the cell, an irritating reporter kept casting recording magic.

"Smile, big star. How does prison feel? If you ever get out, you should definitely make a Magic Shadow about dungeon life. After all, your acting style is all about that thing called... immersion, right? Yes, immersion."

Compared to this reporter, Raul would rather face those noble ladies drenched in half a pound of perfume.

Suddenly, every torch in the dungeon went out. Heavy footsteps came from afar, along with the scraping of metal across the ground.

The seasoned prisoners who spent their lives in cells knew someone was about to have a bad time. They even started taking bets on how many seconds it would take the unlucky fellow to start begging.

This hellish wager even came with a bizarre touch of humanitarian concern.

If that unlucky fellow truly had backbone and did not make a sound from beginning to end, all the stakes would go to him.

A blinding illumination spell flashed on, startling the reporter.

Under the light, he could not make out the newcomers clearly. He could only tell from their outlines that they were two powerful figures.

The reporter instinctively tried to flee, but the cells were behind him. With nowhere to retreat, he slammed into the iron bars, making the rusted metal squeal.

He was lifted like a chick and pinned against the cell door.

"I ask. You answer."

The reporter hurriedly nodded.

"Did you write the report about Raul?"

"Yes."

"Was it fabricated?"

"How could it be? My reports have always guaranteed authenticity," the reporter stammered in self-defense. "The girl told me everything herself. Every word was true..."

"Shh. You're saying too much. Just answer yes or no, understand?"

"Under..." The reporter swallowed the rest of the word and changed it to, "Yes."

"Very good. Now let's play a little game."

The other figure pulled out an enormous iron tool.

"Do you know what this is? It's a very, very large pair of pliers. It can easily crush fragile flesh. Right now, it's clamped around your vital area. If you lie next, that little thing of yours will be crushed, stuffed into your mouth, photographed, and shown to countless people. I call this game Ultimate Humiliation. Doesn't that sound fun?"

The reporter's already pale face turned completely bloodless. He could only mechanically answer yes.

"One more time. Was your report fabricated?"

"No."

"Think carefully. Are you really sure it wasn't? It's starting to squeeze now."

"I took money!" The reporter finally broke. Tears and snot streamed down his face as he felt that icy touch. "Someone brought that girl to me and told me to write that kind of report. There was money too, boohoo..."

"Where is the girl?"

"At the newspaper office."

"Who was that person?"

"I don't know. I really don't know. In this line of work, we never ask identities. The less you ask, the safer you are. I've told you everything I know."

The reporter's voice was hoarse, and his sobs had become dry wails.

"What a shame. Smile, we're taking a picture."

"No—"

A brief silence followed.

"He fainted."

"That won't do. We haven't finished the procedure yet."

The illumination spell dimmed, revealing the two figures to be beastmen: Battleaxe and a priest.

"Boss! You need to come take a look!" Battleaxe roared toward the dungeon exit.

"You can't even handle something this simple." Drogo had wrapped several layers of perfume-soaked cloth around his nose and reluctantly descended into the dungeon.

That was the downside of an overly sensitive sense of smell. The stench here was simply overwhelming.

When they reached Raul's cell, the reporter had already lost control of his bladder and bowels. But it did not matter; a little more filth would not change anything in there.

"What did you get out of him?"

The priest briefly repeated the confession.

"Was he telling the truth?"

"He was," the priest answered.

That was why they had to go through the procedure. The more completely someone's mental state collapsed, the more accurate a truth spell became. Otherwise, some professionals could deceive its judgment entirely.

"Then that settles it. So what if we didn't get the person behind it? Get Raul out. We're going to the newspaper office."

Drogo hurriedly left the dungeon in disgust. Just as he neared the exit, he remembered something and turned back to instruct them, "After you get Raul out, lock that reporter inside and put the chamber pot over his head. This dragon despises people who take money to write fake news."

Though he himself had paid for fake news before, that was called flexible moral standards—the purebred Red Dragon way.

The priest opened the cell with a key and cast a healing spell on Raul. Battleaxe hoisted him over his shoulder and left the dungeon.

They returned the key to the guard on duty, who was still immersed in an illusion of a late-night rendezvous with the flower of the Violet Lily Troupe.

Ever since he had begun participating in the Visual Inscription Workshop tests, Drogo's illusion magic had advanced by leaps and bounds.

Now, when it came to infiltration, he had a third option besides brute force and drugging people: illusions.

All those little movies from his past life had not been watched for nothing. Every bit of them came in handy when constructing illusions. How could these Garrison Corps soldiers have ever seen such a spectacle? They were completely fooled.

They soon arrived at the newspaper office.

After Battleaxe had a brief and friendly exchange with the night guard, the man guaranteed that he had absolutely not seen a drake, two beastmen, and a person they were carrying enter the newspaper office in the middle of the night. Nor had he ever heard that a little girl was temporarily staying in the second-floor reception room.

Thus, the second-floor reception room.

A porcelain-doll-like little girl slept on the sofa, peaceful and lovely.

Just as Drogo was wondering how to wake her, the girl opened her eyes.

Her bright eyes blinked. Seeing several unfamiliar creatures before her, she did not panic. Instead, she sat up, tidied her clothes, and held herself with such poise and maturity that it was hard to believe she was only six.

Drogo nodded to the priest, then asked the girl in a rarely heard cutesy voice, "Little friend, what's your name?"

"Mila."

"And your family name?"

The girl shook her head.

Drogo considered his wording. "You don't have to answer this next question if you don't want to." He pointed at Raul. "Did this uncle do anything bad to you?"

"Yes."

Drogo looked at the priest.

"It's true."

"!"