"So why are you even here? What does your Luck and Charisma have to do with killing anything? Are you even good at fighting in any specific way?"
I toss the questions across the table, probably a bit too aggressively—Siona swats my arm to tell me to tone it down.
"I'm… not really good at fighting, Sir Deon." comes her soft voice, barely above a whisper. "I used to be a mage. But mostly, I was just there to heal my team."
"Oh… a healer." My tone shifts, interest piqued.
"We were part of a battalion from the Valkenheim royal army."
"Valkenheim!?" I blurt out, shocked.
This story just keeps getting more absurd by the minute.
"Yes Sir. I was the assigned healer for a hundred soldiers… They are the worst of the worst." There's a shift in her voice—quiet, but heavy. Like just talking about it squeezes something in her chest. I can feel the weight of it bleeding into the room as she continues.
Where she talks about how the battalion was rotten to the core. How many of the soldiers came from noble families that trafficked slaves for everything—from manual labor to sick indulgences. How they treated the conquered like animals… like disposable playthings.
Her hands clench slightly, knuckles whitening as she recalls it all.
"Until one day, I couldn't take it anymore. I poisoned their food."
"That… killed them all?"
"One hundred and twelve," she says, forcing the words through a mouthful of barely-tolerated food. "Every last one of them."
"And then you…"
"I confessed. I was sentenced to death."
"I see…" I mutter, trying—and failing—not to sound a little too satisfied.
I mean, it's not like I fully believe her yet… but come on. A hundred corrupt soldiers, all poisoned in one swoop? That's the kind of story that hits a sweet spot deep in me—doesn't matter if it's fiction or real. I've always had a soft spot for satisfying endings.
Suddenly, Siona steps in and asks, "That poison… was it magic?"
"No. It was entirely my own brew, big sister Siona," the girl replies softly. "I've always liked studying alchemy, apothecary work… potion-making—something along those lines. I know a lot about herbs, reagents, and what they do."
And indeed, she does explain everything to us—an impressive array of plant names, rare creatures, where to find them, how to prepare them, their effects, their dangers. Her explanations are so thorough, so factual, that even Garrik, Siona, and Therion take turns verifying her knowledge, clearly impressed.
Then, before I even realize it, we're already back at the cell, wrapping up the day. Where I see Siona handing over the bottom bunk to that girl, while she climbs up to sleep on the top.
"Wait—are we even allowed to switch cells like this?" I ask out of nowhere.
"Well, they never exactly said which cell belongs to who, so…" Siona shrugs like it's the most natural thing in the world. "What's the harm?"
"If I'd known that, I would've moved to Garrik's cell yesterday."
"Oh? Don't tell me you're actually… y'know…" Siona teases with a knowing look.
"Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong. I meant I wanted him to teach me more about magic. Turns out that kid knows way more than I gave him credit for."
"Well, of course he does. He's a real sorcerer," she says with a smirk. "What did you expect from me? Unless you want me to teach you how to become a paladin."
"I'm not comparing you two."
"I know," she says quietly.
"Anyway… How many died this time?" I ask while climbing up to the top bunk.
"None. I even went out of my way to count back at the cafeteria—every single one of us made it alive today."
"You say that like it's…"
"...Like it's a bad thing. Because it is," she says flatly. "I'm starting to accept that there's no way out of this place. I can't even find where all of these people came in. Then there's The Unbroken Devotion… and the Nyxthorn root."
Her voice suddenly fades. She exhales slowly before continuing, "Deon… I think we really do need to kill the others first. Otherwise, we're the ones who'll end up dead."
"We will—eventually. But don't be reckless, Siona. If people start thinking you're too dangerous, you'll be the first one they try to take out."
"I know… I know that," she mutters. "Still, I've got a bit of a good feeling… considering Eirwen's with us. Isn't that right, Eirwen?"
"I'm sorry if I haven't been much help," the girl says softly.
"Awh, don't worry about it… We'll protect you. Just hang in there."
The conversation fades after that, gradually slipping into a quiet lull. The two of them keep chatting in low, gentle tones, like they're trying to forget their worries for just a little while. Minutes pass, until eventually, Siona's soft snoring fills the air.
It's probably around one in the morning now. I haven't fallen asleep—too on edge, still waiting for something bad to happen.
But minute after minute ticks by. Two hours pass. And still… nothing. The bad thing I've been waiting for just refuses to show up.
Thus finally, I break the silence.
"Say, Eirwen… why exactly are you pretending to be helpless?"
"But I'm not pretending… Sir Deon."
Oh?
Thank god she actually responded—
Would've been incredibly awkward if she hadn't.
"It's alright. Siona's fast asleep right now, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm sorry, but… I truly don't understand what you mean by that."
"I don't mind it at all… really," I say, still lying on this rock-hard bed of mine, eyes fixed on the rough stone ceiling just inches above my head…
Close enough to knock into if I sat up too fast.
"I'm pretty sure Siona has her suspicions too. But she's desperate for hope… any hope. So she's chosen to ignore it." Then I pause for a beat, waiting—half-expecting the girl to deny it again. But there's only silence. No sharp rebuttal. No protest.
So I go on.
"What I mean is, none of us here are just people who've killed. That's not even close to the truth. I've seen everyone's face. I know my own kind. Even those hunched bastards from Karthmere said it themselves—only souls with a talent for killing get summoned here. So there's no way you're weak. Not even a chance."
"I see… You're right, Sir Deon. That's a reasonable conclusion... I'm sorry for lying to you," she replies, still soft-spoken, still gentle.
"And if your Luck is really that high, then tell me—how could someone supposedly so weak be unlucky enough to fall into this pit… with killers?" I let that hang before finishing. "The truth is, for someone like you—skilled in killing, in surviving—being here isn't misfortune. It's just another day in the life you've always lived."
"That's true, my lord… Ah, I suspected as much. Approaching you was the wiser choice—far better than trying my luck with anyone else."
Eirwen now uses Lord instead of Sir… Like I really don't get this girl's speech patterns.
And by that, she then hops down from the middle bunk, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor as she quietly moves to a spot where she can at least see me while we talk.
"Again, forgive me for lying," she continued, voice still soft, still composed. "It's a habit I've carried for a long time… something I've grown rather skilled at—slipping into many different personas. But your rational insight just now made me realize—this isn't truly the right place to play the weakling."
I fall silent at her words, though a part of me still tenses—wary, alert—anticipating the portion that might be a lie tucked beneath her polished tone. There's still that flicker of unease in my gut, a sense that not everything she's saying is the whole truth.
"Still… I couldn't just drop the act once I'd already committed to it," she says, her tone never wavering from that calm politeness. "Abandoning it midway would leave me feeling... off. Like something's clinging to my back, out of place. You see, I hold consistency in high regard—especially when it comes to how I present myself. To break that would be to question my own skill... So I hope you understand, my lord."
"It's fine... but seriously, what's with the overly polite and stiff way you talk?" I ask, finally getting a little fed up. "And lord? I'm not your master. Can you stop calling me that?"
"Polite and stiff?" she repeats, genuinely puzzled. "But I don't feel that way. Does it make you uncomfortable, Lord Deon?"
"Ugh… fine. Do whatever you want. Not like I care about honorifics anyway." I sigh, rolling slightly on the stiff bed. "What I am curious about is your background. This personality of yours—you said you were born with the ability and raised to master it. So… what exactly is this ability you're talking about?"
"Oh, I remember Big Sister Siona mentioned that Lord Deon is suffering from memory loss," she replies gently. "So I assume you've also forgotten about the role in this realm… a role known as a Charmer."
"Charmer?" I echo, the word already pulling together an image in my mind.
"It was once a role used solely for extracting information from targets. And of course some Charmers—certain ones—used it for… simpler purposes. To leech off nobles, charm their way into luxury, and live parasitically off the rich. But there was an organization—my mother was a part of it—that trained Charmers to become assassins."
"Ah, okay. So… is that just a skillset, or do you use special magic for it?"
"We do master various spells—especially those that work well with our bloodline's youthful charm. But of course, we're trained from birth to refine that potential far deeper than natural instinct ever could."
"And about the personas you mentioned earlier?"
"Each target we're assigned to kill, lowers their guard around a specific kind of girl. Sweet. Shy. Bold. Flirtatious. Fragile. What they find comforting—or desirable—varies wildly… And I adapt accordingly."
"In other words, not all Charmers are like you—with your crafted personas. Some just use their own real personality and good looks to seduce rich fools and ride that luxury train."
"Correct, Lord Deon. Those you described… they were merely blessed with beauty and the basic Charmer gift—but they refused the life of a true one."
"An assassin?"
"What else my lord?"
Eirwen tilts her head, like what she just said is the most obvious thing in the world. So casual. So natural. Almost annoyingly so.
It's enough to make me give in and let myself get swept along with her rhythm—at least for now. I sigh and shift slightly on the stiff mattress, then fire off another question.
"So, the story about you being a healer… a potion expert… poisoning over a hundred soldiers—was that all just a lie too?"
"I was ordered to kill my own kingdom's soldiers. A high-paying client requested it. And to do that, I studied just enough healing magic to pass the qualifications for military medics. As for herbs, potions, and poisons—those are things we're required to master from childhood."
Her tone doesn't waver, not even a little. "The rest of the story… all of it is true."
"The rest of it?" I echo, narrowing my eyes. "Even the part where you were executed?"
She nods gently. "At the time, the identity of our organization and our client was on the verge of being exposed. The only way to ensure their protection… was my own death."
I stare at her, a hint of awe creeping into my voice. "And you were okay with that? You didn't feel even the slightest grudge toward your organization?"
"Grudge?" Her head tilts again, genuinely curious. "May I ask why, Lord Deon?"
What a perfect weapon this girl is. And even if everything she's said to me turns out to be a lie... then that only means she's the best there is at lying. To be able to make me believe her—make me feel at ease—that's not something just anyone can pull off, no matter how talented they are. Either way, she's an invaluable asset.
I need to make her my ally. If I can earn her loyalty, she'll become a weapon—sharp, precise, and terrifyingly effective. The only problem is… I have no idea how to make that happen. Or… is there?
"Wait. Did you say earlier that you approached me?"
I ask, narrowing my eyes just slightly.
"I have to make it out of this place alive, my lord. If word reaches the syndicate that I've returned from death… it'll be a blessing. And you," she says calmly, "you have the highest chance of making that happen."
"So you deliberately dropped yourself off that conveyor belt…"
"Correct."
"But why not just team up with that Solmarian boy? Isn't he the strongest one here?"
"You mean Orion?" Her head tilts slightly. "Is this some sort of test, my lord? Because clearly, he's far beneath you."
"…Why would you say that?"
"Just as you saw through my mask, I can see through others too. I know who's stronger. Who's weaker. And for as long as I've lived… my judgment has never once been wrong. And honestly, there've already been whispers—rumors about your abilities and your kindness in helping others, my lord—though not everyone views them positively."
"Seriously? Well… I mean, that's alright. I don't really mind the rumors but maybe you shouldn't have told me who's stronger than who."
"Why, my lord?"
"Because now I'm just going to jinx it."
"Jinx? What is that, my lord?"
"…You know what? Never mind. Forget it."
She gives a puzzled tilt of her head—then politely excuses herself, letting me rest.
~~~~~