Amidst the misty moors of Antemur, Rod carried out his duties as the emissary of the mysterious Ruzel. 'Twas his task to deliver letters, sealed with wax and written in cryptic script, to the noble houses of the land. With each step, he felt the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, for he was the voice of his father in this strange and foreign place.
Amidst his duties as a liaison in Antemur, Rod found himself growing restless with the monotony of his existence. Heeded the wisdom of Lisa, the Goddess of Gambling, he put his relic card, the "Miner of Lasogon," to full use in the bustling city. Through his cunning and skill, he earned coins beyond his means, seeking out pleasures and distractions to break up the mundanity of his life.
Rod, hailing from Eleventine, possessed a formidable prowess in combat, honed from years of arduous training. He wielded extraordinary abilities, much like the other children in Eleventine, and the Security Unit's grasp would be powerless against him, for the local nobles would swiftly come to his rescue should he ever be apprehended.
As the coin purse filled with Orwell's gold clinked in his satchel, the magical aura of Rod's relic card, the "Miner of Lasogon," pulsed with renewed vigor. With stealthy grace, he shadowed Tobias through the twisting alleys of Antemur, until suddenly, a flash of wind carry untimely demise with a fatal blow. All this, Mité bore witness to with his own wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Uurghhh." Mité's breath was ragged as he struggled for air, his chest heaving with the effort. Beads of sweat rolled down his ashen face, clouding his vision. "Grakkkk." The clang of metal rang out, marking his unsteady gait. Mité leaned heavily against the iron table, his hand clutching the cold metal for support. Upon the table lay the still form of a once-breathing being, now a mere shell of its former self. His hand drifted to his weary eyes, the weight of what he had done hung heavy upon him, a burden he must bear in exchange for what he wielded.
Mité, driven by a sense of urgency, hastened to impart the news he had discovered. Time was of the essence, for he longed to depart from this realm and seek solace elsewhere. "Anna. Tell them," he panted, "II didn't get to see the killer. However, there's another person involved. A young one, with tresses as black as midnight and eyes as white as snow, who bears a sack overflowing with Iridium coins."
"Yes, my master," Anna replied in a monotone voice.
Mité ruminated upon the recent visions that had plagued his mind. Each time he delved into the memories of others, a maelstrom of dizziness would consume him. Possessing the rare ability to behold the entirety of a person's life from beginning to end, it felt as though a secondary intellect had been implanted within his mind - one with limited space to hold the knowledge he gleaned. To make room for these new memories, some of Mité's own would be lost, replaced by the lives he had observed. The result was a sense of having lived these lives himself, a realization that had caused his once raven strands to turn as white as snow.
"Too much important information ... Ruzel ... Eleventine ... Goddess of Gambling, Lisa ... Relic cards, Miner of Lasogon ... Wileal Arsen ..." Mité's lids grew heavy as if weighed down by the burden of his visions. He gradually allowed them to slip closed until all was plunged into the darkness of slumber.
Mité's eyes fluttered open, and a girl's voice, like the trill of a lark, reached his ears. "Oh, you're awake?" she asked, her cheerful tone bringing a smile to his face.
In the background, he could see a tree with shady pink leaves rustling gently in the breeze, the falling leaves a picture of beauty in motion.
With a start, he realized the girl was none other than Anna, her yellow hair and blue eyes as bright and sunny as ever. "S-sorry for taking you to my lap!" she said, her face flushing slightly.
As Mité gazed upon her, he was struck by her unbalanced beauty, and could not help but fall under her spell. "Ahh, Anna. Have you found anything yet?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper. Anna's reply was eager, infused with excitement. Yet, Mité failed to heed her words as they were lost amidst the melodic whispers that captivated his senses. His vision grew hazy, and once more, he was carried away into the realm of slumber.
In the distance, he could hear a faint voice calling his name. "Mité ... Mité ...."
"Master Mité," Anna summoned, and the slumbering Mité was roused from his rest. He awoke in a dimly lit chamber, still within the morgue where Rod's body lay. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he beheld the same scene from his dreams - Anna standing before him, her countenance blank and unreadable. "Master, there is a young lass who claims to have knowledge of you," Anna spoke. Mité struggled to rise, his mind still muddled. "What ...?" He muttered, attempting to clear his thoughts. "From where? The Security Unit?" Confusion clouded his thoughts, making his headache worsen. He clutched at his head, trying to alleviate the discomfort. "No," replied Anna. "She has been brought before the Interrogation Department for assaulting a member of the Security Unit."
"A herd of cravens, they," Mité grumbled, surmising that they lacked the bravery to bring the young woman directly to him.
"She has repeatedly referred to you as her acquaintance," Anna repeated, her voice steady and her expression neutral.
Mité pondered, knowing all too well who could have been so foolish as to make such a declaration. "Did Wiggins have knowledge of this?"
"No," Anna replied. "The only ones privy to her confession were the four members of the Interrogation Team."
Mité knew his chances were still slim. "Deliver this message to them ..." he said, his voice trailing off.
Anna received her new directive. "Master Mité has commanded that you render the young woman unconscious and bring her to the morgue," she declared to the leader of the Interrogation Team. A glass panel stood at her side, offering a glimpse into the chamber where the interrogation was taking place. Upon hearing the words, the leader of the Interrogation Team turned his gaze to the transparent glass, his eyes alight with disappointment.
Through the clear pane, the other three members of the Interrogation Team could be seen locked in a heated debate with Kisaki within the soundproof chamber. Their words, however, remained unheard from the outside.
"Very well," the leader of the team sighed, his tone listless. He trudged over to the door of the chamber, rousing the other members. Anna, still outside, could not hear their words, and so she made her way towards the exit, her steps taking her from the room.
The team leader raised the needle, plunging it into Kisaki's arm. "Wait, what are you doing?!" she cried out, but her words were met with silence. Within moments, she had fallen into a deep slumber.
The team leader tidied his tools, the clanging of metal echoing through the room. The atmosphere became still as each member packed their belongings. The leader of the team cast a glance at his subordinates and began a hushed conversation. "Ever since he arrived, I feel like I've lost my purpose. His methods may be more effective, but ... what do you think?"
Hearing the words, the closest member of the team replied, "Mr. Jefferson, I believe it's for the better. I may be a newcomer here, but even so, I lack the bravery to handle such tasks. While I do feel a twinge of guilt for not being given a role, I feel a sense of gratitude." He spoke with a bright and positive energy radiating from him.
"Listen, Peter." He bellowed to his ally, upon hearing their words of gratitude for evading their assigned obligation. "Our top priority is making sure this city thrives," he said with conviction. "We'll do whatever it takes to keep the peace, even if it means taking extreme measures like pulling out nails or amputating fingers. I won't hesitate to make those tough calls for the sake of our city. Agreed, Marco?" He queried, turning towards the man who was meticulously organizing his implements in the room's nook.
Marco methodically arranged his blades, sorting them by size and sharpness. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he spoke in a melancholic voice, "Caden's words ring true. When it comes down to ensuring the safety and tranquility of our city, we can't hold back. We gotta do whatever it takes."
As Marco's hands stilled in their arrangement of blades, he turned his gaze towards Mr. Jefferson, a look of inquiry in his eyes. "Excuse me, Mr. Jefferson," Marco spoke with a hint of wistful curiosity. "Can you shed some light on this for me? Is it accurate that Mr. Mité's information is always, well, spot on?" he queried, his hand cradling the spectacles perched upon his nose. As a learned individual with a studious demeanor, the rumors surrounding Mr. Mité had piqued Marco's curiosity from the moment he first heard of them.
Mr. Jefferson remained still, his countenance ashen. "Indeed, it is true. One hundred percent accurate," he spoke in a voice devoid of life. "Even Mr. Wiggins himself attested to the veracity of Mr. Mité's information," he added as if the words were being pulled from him against his will.
"It might just be me, but I've never heard back from anyone who's been sent to Mr. Mité's place," Peter spoke, sending shivers down his spine. "Don't you think that's a bit strange?"
With a firm tap upon Peter's shoulder, Caden caused the young man to startle, sending the tools he held cascading to the floor. In a swift motion, Caden wrapped his arms around Peter's neck, though the latter appeared discomforted by the sudden contact. Undeterred, Caden spoke words of instruction, imparting his wisdom as a seasoned veteran might to a fledgling acolyte. "Listen up, Peter," he spoke in a serious but friendly tone. "In intelligence, information is often worth more than a person's life. Think of it like a diamond - because, with the right information, one can control lives and shape the outcome of wars. As collectors of these precious stones, it's our duty to handle this responsibility with care. So believe in yourself and embrace the role; everything will fall into place." Caden whispered in his ear.
Mr. Jefferson replied, his voice carrying a note of contemplation. "Information hold more worth than a life? I suppose it could be true, or maybe not," he spoke with a listless and dejected voice. "Honestly, I don't have a clue either way." His hand stilled as his gaze drifted upwards, towards the ceiling where a spider wove its web, its silken strands forming a neat symmetrical pattern that already ensnared several tiny winged insects. For this room was so seldom used that even the smallest creatures could find their way within its walls.
Mr. Jefferson released a sigh and went on, his voice carrying a hint of wisdom, "Interrogation is a delicate art. It's all about how to get the information you need with the least amount of damage to the source. The less harm you cause, the more information you can get, and that's what makes you a skilled interrogator - just like an artist. Lately, I've been feeling kinda down, like I haven't had a chance to showcase my skills. As Peter pointed out, I should be thankful that no one got hurt. But, it's like my creativity is trapped inside and I just can't seem to get it out."
"Am I...?" Mr. Jefferson's voice trailed off as he stumbled upon a realization he had never considered before. "...One who takes pleasure in witnessing the suffering of others?" His eyes widened, the pupils contracting as the thought dawned upon him. He froze as if struck by the realization of his true feelings. Peter and Caden were taken aback by Mr. Jefferson's words, the room falling into stunned silence as they tried to process what had just been said.
With measured steps, Marco approached Mr. Jefferson. "Mr. Jefferson, you are a beacon of leadership and guidance to us all," Marco spoke with a respectful yet informal tone. "Your wealth of life experience and marital status, as our leader and mentor, your knowledge of life surpasses ours. As interrogators tasked with safeguarding security, our top priority is to follow orders from our superiors. Our personal feelings, while important, must take a back seat to our duty. As long as we uphold our responsibilities, everything will be just fine." he proclaimed with confidence, before turning on his heel and making his way toward the exit.
"I-I totally agree! I'm not exactly comfortable with this, I admit. But, you know what? I gotta get over it and adapt. I mean, it's all for the better, right, right?!", he stammered. Peter was astounded by the sudden revelation of Mr. Jefferson's true emotions. Despite his attempts to mask his disbelief, the tone of his voice betrayed him. He cast a dubious gaze upon Mr. Jefferson and Marco, who had come to a halt, yet they did not return his stare. Only Caden, at his side, seemed to have taken note of the change in atmosphere. In the wake of this unexpected turn, the once lively chatter of the crowd had grown hushed and subdued.
"My task is complete," Marco declared, his hand firmly gripping the doorknob. Peter and Caden sprang into action, hastening to pack away their gear as they realized Marco's work was finished. "A member of the Security Unit shall be dispatched to retrieve her," Mr. Jefferson spoke in a voice that was weak and weary.