Torture inside chapter:-
Inside the room, a single lamp flickered.
A man in a lab coat who stood in the center, face pale, body shivering.
He pissed nearly after seeing Elarion approach.
Elarian didn't speak. He grabbed the man by the throat, slamming him into the cracked wall.
Pain still didn't made the man open his damn mouth, and it only excited Elation further.
Elarion's POV:-
I knew he won't open his mouth this fast.
But it's fine, I am free anyways.
I let go of his throat making him cough harder while he gripped his throat with his trembling hands.
I caught his hair in my fist and yanked his face upwards, making eye contact with him. I looked at him with stare so calm making him sweat.
I tilted my face still looking straight towards him...
" I haven't even started though" I said sweetly.
He still refused to speak.
I took out my sword, now, now, it has just started.
I pulled my sword halfway from its sheath—no rush, no anger.
Letting him hear the scrape of metal echo in the silence.
The man's teeth clattered together as he pressed his back tighter against the cracked wall, like that would save him.
I knelt in front of him, eye-level. My voice stayed light:
"Relax. You won't die yet."
I dragged the blade lightly across his cheek—not deep, just enough to let a thin line of blood form.
The scent of iron filled the room.
His pulse jumped under his skin. I could feel it.
Still nothing. His lips sealed tight.
So I switched to something gentler.
I stood again, walking calmly to the metal table in the corner. My hand swept across it, knocking aside useless tools until I found what I wanted:
A small iron nail.
And a hammer.
I held both up where he could see them.
His breath hitched. I could see it now—the beginning of breaking.
I returned, knelt again, and pressed the nail lightly against the back of his hand.
"You know," I murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "they say the hands take the longest to heal. Small bones. Thin skin."
Tap.
The first hit wasn't enough to pierce. Just pressure. Enough to make him feel it.
"Once it's in, I'll leave it there. And we'll talk about your family next."
His mouth trembled.
Still silent.
Tap.
Another soft strike. I wasn't going to rush.
It wasn't about anger. It wasn't about revenge.
It was about control.
I wanted him to realize exactly how slow things could get.
By the third tap, the nail punctured skin.
His scream echoed off the walls. He thrashed but I grabbed his wrist easily, holding it down with one hand while the other worked the hammer.
His voice cracked from the force of it—raw, ugly noise.
And still, I wasn't finished.
The nail pinned his hand to the wooden floor now. Blood spread like a slow-moving flower.
I leaned in, ignoring his tears.
"Ready to talk?"
He shook his head. Fool.
So I moved to the other hand.
This time I didn't hesitate. The hammer came down harder, faster.
By the second strike, his mind was breaking.
When I glanced into his eyes, I could already see the fog rolling in. That familiar glaze.
Tears. Blood. Sweat.
His voice was a hoarse mess now, repeating something under his breath like a broken record:
"I don't know. I don't know. I swear—"
But I knew when people lied.
I let go of his hands and walked back toward the table again, picking up a thin iron spike next. Small enough to fit under a fingernail.
His face paled completely.
"Please…" he rasped.
Now that was progress.
pushed the nail deeper.
His skin split wide, and a spray of dark blood hit my cheek.
He screamed like an animal caught in a trap — raw, hoarse, ugly.
It didn't bother me. I didn't even blink.
The man thrashed hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, eyes rolling back, but I pinned him down again with one knee on his chest.
His ribs cracked beneath my weight.
"Don't pass out yet." I spoke calmly, like reminding a child not to fall asleep in class.
His mouth foamed. Tears and blood mixed on his face.
I grabbed his chin with my left hand and squeezed until his jaw creaked.
"Open."
When he didn't obey, I wrenched his mouth open with two fingers until his jaw nearly dislocated, then slid two of my own nails between his teeth like a brace — forcing him to bite down on iron.
His gums bled instantly, tongue trembling against cold metal.
"Pain clears the mind. It makes liars honest."
Then I moved to his right foot.
I took my sword — not to stab, but to press the blade flat against his bare ankle.
Slowly, I started sawing.
No deep cut yet. Just sawing back and forth, layer by layer — skin, muscle, tendon.
He convulsed beneath me, his nails clawing the floor uselessly as shredded muscle pulled apart like string.
The smell of blood thickened in the air.
I watched his eyes.
"Still nothing?" I asked softly.
Silence. Good.
The quiet made the sound of tearing flesh sharper, louder.
His screams had turned to gurgles now. No strength left.
"Are you ready now, or shall I start removing pieces?"
His gaze finally snapped back to me — wild, broken, desperate.
"Please…"
I stopped the blade mid-saw and leaned in so close our foreheads nearly touched.
"Name," I whispered. "Say it. The one who ordered you."
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